Myth-Conceptions
Last weekend, I attended my 30th High School Reunion. I had mixed feelings about going. I had only been invited to the 5-year and had a terrible time — I won a prize, a free consultation with a doula (you know, those people during home births who gong the metal drum during contractions, play panpipe music, and hand you a stick to chew on if you really, really need it).
The prize was weird and embarrassing, especially since I had had a total hysterectomy a few months prior and still hadn’t wrapped my head around it.
My name was called. I climbed the awards platform and was handed a doula’s business card and a microphone. I wasn’t prepared with a better explanation for why I preferred the large Little Caesar’s Pizza prize instead (for which I was refused) and ended up stomping off stage.
The whole thing represented how I remember my entire experience living in Layton. However, recently, I realized it wasn’t all The Layton Lancer’s fault.
When my family relocated to Layton at the end of 1988, I had no idea we were moving. I remember very little of that year and often forget it happened during 8th grade, not 9th grade when my life was irrevocably scarred.
There was the new house, the new town, the new school. There was my beloved grandma’s Breast Cancer diagnosis and death in 1989 when long-kept generational secrets were unleashed like wind blowing the puff off a dandelion gone to seed.
This was also when my undiagnosed eating disorder ran rampant, where my learning disabilities seemed to kick into high gear, my migraines magnified, and my deep, dark depression began.
An invisible giant chip on my shoulder grew and was nurtured and fed with my resentment, fear, confusion, sadness, and anger. From 1988 to my 1993 high school graduation, I was mad, looking for a fight. So, it was strange that suddenly, I wanted to attend my 30th reunion.
The need sprouted from my new habit of running toward what scares me the most. I want to understand its origin, breathe in the same air, look it dead in the eye and try not to blink. I wanted to slay that high school dragon and knock that chip off my shoulder once and for all. And I wanted to do it in a one-sleeved bright pink dress and four-inch heels!
As I sat at a table with people who, in the late 80s, I never would’ve dared to stand in the cafeteria line next to, let alone eat an entire meal with, the myth of who they were, who I was, and who I am now, began to morph.
These people were interesting, kind, and generous-nothing like I had anticipated, nor had they any recollection of the ME of 30 years ago and my rancorous attitude (or they didn’t care anymore or were too polite to admit it).
Last Friday, I went to my 30th High School Reunion, did it 100% as myself, and had a great time. It was nice to get a second chance and, even better, to reconnect with those who once meant a lot to me.
There was the guy who was my friend, always, no matter who was strolling down those long dreary high school halls and no matter the mood I was in (usually suicidal) — shout out to Greg Griffith!
Or the kid who visited me several times at the hospital after my emergency appendectomy and still answered yes to going to Morp when it was evident that (for him and me) the girl’s choice dance was off — shout out to Corey Fife ( a great friend and the beginning mender of a distrustful soul)!
As we sat around a table, stories were shared, jokes dispensed, and I realized I was wrong about these people. Most were just as nervous to be at the reunion as I was. Most, it seemed, had as many misconceptions about who they were as I had about myself.
Nobody remembered me as angry, though they did seem mystified I was funny, now, and maybe I am. Perhaps that’s what happens when you spend less time being angry and more time recognizing hilarity?
However, the biggest takeaway for that night is that it was always me, not them! I was the one who hated me! I was who I was so angry at! This experience made me see it is the ME of 30 years ago that I must forgive before I can finally move on.
