BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—BULLY FOR ME Part 1 VICTIMS NEED VILLAINS TO BLAME WHEN PAIN JUST WON'T QUIT

Hi.  Glad to meet you.  My name is Annie.  I’m eleven years old.  And I’ve leaped off the time line to tell you my story.  However, before we get started, I'd better clarify this:  You may think me older than my years, because I’ll be talking through an adult, whose voice has a tendency to pop out and override mine.

For example, a kid would not say:  Don’t ya just hate it when you meet someone, and the first thing you hear is a story of woe?  I mean if misery likes company then why do people go on and on about themselves instead of letting you top their sad tales with a whale of a tale of your own?  In truth, misery just wants listeners to agree that life should not be so unfair to someone as caring, personable, hard working, and fun as—you.

I guess misery needs listeners to agree with 'woe is me' for this reason:  We know that life can be a slippery slope.  But when the person sliding downhill is oneself, we choose to believe that the reason for our slide is someone else's fault, because—

Every victim needs a villain to blame when misery just won’t quit.

       
When fear twists a child's self-confident voice into tongue-tied knots—Whoops—I forgot that this particular child wants to speak for herself.  So begging your pardon for the rudeness of my interruption, let's listen to what Annie feels need to say ...

At five, I'd patted crying classmates on the back, reassuring them that our moms would pick us up at the end of our first day in kindergarten.  During the 1940’s most of us did not attend preschool, and I believe that daycare was a word not yet coined. If Rosie The Riveter had children, they were likely to be seen at home cared for by grandparents, who‘d probably emigrated from ‘the old country’ in hopes of improving life for their families in the USA.

At ten, I'd stamped my foot on the playground at recess and refused to play until my friends eased up on bullying the new kid at school.  Though I’d been unaware of the compassionate nature of my budding leadership skills, Mother Nature empowers the voices of children to ring out loud, naturally, with whatever we intuitively feel at our core.  And clarity concerning my status with peers was mine until an emotional storm cloud blew in, darkening my pre-teen years in such a terrifying manner as to dizzy my mind once the emotional complexities of reality felt too painful to bear.  (In case you’re thinking:  Here starts the misery—I mean mystery—concerning the dizzying aspects of Annie’s deeply conflicted relationship with—herself, please stop and think again, because the mysterious nature of the deeply conflicted relationship that has persisted between my self confident traits and those that remain less than secure to this very day, had experienced sound reason to begin to develop in 1946 when I was not quite three.)

At eleven, I had no clue that the secure nature of my social status was about to lose its footing and slide down that proverbial slippery slope ...

The sky held no dark, foreboding clouds on that balmy, spring day in 1953 when my family moved from our third floor, two-bedroom apartment across town into the spacious, two story, three-bedroom-two-bath dream house that made Dad’s spirit soar.  And as my sense of adventure was always eager to hold hands with Dad’s (which proved so upbeat and palpably transparent as to feel contagious to me), my rosy future seemed too secure to fret over friends left behind.  I mean, creating a new circle of friends wherever I went had always felt easy-peasy to me.

Upon reflection, I can still feel the surge of positive energy buoying my sense of adventure when Mom, hugging Lauren and me goodbye, left her precious offspring with the principal of our new school, who, having greeted us amiably in his office, walked each of us into our classrooms.  I imagine myself hugging Lauren, my pretty, little sister, who, would have clung to me for several seconds before biting the bullet bravely, as she follows authority’s footsteps into her first grade classroom.  However, imagination bows gracefully to detailed memory upon recalling my new teacher smiling at me when it was my turn to come face to face (and hear myself introduced) to her fifth grade class.

Without so much as a worry as to what fate might write upon the next chapter of my life (even now, decades later, while these memories are spilling out across my screen), I can feel a cheek splitting smile spreading across my face, today, just as had been true, yesteryear, when eleven year old yours truly walked down the aisle so as to settle myself comfortably at my new desk in my new school.

As my eyes sweep around the room, I spy an uncommonly pretty girl.  Then my gaze lands upon a pair of blue eyed, blond, long legged, lanky ten year old—guys.  (As we're all in fifth grade, why will I feel kind of frustrated about the fact that most of the kids are ten while I’m eleven?  Patience, my friends.  Detailing facts takes time.  And the reason for that minor frustration, concerning our ages, is bound to turn up, sooner rather than later.)

Since children are egocentric by nature, I assume that the pretty girl with the brown, almond shaped eyes, perky nose, full lips (which will soon be considered sensuous), straight white teeth and long, dark ponytail will want to be my best friend.  However intuition suggests that choosing a boyfriend may take more time.

'Boy' am I wrong about that!

At the first sign of mischief dancing in one pair of blue eyes, my heart dances, as well, in a strangely pleasured way, and as the beat of my heart quickens, that contest is won.  As to the other cute, blue-eyed boy—well, Mr. Nice-Quiet-Shy-and-Studious pales by comparison, so in short order, he fades back into the herd once Mr. Mischief-maker’s cocky spirit wins my full attention ...

When the final bell rings at the end of the day, I collect my sister, Lauren at the door of her first grade class, and while walking her home (as had been my habit at our old school), she jabbers away while I'm cheerfully imagining myself stepping into the center ring of the fifth grade circus where the slender, almond-eyed, pony tailed creature and mischievous Leader of the Pack dub me benevolent Ring Master, over all.  Then, while imagining our classmates circling round, paying homage to we three, I feel all is well within this brand new little corner of my world.

As to my best friend at my first school, she and I will enjoy sleep overs for a time.  And feeling utterly enchanted for the first time in my prepubescent life by a pair of twinkling blue eyes, shooting sparks of mischief briefly in my direction, the boyfriend, whom I’d singled out as mine in my old school, is last week’s toast.

Oh my goodness!  Look at the time!  Once again, it’s flying by!  As my homework won’t do itself, let’s turn center stage back to the adult whom I’m bound to become— 

Alas, the egocentric nature of young Annie's unrealistic expectation is not to bear fruit.  You see, while her inexperienced mind is spinning day dreams based in what had been true in the past, fate is writing every kid’s worst nightmare onto the next several pages of my life.

When next we meet you'll watch a rude awakening take place that I'd never expected to slap my social self-confidence sharply across the face—repeatedly.  Ouch!  Then, as seeing is believing, I'll show you why my pipe dream is bound to go up in smoke.

Oh—one more thing—Once this mystery concerning the fact that my pre-teen social life is about to enter a maze so dark as to see me feeling as blind as a bat crashing into walls, a series of boulder-sized miseries will drop onto my head, each one being so confounding as to weigh so heavy on my spirit that you'll watch me unknowingly victimize myself—in story after story—until, I, having grown to be a mother of two (pregnant with my third), will choose to seek out a therapist in hopes of understanding why I feel so mixed up about certain relationships, which, as you shall see, mean the world to me—but I'm getting ahead of myself, so let's back up to the point in my prepubescent development, which offers us a retroactive perspective of a sweet young thing, who has no clue that she's beginning to wander down a dark, fearful path, which is about to turn into that tunnel-like maze where no window, door or exit sign will appear for decades to come until—lo and behold—strings of insight will begin to highlight dark spots of subconscious insecurity that will brighten my awareness concerning how best to leave this deeply conflicted, brow beaten path behind in favor of concentrating my energy upon carving out a highly detailed, existential existence of my own, which will inspire me to choose to leave the mind maze that my social life had continued to offer me in the distant past where it rightfully belongs.

In short, as you watch the naïveté of an eleven year old child develop, step by step, into the strong spirited adult, whom I freely choose to be, today, I believe you’ll come to see how all aspects of my brain have come to function in unison in hopes of gaining access to each next insight-laden missing key as I continue to identify my own narrow mindsets ever so patiently and cautiously while working toward regaining today's sense of clarity (which I’ve come to see as the holy grail that had been lost when I'd unwittingly begun to carry a cross too heavy to bear on my own as proves true of all children who, being innocent of unpardonable wrong doing, here, there and everywhere throughout history, are punished too severely by the uncontrolled temperament of authority figures whom they adore so as to grow up to become adults, who, having learned to behave as illogically as did their parents (who demanded perfection), must be reminded to accept that life, on one hand, is not meant to be perfect or fair, while on the other hand, those who have had the good fortune to acquire the lion’s share would be wise to hold themselves accountable for learning how to choose to maintain a line of self control when conflict erupts as well as gaining the generosity of spirit that proves necessary to freely share riches won with humility, dignity and grace—Hello, mr. trump—NOT!)

BTW:  From time to time, my frustration with leadership leading hopeful hungry minds nowhere good is bound to pop out of my mind.  And when that's the case, I'll change fonts so as to vent for a page or two in hopes of clearing my mind of frustration that's beyond my control to change for the better before offering my brain's storyteller center stage, once again.  Just saying ...