High school revisited...

I was unexpectedly hit with a wave of shame this weekend as I walked down the dingy stairway to the girl's locker room at my old high school. Tears came up as I stood in the spot where nearly 50 years ago, I'd try, on a daily basis, to get undressed and then dressed again while maintaining complete cover. I got my first and only "D" in gym during freshman year because I wouldn't get undressed for swimming. I wouldn't get undressed for swimming because I was mortified at the thought of going into the showers, ashamed of my mysteriously maturing body, embarrassed that my clothes weren't quite right, so envious of what seemed to be other girls' ease in the world.

I had to tell my mom that I needed a bra when I was in 6th or 7th grade. Those were my dad's final years of drinking, which meant that the alcoholism got way more attention than my developing self, who was so desperate for supportive acknowledgment. Boys paid attention. Not so many, but enough that I could lose myself in their kisses and not have to worry about what to say and did I look OK and I'd better get home before I got into trouble. Boys were easy.

A pack a day cigarette habit by 9th grade, drinking bourbon I'd stolen from mom before I went out at 15 (just in case the bottle of wine we'd steal wasn't enough to go around), smoking pot most days at school - I'd crossed the invisible line into alcoholism by the time I was 16, if not before, though it took another fifteen years to admit that to myself. When I eventually heard people in the rooms talk about being uncomfortable in their own skin, I understood on a gut level.

I was at my high school, built in 1924, because it is closing for an extensive remodel. This open house was our last chance to walk the old halls, which for me meant remembering where I met my best friend each morning for a cigarette before class, the bathroom that we avoided so as not to get jumped by the tough girls, the park where we'd share a joint at lunch time. No "glory days" for me. High school was tough. Wanting to belong while feeling like an alien, wearing my coat much of the year as protective armor, perfecting the invisibility I'd learned growing up, making plans for weekend drinking. There was fun, of course - passing notes, cheering at football games, huge crushes on the basketball stars - but as I walked the halls, I was mostly reminded of how young I was, trying to figure it all out without the language to say so.

The friend that I went with and I ran into another classmate, who shared his own story of teenage shame that I had no recollection of, though we were in the same homeroom and I would've witnessed what he described. And so, I know that I am not alone in mixed emotions from the past. I was not alone in the excruciating adolescent self-absorption that was only temporarily relieved with a slug of cheap wine or a hit off a joint.

Walking out of the old gym on Saturday, I was able to muster compassion for my younger self, sad for the mountains of energy I spent wanting to be someone other than who I was, so appreciative for the gift of healing. As I made my way to our seats in the newer gym, to hear my cousin's daughter sing the national anthem for the alumni basketball game, I was grateful for relationships over time with those I've known since grade school, for the shared history at this school with my young cousin who knocked it out of the park with her rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, and for all the stories and histories that were shared in the halls that day. "Remember when..."  "What was his name?" "Oh my god - is it really you?"  I can get overly involved with my own version of my past. It is good to step back, to change my viewpoint by listening to others' experiences and by recognizing our similarities instead of  focusing on our differences. Judging my insides by your outsides never did work very well, though it took a long time to understand that. Grateful today for perspective.

What was your experience with adolescent emotions? How might you express compassion for your younger self? Are there events or feelings from the past that could benefit from an inventory?