Pieces of Me

It was 1977, and I was 12 years old when I found out I was invisible. It happened in the cafeteria at school when Jimmy Moyers asked my best friend out. We were eating lunch, and I was sitting right next to Marybeth, but he never saw me. We’d been in some of the same classes for a year, but his eyes have never met mine. I was a non-entity. Marybeth knew I liked him of course, but she seemed to forget that when she agreed to the movies.

             I was invisible at home too. With four brothers and sisters it was easy. I was quiet, and I didn’t cause drama like my sister did. What finally cinched it for me was when Marybeth and I were in the drugstore, and I pocketed a Maybelline frosted blue eye shadow and the Ice Princess lip gloss. My meager allowance never stretched far enough for such luxuries. I even fooled Marybeth, who I wasn’t sure I trusted anymore. I didn't know what to do with all these emotions.

             At first it hurt when I realized I was invisible. It was lonely being the one everyone overlooked. Even the nerds had more attention than I did – not that I wanted to be picked on – but it would’ve been nice to be SEEN.

             But after the drugstore incident I realized I was on to something. Stealing became a game. I stuck with easy items like make-up, candy, and magazines. My Tiger Beat magazine was a little trickier, but if I wore a loose-fitting t-shirt, I could stuff it halfway down my shorts and walk out undetected.

             In the beginning I was scared. My heart would thump in my chest like a drum. I could feel it pulsing, but I need not have worried. I never got caught. I had a superpower. I was invisible!

             It felt good to have new things, something that no one knew about. I didn’t feel guilty at first. I was excited to add to my growing collection. I wasn’t hurting anyone, I reasoned.

             I became so good at it that I once stole a whole stack of 45’s from the record store. Although what was I going to do with eight copies of, Island Girl, I didn’t know? That wasn’t even my favorite Elton John song.

             One day when I was at the grocery store with my mother, I asked her to buy me some finger polish. It was a beautiful frosty pink. Mom said no like it wasn’t even up for a debate, so when she continued, I all casually stuck it in my pocket. If she ever asked where it came from, I would just tell her Marybeth. Mom had no clue. I always managed to slip under her radar just like I did with everyone else.

             I was most invisible to my stepdad. He avoided the five of us like the plague. When he came through the door after work, all I ever heard him mutter was “stupid.” Stupid for leaving the light on, stupid for leaving the curling iron plugged in, or stupid for leaving the living room door open. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

             I avoided him too. Who wanted to be around all the bottled-up anger? But I was angry too.

             It didn’t take me long to realize how much better I felt when I wolfed down a Snickers bar. It tasted so good, and I felt calmer. I could soothe all those angry emotions. If one candy bar felt that good, what about two or even three? It felt great! I felt relief from my tangled-up emotions. Until I didn’t. All the anger and injustice of the world disappeared momentarily. Until it didn’t.

             “Stupid, fat pig!” I internalized these voices. I mean I must be stupid. I heard that well enough. I would vow to do better the next day.  Then I wouldn’t. Without realizing it, I turned my anger onto myself. All the frustrations at school. My stepdad. My mother for not “seeing” me. I directed it all onto myself. It was my fault. I began to hate myself. I hated that I couldn’t control the eating, after all, I needed that temporary relief.

             My poor self. It would be many, many years with such negative voices in my head before I sought help. I am not an easy fix.

             The stealing finally came to a head when I was in the 8^th grade. The guilt bubbled up inside me threatening to burst. I didn’t want to disappoint my mother. Or God for that matter. This wasn’t the person I wanted to be. I knew it was wrong. I could feel the wrongness of it. Guilt chipped away at me. I was losing the battle to love myself. It culminated one day when my mom and I were in the B. Dalton bookstore.

             Judy Blume’s new book, Wifey, had just come out. I just had to read it, but Mom wouldn’t have bought me a hardbacked book. There were four other kids to think about, so I didn’t even ask. I just slipped it into my purse and walked out with Mom never the wiser. I couldn’t believe my gaul.

             I was still invisible it seemed but when we got home, I couldn’t take the deception any longer. That is when I finally confessed. My mother was honest, good and she didn’t know the angry thoughts I had in my head. I felt like she didn’t know me. No one knew ME.

             I confessed everything. I had years of guilt rushing out of me like a swollen creek. I know my mother was disappointed in me, but she didn’t yell. I guess she could finally see some of the cracks in me. I returned the book – fessed up to it. I got off Scott free, except for the pieces of me that were broken. That would take years to heal. A lifetime.

             We are so vulnerable when we’re young. A misspoken word can reach into the recesses of our mind and stay there. Festering. “You are not good enough. Wait until they find out what you are REALLY like. You stupid, fat bitch!"

In no time we are in pieces, and it takes the rest of our lives to try and overcome the beginning of our lives. Dreams scattered. Lives wasted. Addictions to overcome.  Who are we anyway? It takes quite a bit of work to put the pieces back together again. Do we ever?

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