To throw another wrench at it, being alone, as a teenager, in a small town, in the 60's. I guess that's more than one wrench. There were no secrets. Everyone's business was talked about, embellished, and who do you believe?
Looking back on what it was like for me, first I have to tell you that I was not good in school, I was shy, a wallflower in every sense of the word, and in puppy love with a boy. I was thin, had no curves, wore glasses, had crooked teeth, had my feelings hurt multiple times a week, and didn't have anyone to talk to about it.
Even if I did have someone to go to, I wouldn't know what to say or how to go about telling someone such a personal story about myself. I never learned how to communicate and I was so good about hiding the way I felt that no one would know the heartache that was going on inside of me. So I wasn't going to tell and no one was going to know. I kept it inside. Which is wrong and I know that, but it was easier to hide than to talk about me.
My grades were not good but they were passing. I had poor study habits. I got lost in so many ways but always managed to pull through. I have no idea how.
Looking back I can remember how much time I spent dreaming about my boyfriend. The boy who was a friend became the BOYFRIEND when we were just starting high school. He was into sports and band. I was a cheerleader and in band. We loved music and loved to dance. The school had a record player and records (now I'm dating myself) and our lunch break was spent in the auditorium with our friends dancing to rock and roll music. We were good and won a few contests. The teachers kept an eye on us and monitored the slow dances. Most of the time.
Back then we respected the teachers and each other. We obeyed the rules, for the most part. We were teenagers after all.
I can say my whole little world revolved around my boyfriend. My social life was him. My heart would break each time I thought he was not paying attention to me. I was so sensitive. And he was not as faithful to me as I thought. We had fights. I'd cry and run home. Go to my room and cry while listening for a knock on the door or the phone to ring. Most often it didn't happen. Then I'd forgive him and love him all the more.
I was so naive and gullible. I had no backbone. No self esteem. I was needy. I was insecure. I must have had some good qualities because I had friends and was invited to parties and get togethers. But all I could think about was spending time with the love of my life. It consumed me. We didn't have any classes together, but we were together after school, at school functions, every weekend, and every chance we got. Sometimes we just sat together and talked.
And then it happened. I had graduated from high school and was attending classes at a community college in a neighboring town. I lived in a boarding house but still came home every weekend. On the Greyhound bus (another blast from the past). We hung out and everything seemed the same. Only it wasn't.
I don't remember where we were or what we were doing when he told me. But my world came crashing down when he said he was getting married. No, I didn't know her. He said she was pregnant and he was going to be married soon. I went to my room in my house and didn't come out for days. I cried and cried. My parents found out either from me or from small town gossip. It was the worst experience of my life at that time in my life. I had no coping skills. I had no one to talk to and I didn't want to talk. I wanted to be left alone. I couldn't listen to music because it all reminded me of him. I cried buckets of tears.
Then I heard about some classes they were going to offer at the school in my home town. It was summer time and hot and humid. No air conditioning back then. But they were offering a class I was interested in taking. A writing class. I signed up and I began to write. I poured out all my pent up emotions on paper. I had the assignments I completed and I had the writing that I did just for me and no one else. I found out that writing helped me more than anything else I tried.
Over the years I have kept diaries, I have journaled, I have put the feelings I couldn't talk about on paper. I didn't keep them. I wish I had. But they would have taken up boxes and boxes and I moved around a lot.
Little by little I began to heal. I don't think I was aware of the changes because it was such a slow process. But it worked and I felt better. Eventually, and I mean it took years, but at some place in time I was able to talk to him again without screaming at him and calling him names. His marriage didn't last. We never could have gotten back together. Too much pain, I couldn't trust him, and it wouldn't work. I moved away and moved on.
Many years have passed. I hope I have grown and learned from mistakes I made in the past. I added a few new ones and will eventually write about them too.
Writing helps. I can say anything. I can be brutally honest. I can write fiction. I can make dreams happen. On paper.