My high school reunion was this past weekend.

I didn’t go.

I spent Saturday morning at a farmer’s market with my family. Spent the afternoon grilling fresh cut steaks and baking fresh veggie with my husband. Saturday night was full of Doctor Who episodes and snuggling with my husband.

I had planned to submit a photo or two for the slideshow since I wouldn’t be in attendance, but, unsurprisingly, I never heard back from the slideshow coordinator. I’m used to that and given the attitudes of those on the Reunion Facebook page, I haven’t missed much and most haven’t matured much in the past ten years.

In honor of my ten year high school reunion, I’m going to share the post I originally wrote on the topic, last summer. The irony of having my reunion “pass me by” is that I was in Florida for a week just this month, just nowhere near my “hometown”…


You knew me when?

Letters Unsent (Mature)

I’ve been sitting on this for a few days. A fellow blogger has encouraged me to write about my experiences as a teen. I don’t if it really will help. Most people say things like this are “cathartic”. This confuses me because I had to look up the definition of cathartic and it didn’t make a lot of sense. “Evacuating your bowels”? Not sure how that’s going to help me, maybe that’s just stress, fear, and anxiety blocking my ability to see the real meaning in what they said.

I have a lot of issues that start before my relationship with this … this… I really can’t think of a word that doesn’t do a disservice to someone else. Maybe my issues made me an easy target, maybe they are the reason I didn’t speak up, maybe it’s my fault, but I don’t want to believe that.

Anyway, I wont tell you to “Enjoy” this post. Most of you wont, I’d be willing to bet some of you wont make it through the whole thing. The things that happened to me would break your heart, of this, I have no doubts. Keep in mind, I was 15 years old when all this started. I was barely 105lbs. I was very much an innocent, little girl. He was also 15.



To The First Guy I Ever Loved,

I loved you, as much as I could have. I was naive, I was stupid, I didn’t know any better. Emotionally, I wasn’t ready for what you would do to me and I hurt every day because of it. I can’t trust my husband, though the man has never raised his voice to me a single time and wouldn’t dream of raising his hand to me. The way you did. I’m sorry you felt the need to make yourself feel better by violating me. Repeatedly. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know what I was doing that first time. I felt more stupid and ashamed when I found out about your friend in the next room and what he was doing to the sounds of my soul being torn for the first time. I have regretted it every day of my life for the past 12 years. My heart was violated, my body was broken, my eyes teared up and my soul cried out. You never stopped. You never cared to love me back. How many other girls did you sleep with while you were raping me? How many other broken bodies and violated hearts did you leave in your wake? When I cried, you yelled louder. You made impossible rules and expected me to follow them exactly as described. We were kids, but you treated me like a slave. You didn’t know my soul was already fragile from molestations, sexual harassment and abandonment. Or maybe you did? Maybe you played it to your advantage? I don’t know. I wish I could say I don’t care, but I can’t lie.

I loved you, as stupid as it was to do. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was naive, and you played that to your advantage. It’s your fault I lost my way when you finally left me for that slut. It’s your fault that I was an alcoholic at the age of 17. It’s your fault I bounced from one relationship to another without ever getting to know myself. It’s your fault I can’t truly trust my husband or have friends. You violated a part of my soul that I don’t believe even God himself can fix. My husband is a real man and because of you, I can’t be his real woman. I can’t love myself because of you. I don’t think I’m beautiful. I don’t think I’m smart. I don’t think I’m worth more than dirt. I feel guilty for wanting to have sex with my husband. I feel dirty for wanting to express my desires to him and with him and for him. It’s your fault. You broke a piece of my soul and I don’t know how to fix it.

I want to be a woman. I want to feel like a woman, not an object. I don’t want to be embarrassed by sex with my husband. I don’t want to fall apart because someone said something that brings memories of you flooding back uncontrollably. I don’t want to think of you. I don’t want your memory in my brain. I don’t want your memory on my body. I don’t want you in my dreams, in my mind, in my life. You shouldn’t have this much power over me. I shouldn’t still be blaming myself for what you did to me ten years ago! I shouldn’t hate myself because you hated me. I don’t want to hate myself anymore. I want to hate you! I want to hate you so much, but I can’t. I blame myself too much to hate you.

I wish I could stop passively loving you. I’m sure that I still do on some level. We’ll always be connected. You were my first love. You were the first person in my life who made me feel like both a diamond and scum. You were the first person to violate my heart, break my body, make me cry and shred my soul.

I’m 27 now. I don’t want you to own me for another ten years.

Waiting to Heal,

You knew me when?

The last time I thought of these people was how long ago?!? I better start pretending I really did like them.

May 23, 2003, a date that will live in infamy.

You see, 9 years 2 months and 8 days ago (give or take an hour) I graduated from high school.

This would have been a great thing for a lot of people, but for me, who thrives on routine and who’s only ambition was to be in school, I was devastated. We were poor financially. I knew college wasn’t an option for me and it broke my heart. Without the textbooks I clung too so dearly, what would my life become? Without knowing the right answer or knowing where to find it, who was I? I didn’t have a lot of close friends and as such, I defined myself by my academic achievements. I was smart. I wasn’t pretty like the other girls. I was popular like the other girls. I didn’t play sports, or music, or try out for performances with drama club. I lived for my textbooks and chess club.

Of course, this made it difficult for me to maintain lasting friendships. There were so many people from my graduating class that I either don’t remember at all, or remember being quite horrible to me and others. These were the people who would go out of their way to kick my chair at lunch, make fun of me behind my back (and to my face). These were people who I would alter my route across campus to avoid. So why are they acting like we were best friends? Do they really not know how horrible they were to each other? To me? I guess, I should inform you, dear readers, that as our 10th reunion is approaching, a Facebook has been started in our honor. In all our glory, we are expected to be friends with people who treated us like dirt for SEVEN years! That’s right, a lot of these same people followed me through middle school AND high school. Things that started in the sixth grade carried on for the next seven years.

Most truly I say unto you, do not boast of your immoral prowess, ridicule me, for I lack immoral prowess!

I was a sl*t before I’d ever lost my virginity. A wh*re once that occurred. Despite having slept with three men, my whole life. That’s right, at 27 years old, I can still count, with less than a hand, how many men I’ve slept with… Let’s see, one during high school. We dated from the end of freshmen year until he broke up with me near the end of our junior year. Then there was the guy after high school, who I had been friends with since freshmen year. We were together for another two years. And last but certainly not least, there is my husband. We’ve been married since 2005! So for those who can’t count, at the time I was being vilified as a sl*t, wh*re and sk*nk, I had slept with one or fewer men. And you act like you were my best friend? Who, by the way, slept with boyfriend number one while we were still together! So even my friends, weren’t friends.

Having Asperger’s made things difficult. I didn’t, and still don’t, always know when someone is being my friend because they wanted to be my friend or because it is easier to make fun of me that way. I did get along with several people from different cliques, but for the most part I was still an outsider looking in. I wasn’t invited to the parties, I wasn’t invited to go to the mall, I was asked to pierce a girl’s ears once (I told her I’d enjoy hurting her too much and walked away) and I was asked for test answers often. I just don’t understand why these people, who made me feel worthless and hated for so long that I started hating myself, why are they suddenly my “best friends”? I bet half of them can’t even name a single class we took together in the seven years they relentlessly bullied me. And not just me. These were girls known as b*tches and they lived up to that reputation. These were boys called *ssholes and they did not disappoint. Like the guy who fondled me during gym class and after school in the eighth grade. When I finally told my mom and she brought it up to the (male) assistant principle, it was a he said/she said and it was dismissed… Too bad the kid apologized in my year book

Ah, cheap clip art. At least this is something actually associated with fond memories as opposed to the tripe the real yearbooks hold.

“Sorry I grabbed your ass, it was too hard to resist. Your bud —“. Seriously? So my sexual harassment is immortalized forever in the margin of my eighth grade yearbook. Good news, I don’t think I’ll ever forget his name! Bad news, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way it felt to have a grown man call me a liar. (And I didn’t, which I’m sure played a part in my NOT reporting the rapes, molestation, and other things that happened to me as a teen.) These are the people falling over themselves to relive high school memories through photos and yearbook quotes and I’m supposed to understand this strange ritualistic behaviors? I find myself wondering, would I want to go at all if not for the contagious excitement of the others? Even though I don’t like them and then at least on the surface have always hated me?

Maybe I’m just seeing this for what it is: A Pride Fest! Everyone will get together and talk about how great their lives have been over the last ten years. We will mourn the lose of classmates none of us has even thought about since we walked across that stage. (And may I say, I don’t feel you deserve to be mourned in this manner if you died by your own hand. So many of my classmates died as a result of drugs, jail, or a combination of the two. I don’t feel bad for them. Maybe that’s Aspergers again. I didn’t feel much when my grandfather died last April, either.) It just seems like a flock of birds. Every year birds of all feathers get together in flocks to fluffy their feathers and try to attract the best mate. Ever seen a peacock strut? That’s what I imagine when I think about this high school reunion. A large group of peacocks, some are just as attractive as they have always been, some more attractive, some a little extra portly, but a large groups of peacocks strutting about looking to be the best of a group they have no other ties to. And peacocks are mean as hell!

I’m not saying all of high school was bad. I took years of foreign languages and “Analysis and Functions” was the most fun class I ever took (yes, that was an elective I took my Senior year. MATH!), but for the most part, I just don’t understand people. I don’t understand this urge… desire… need to pluck your feathers and strut around like you really cared about all of us. There were 503 people in my graduating class,

What’s my last name?