Learning to Love Who You Really Are

I'm a dork.  No, really.  For most of my life I've always been the odd one, the one who doesn't quite fit in.  It used to torment me, wreaking havoc on my already low self-esteem.

When I was a little kid growing up in Auburn, Maine, I was the only kid on my block who came from a French family.  All the other families spoke English.  You wouldn't think that was such a big deal, but then you'd be forgetting how cruel children can be to each other.  Where I grew up, people didn't discriminate on the basis of color -- everyone was white, so it would have been kind of pointless.  They discriminated based on language.  My father knew this, which is why he moved us to an English-speaking neighborhood.  He wanted me to grow up without a French accent so that people wouldn't discriminate against me.  The accent part worked out the way he planned; the other not so much.  Every time I left the house, kids taunted me.  They all played together, because it's the nature of kids to play together.  But when I came around they would send me away.  All except Melissa.  She would beat the holy daylights out of me and send me home crying.  Nice.



How did the kids know to treat me this way?  Was I attracting this behavior, even at such a young age?  Possibly.  Once you get it in your head that you're weird, people begin to treat you that way.  I should know.  These particular kids, though, were picking a lot of that up from their parents.  I remember the day that I learned this sad fact.  It was one of those rare days when I was allowed to run and play with the group.  I was happy.  Then everyone decided to go into Billy Bradbury's house for a snack.  I was in the kitchen rummaging around for something the kids had asked for -- being helpful has always been an effective way of ensuring acceptance -- when Mrs. Bradbury came home and lost it.  "What is she doing in here?  I told you never to let those people in here.  You know how those people are!"  And she threw me out.  Not all the kids, just me.

OK, so yes, I developed a huge inferiority complex.  I compensated for it by becoming a loner.  I read a lot, and found comfort in solitude.  I learned to be comfortable in my own company.  Unfortunately, I never quite learned to be comfortable with other people.

Being a loner, I never learned the cool way to dress or to do my hair.   I've always existed way outside the mainstream.  All those years living in books caused me to develop interests that were highly personalized.  While other people were choosing their interests from what they watched on network television, I was reading literature and science books, thereby increasing my dork factor exponentially.

Why am I telling you all of this?  Because I think that maybe you have a bit of a dork inside of you, too.  No, I'm not insulting you.  I just know that somewhere beneath your very cool exterior, there is a part of you that feels you just don't fit in.   It is the part of you that fears rejection, the part that worries about what people will think.  If I'm wrong, then you are free to stop reading and carry on with your cool self.  But if I'm right ...

The past several years I've come to forget what a dork I really am.  First of all, I got older.  For me, turning 50 was like being released from prison.  The way I see it, now that I'm over 50 I get to be queen of my world.  That means I get to want what I want, do what I do, and feel what I feel, without needing anyone else's permission.  I've learned not to care what people think of me.  Mostly.

Mostly, though, I drifted away from the "friends" of my youth, and began to unashamedly pursue my own interests.  I joined several choruses, and found that I fit in quite well with chorus geeks.  For a while, I played percussion in the community band.  I fit in so well with the band geeks that it made me wonder why I just didn't join the band in high school instead of trying so hard to fit in with the cool crowd.  I tried so hard.  I would go to parties every weekend, and every time it was the same story.  I was dressed differently, I had different interests, I couldn't contribute properly to what passed for conversation ... I was always a very uncomfortable fish out of water. 

I joined the local Chamber of Commerce a few years ago, and have finally found a group of people that I feel comfortable with.  I have made some wonderful friends, and I actually participate in group activities and party-like events without any sense of inferiority whatsoever.  Now my differences are viewed as amusing eccentricities rather than cause for banishment.  I've learned to be comfortable in my own skin.

The other night, though, I was reminded that nothing has really changed.  I really am still the dork I have always been.  I've just moved into a parallel universe where I seem to fit in better.  I ran into an old friend, one I adore, who I consider a sister.  She runs in that cool crowd, and talked me into going to a party with her.  As often happens, our wires got crossed and we were waiting for each other in different places.  She saw a guy walking over to where the party was, and said, "Hey, if you see a woman over there with long hair and glasses who looks like she doesn't belong, send her over here."  Ouch.  He had no trouble picking me out of the crowd. 

The party was just as painful as I remember parties to be.  There I was, dressed in my boyfriend's jeans and an old t-shirt, while my friend was in some fishnet hoochie-mama outfit.  She had a cute little blue party bag on wheels where she kept her beer and other belongings, and I told her she reminded me of Legally Blonde, without the blonde part.  Maybe I should get her a cute little chihuahua.  Anyway, into the party we go, as different from each other as two friends can possibly be.  I posed for happy pictures, which I generally avoid, because at least picture-taking was an activity, and it helped me to figure out where to stand and what to do.

As my friend was introducing me around, she introduced me to a guy she has known since 1991, the same year she met me.  I had never seen this guy in my life, even though we live in a very small town.  I realized that we had been moving in parallel universes all of these years.  I mentioned that fact, and was met with blank stares all around.  Oh well, maybe this was a bad time to bring up quantum physics and fractals.  You think?  I decided I had had enough of parties, and went home. 

An interesting thing happened to me during that painful party experience, though:  I remembered who I really am.  As I was walking through that party, I started at first to spiral down into my old script of not belonging, not being good enough, and feeling inferior.  Then it occurred to me that I don't need to go there.  As I was posing for shiny pictures with fake smiles, I reminded myself that I'm a writer, a successful business woman, an excellent public speaker.  I reminded myself that I have a deep and meaningful relationship with a wonderful man, that I have excellent friends who love me just as I am.  I remembered that I am the only person on this planet who is just like me.  I remembered that I'm only odd in their universe.  In the parallel world where I live, I'm actually pretty OK.

So here is today's lesson:  If you are living around people who make you feel unworthy, maybe you are just living in the wrong world.  There are many parallel worlds on this planet, and one of the choices you get to make as a human being is which of those worlds you will live in.  It's kind of like the Island of Misfit Toys in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  Those toys may have been misfits in the world from whence they came, but here on the island they have found a home where they can belong.

Don't change who you are just to fit in.  If you do that, you will lose the very part of you that makes you special.  That price is way too high.  Instead, do what you love, and be who you really are, and let the world around you change to accomodate your specialness. 

Now, is there someone out there who can teach me how to dress?