I stood in her bedroom admiring all the things she had received for her birthday. Amber was beautiful, even at 10 years old. She was one of the most popular girls in elementary school and one of my best friends. This play date was scheduled so I could give her the present I picked out to celebrate her preteen birthday. As she showed off another gift from another one of our friends, I finally had to ask. “When did everyone give you presents?” She got really quiet. Being a naturally honest person, she had to admit. She had had a slumber party the night before with all of our friends. “They told me they wouldn’t come if I invited you,” she explained.
I was not a good sleepover attender. An only child momma’s girl, when nighttime came I wanted to be in my own house, in my own bed. I had left several sleepovers in the middle of the night after calling my parents crying, begging to be picked up. Even sleepovers hosted at my own house ended with me crying in the dark room wishing everyone would just go home.
Learning of the ban from my friend’s slumber party, spurred by the demands of my other friends was devastating.
It’s been nearly thirty years since that afternoon and I can still feel the creeping realization that left me speechless save for a breathless “Oh.” I can think of a dozen instances all my years in school of being excluded by friends I held dear. A pool party here. A road trip there. A group date at the movies. A house party (or four). A flat-out rejection of my three best friends my freshman year in high school.
The memories are vivid and the sting is still there. Especially for someone who only ever wanted to fit in.
I would learn to become more comfortable in my own skin. Growth that occurred only because I tried on so many facades that never felt right. Am I hip? No. Am I nerdy? Sort of. No, not that kind of nerdy. Am I trendy? Goofy? Funny? Smart? Outdoorsy? Athletic? I experimented and tried it all on until I started finding what “fit.” As I figured out me, I would find my niches as the years progressed. I would find “my people.” Those other human beings who accepted me for me.
But even as I grow more satisfied in who I am and feel more confident in saying “this is me, take it or leave it,” I still slink back to that sad little girl in Amber’s bedroom. Scared of being left out, left behind, and lacking.
She edges back in as I stand on the playground waiting for my kids to come out of school. As the other mothers chatter in their established groups I struggle with the urge to slink away feeling unwanted.
As friends post pictures of “the group” at the lake, I feel myself turn back to that high school girl alone in her bedroom blasting Alanis Morrisette. Just like when I couldn’t help but notice who was inviting whom to graduation parties senior year in high school, I can’t help but notice who does (and doesn’t) comment or like my Facebook posts.
I thought I would be further along in my self acceptance than this. When that sad little girl tugs on my insecurities, I try to remind myself that I’m not her anymore. She isn’t a constant companion like she was in my younger years, but her appearance is too frequent for my taste. She sneaks up on me, comes without warning and leaves me rattled and slouched. And I’m left wondering if there will ever be a time when she doesn’t creep in. Or are we all dragging around sad little kids wanting desperately to fit in? Wanting to be liked and accepted and invited? And scared of the rejection?