Why am I so different?
Even today, I can hear that small voice in my head, the confused, scared little girl who just wanted to get along with her family and feel loved.
I was extremely insecure, even at such a young age. Desperate for the approval of my family, I made up my mind that I was going to change myself entirely. 1
Growing up was pure hell. I didn't stop my mother from choosing my clothes, even if I didn't like them. The kids in school made fun of me incessantly, and I was clueless as to how to fight back. Only at the end of sixth grade was I bold enough to ask my parents for a pair of blue jeans. 2
Somehow I got my wish. From there, I slowly began to change how I looked, to blend in with the majority of the student body - and my family. I also noticed that I was starting to make a few friends. It wasn't enough to stop me from eating lunch in the bathroom until the end of eighth grade, but at least I had some people, other than my cat, with whom I could talk. These people also temporarily distracted me from my struggle to truly fit in with my relatives. 3
My appearance wasn't the only quality I had to change if I wanted to fit into my family. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that my family was conservative; it was their manner, dress, and with whom they associated. Determined to "prove myself worthy," I tried to adjust how I spoke with them. I behaved this way around other people too, for practice. This process was not moving along as fast as I would've liked, so I attempted something even more drastic: I tried to think like them. Not only did I do this while in their presence, but by myself as well. My somewhat successful attempt to alter how I viewed the world drove me as far as to block out the majority of original thoughts, ideas, and opinions that came to my mind. 4
As convincing as I was, my acting didn't work 100 percent of the time. Every so often, I would space out, and a unique thought would weasel its way into my head and then out of my mouth; this would obviously result in a less-than-desirable reaction from my relatives. Either that, or I'd be listening to the radio, and a rock song that I secretly liked would start playing; and my mom would walk into the room and freak out because I was really getting into the music. It was these types of incidents during which I felt so humiliated and exposed, that I almost wanted to die. 5
I never believed in blessings in disguise until the summer before eighth grade. Although I'd put up a struggle, I was forced to go to sleepaway camp. I hated the camp, and only one positive memory clearly stands out in my mind. It maybe lasted about a minute, but it changed the course of my life forever. 6
I was sitting on the makeshift bench outside of my bunk, simply trying to avoid my annoying bunkmates. Someone from a neighboring bunk was leafing through some magazines, and she offered me one. I accepted it. 7
After reading a few random articles, I stopped on this one page, which was a typical advice column for teens. I only remember one sentence from one response to one article on the entire page, but it was that sentence that saved me from a lifetime of pretending.
"You have to please yourself before you can please others."
I must have read that sentence over at least ten times; it was as if I'd just been hit over the head with a two-by-four. From that day on, I realized that I could not, and would not try to be like anyone ever again. Almost fourteen years of nonstop acting was enough; it was time to find out who I really was. 8
Eighth grade was a very difficult year. Next to none of my classmates believed that I was changing from a pretender to someone genuine; they thought it was the other way around. The most common insults thrown at me were "poser" and "wannabe." As much as this hurt me, it didn't devastate me enough to discourage me from finding my place. 9
The teasing got worse when I started high school. I'd basically figured out what my values were, what music I liked, what clothes I liked, etc., yet I was experiencing such an inner euphoria that I went slightly over-the-top with my self-expression. There was just one problem: I had no idea that I was doing it. I was going through what I like to call "Making-Up-for-Lost-Time Syndrome." All the years during which I'd lost the chance to find myself were suddenly emerging in a tidal wave of blue hair dye, silver bracelets, chains, black clothes, and heavy metal. I couldn't get enough. Even though the list of insults expanded to include "devil worshipper," "goth," "witch," "freak" and other such phrases, I had better things to think about. 10
It's been four years since I "crawled out of my shell" (as my dad likes to refer to that time period) and although my outward appearance might not have changed much since I began high school, I've emotionally matured more than I ever thought possible. Not surprisingly, my two biggest pet peeves are people who judge others based on either appearance or what they hear through gossip, and when people are afraid to be themselves for fear of what someone else thinks. When someone I care about expresses that fear, I simply remind them of what I had to go through to get where I am today. 11
I have learned that if people don't like me because my personality doesn't match how they first judged my appearance, then that's their problem, not mine. Some people think that I dress the way I do simply for the sake of being different, and all that shows to me is immaturity, and an unwillingness to have a more open mind. 12
I know that I am true to myself, and that's what matters the most. 13
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