|
(Continued from Part I)
When puberty arrived, everything hit the fan. It didn't happen all at once, of course. It was a gradual process.
The first sign of something changing occurred at summer camp, just after I'd turned 13. I had isolated myself throughout the summer, spending all my time at the horse stables and simply not going to other scheduled activities. No one forced me. It was my fourth year there, and I guess they were tired of making me join in activities that I had no interest in (mainly because I felt more comfortable with adults, and animals, than with kids my age).
When one of the camp owners, who I knew was also a school psychologist, asked me to come to his office, I decided to take a chance and finally talk to someone about the pain in my heart. And once I started, I couldn't stop. I started crying, then sobbing, and telling him everything about how I missed my Dad and wanted to be with him, how I couldn't talk to my mother, and how I just couldn't stand the situation anymore.
I don't know what I expected, but I suppose I thought something would change. Surely, somehow, this nice guy would help me. Nope…that didn't happen. In fact, I think I scared the bejeezus out of him and he felt he was way in over his head, because all he did was try to calm me down and get me to go to the mess hall for dinner. We never talked again. That was the last summer I spent at Camp Red Wing.
I should interject here that for the most part I was functioning pretty well in public. I excelled at school, and because I didn't attach myself to any cliques, I got along with pretty much everyone. But there was no one I was close to. I wasn't particularly into boys…if anything, I was more interested in men. But I kept everything inside, even deeper than before.
Eighth grade passed, however, with just the usual distancing from home life. I took the bus home from school, went to my room and did my homework, sometimes made it through dinner, sometimes not, and returned to my room. Everyone in the household seemed happier when I was in my room, and that was fine with me. I didn't consider myself part of that family, even if I lived with them. I belonged with my Dad…not them.
The next summer, when I turned 14, I was sent to a different camp, one for teenagers only. Here I learned about other types of isolation, for this was a place where only the cool kids counted, and I wasn't one of them. I wasn't into sex, drugs, or rock ‘n roll, and most of them were. But one day, in a fit of desperation and trying to fit in, I bummed a cigarette from someone and taught myself to smoke. By the end of the summer, I smoked regularly, but in secret. And, at that point, I still was going to remain virgin until I got married. The one semi-boyfriend that tried to make out with me didn't get very far. By the end of my 14th year, things changed significantly.
That fall, I plotted and planned to run away to my Dad's farm. I had been there once or twice, at the time, and all I knew was the name of the town it was in and that you could get there by bus. I had a friend help me dupe my Mom. I packed a bunch of clothes and my toothbrush in my guitar case, left the guitar in the back of my closet, and we walked out of the apartment together, supposedly to meet a bunch of friends.
Instead, we went to the Port Authority bus terminal and I bought a ticket to freedom, or so I thought at the time. As I looked out the window at the passing scenery , I was sure that once I got to the farm, my father couldn't refuse me – he'd take me in, talk to my Mom, and finally everything would be out in the open. Obviously, I was very naïve.
When I got off the bus, I went into the little gas station/convenience store that served as the bus stop. I picked up the pay phone and called the main farm number -- my Dad's friend, Jake*, answered. He was surprised, to say the least, and he informed me that my Dad was actually back in the city this particular weekend… Major bummer.
Jake came and picked me up, and we drove back to the farm to call my Dad and figure out what to do. By then, my Mom knew that I had left town (I believe I'd had my friend send a note to her later that afternoon, via the elevator operator in our building, informing her that I'd left and was going to live with my Dad). She'd gotten to him before I did, and everyone was just a little pissed off, to put it mildly.
She was threatening to call the police on him if I didn't take the next bus back to the city; he was trying to calm her down and figure out exactly what had happened. I was just hugely disappointed that the whole situation hadn't worked out according to my plans.
Long story short, I went back to the city and took a taxi up to my Dad's apartment for a long talk. He was shocked at what I'd done, but a little pleased (I think) at the same time. We did have a good heart-to-heart, but the bottom line was that I had to return to my Mom's that evening.
I took the Lexington bus home, with trepidation in my heart, and walked into a stone cold angry apartment. I was ushered into the den, the door was closed, and both my Mom and stepfather descended on me in a "you-have-everything-you could-possibly-need-here- what-the-hell-do-you-want," verbal attack. I sat there as calmly as I could until they were done, and then I said, "I want to live with my father."
To be continued in "Part III – Looking for Love in all the Wrong Places"
*Not his real name, and you'll find out why in the next installment.
Dear readers: please bear with me if you find this interesting at all…this may end up being a five or six part series. But in the end, all the bones will have been dug up, and hopefully I can cremate and pulverize them so they'll never be buried again! Debi
|
tweet this!
