Different

The problem was that I was different. That made me vulnerable from the start of my life as I remember it. And as a different person, I so wanted to be accepted by normal people. My eagerness to please made me an easy target.

At first I would mostly hang around by myself, using my imagination to send me to fantasy places, with fantasy castles and princes. I was quite content in this world. Later I mixed with the other outcasts, no matter what their social deficiency. I was fairly content with them too. The problem started when I tried to break into the mainstream.

I tried to ignore the glances when my differences became apparent, the smans when I tried to be a normal, sweet little girl. But it was blatantly obvious: I didn’t fit in. Why? I’m not sure. A lot of it had to do with my physical appearance. The rest? Maybe my awareness of my difference encouraged me to retreat into myself, made me a little uneasy around others, almost anticipating retaliation in the face of my presence before it really happened.

At school it was obvious. When asked what my favourite song was, most kids were quoting the week’s number one hit. I was more interested in my mum’s record collection. While other kids were gossiping and messing about, I wanted to paint and write. But I was generally left alone.

Then I made a friend. I probably had friends before Laura, but she sticks in my memory the most, probably because of the effect she had on me. It started out as an ordinary friendship, playing with our toys together, watching Disney films together, dressing up together, petting our guinea pigs together. But then things started to change. Laura started to say things to me that made me feel bad, made me feel small. At first she would do it when only I was around. And I put up with it, desperate to keep who I considered a best friend. Then she started to humiliate me in front of other people. One Monday morning after Laura storming out of my house the previous Saturday, refusing to be walked home by my dad or to wait for her mum to pick her up, we were in the playground with some other friends, when she taunted me for crying after she left. One day I stormed up to our teacher, thrusting into his hands my address book that she had added my favourite boy’s details into, adamant that he did something about it. But he didn’t. Playing Bull Dog in the playground once, she caught me by the hood of my jumper, swinging me around by it in triumph. Her snide comments and taunting continued until I slapped her on the leg when she came up to me whilst I was sat on the playground floor. I don’t remember what she said to provoke that reaction, but she certainly withdrew, knowing she had finally stepped over the line when it came to this victim.

I don’t remember how old I was when the school nurse became concerned about my size. I know that I loomed above my classmates from an early age, a tower block in a skyline of bungalows in the annual class photograph. I was soon seeing a specialist who kept a careful eye on my height and weight, concerned that I would turn out to be an eight foot giant and labelling me obese in comparison to other children my age. Luckily before I reached secondary school she was satisfied that my weight was stable and I was not going to be ridiculously tall. But after watching my diet from the age of eight, I already felt ridiculous, even more so when my classmates realised I was on a diet, taunting me once again, offering me sweets before reminding me I was too fat to enjoy those treats.

I was about ten when I got “teenage spots”. Children recoiled when they saw my face; when I tried to explain they just said, “But you aren’t a teenager yet”. And I wasn’t, but continued to suffer for my skin periodically until I had left school. It wasn’t until I was prescribed the pill at 14 that my skin settled down, flaring up again as soon as my GP suggested I take a break from it. The same boy whose address Laura had written in my diary told a friend that he wasn’t really interested in me because of my spots, even during a “clear” spell. “Pizza face” was a regular put down. In a record shop a boy approached me from behind but when I turned around and he saw my face he told his mates, “nah, too many spots”. I didn’t particularly want his attention, but it was another twist of the knife in an already shattered ego.

At 16, things started to look up. I had a good base of friends in the Lower Sixth form, lost a bit of weight and started to get a bit of male attention. I went out to the pub and clubs and got a boyfriend. But by the time I was 18 things had started to go down hill again. After a drunken fumble my friendship started to collapse with one of my boy friends, and along with it, my friendship with all his friends. For my 18th birthday party I was limited to inviting 20 people, instantly taking my name off the list of everyone’s birthday party list who I had not been able to invite, and even those who I had. My weight started to balloon due to my unhappiness, and as my confidence slipped I began to feel freakish in the company of others once more. I was the tall fat option in a little equation the boys in my maths class came up with for the ideal girl. I missed one of my few loyal friends’ birthdays because I couldn’t face going out in frumpy, oversized clothes whilst everyone else was lithe and sexy. By the time I got my A levels I hated myself.

The list of incidents that made me feel even further cast out seems to go on forever. Its not that I dwell on the past, but I know it has shaped the person I have become. When I am in new situations, I am still overly conscious of how people will react to me. When I started university I felt decidedly awkward until I had got to know my “corridor”. Starting full time work in London was nerve wracking, having to fit into a completely different situation and group of people. When friends make light fun of me now, there is a part of me that feels that knife again no matter how innocent the comment and my stomach knots in fear of being found out as different again. But as I get older, I realise more and more that it is okay to be different, to be a bit quirky as one of my friends described me (and I quite like that title!). When I told one of my oldest friends that I had decided to get a tattoo of a dove on my back, not just to symbolise peace but to constantly remind me that I am a free spirit and should never let anything or anyone cage me, she paused and pondered it. “I like it”, she decided. “Because you have always been different and a free spirit”. Although we have not always seen eye to eye, and at times our friendship has suffered in the face of my controversy, she appreciates me for being me, unique, warts and all. And I think I am starting too appreciate my difference too.