Fitting In - Part 2
Clothes shopping has always been difficult for me, especially when it's time to buy pants. I'm short and even the pants that are marked as "short length" are still too long and drag on the ground, becoming frayed and torn with every wear, eventually to become so damaged they're unwearable. When I find a pair I like, it's the only kind I buy as long as it's available. This doesn't allow for much variety or style change but we have to wear pants :)
It's hard enough to find something you like in your size and then to also have it fit the way you want. Few people are shaped like the mannequins modeling the clothes so we don't get a real idea of what they'll look like once we put them on. There is a beauty in the clothes buying process though that is hidden - in no other aspect of life can we try something on and toss it aside, move on and try again - when we aren't satisfied.
We don't get to "try on" growing up. We don't get to sample experiences and the natural phases of life and push aside the ones we don't like and the ones that are difficult. We're stuck. Of course some things are in our control but others are not. It was things I was not in control of that made the feeling of not "fitting in" seem scary.
When I was in elementary school, K-3rd grade, I attended a Catholic school. There wasn't any difference in the way anyone dressed, and opportunities for sports and other extracurricular activities, at that time, were limited. It was when I changed schools and began 4th grade that I learned I didn't fit in, and that feeling has not gone away.
Once you have freedom in what you're allowed to wear, you quickly learn how something so superficial defines you and determines if you're good enough for everyone else. The label on your jeans, shoes and coat shouldn't matter, and yet it becomes the very thing used to define the kind of person you must be.
I was the younger sister and a lot of my clothes were hand-me-downs which meant they weren't something I chose. They also weren't my style and that made me feel more uncomfortable. As a parent, I understand the practicality of passing clothes down from one kid to the next. Clothes are costly, and if there is nothing wrong with them, it makes sense to keep using them if you can. But even the clothes I got that were new were not the right ones.
I remember the first day of fourth grade wearing a two-piece outfit - a skirt and shirt - that were covered the same pattern. Fluorescent green and white stripes covered in black leopard spots. The very next day I wore a tight, black pleather skirt and a white collared, button-down top that had Schnauzers printed on it. These two styles are entirely different. But that is how unsure of who I was I felt. I didn't - and still don't - know what "cool" clothes are. The clothes not "fitting" was only the beginning of my discomfort and where I began down a path of wondering why I wasn't good enough simply by being me.
I started my period six days after I turned 13, and being in a house with two older women, how unlikely was it that we had no supplies in the house? I woke up before school with blood in my underwear but we had nothing - no tampons, no maxi-pads and no panty liners. We had a few neighbors close by that were kind enough to share but now my "big news" was no longer private. And if it had stopped there, I probably would have been okay. But when I got on the bus that morning, my sister made her way to the back where she sat with her friends and I took my seat near the front. Before we made it to school, I had people congratulating me on becoming a "woman." But among their chants were bursts of laughter. They were mocking me. I'd done nothing wrong and there was nothing I could change about it.
I had braces. I had acne. I didn't wear make-up because that would have made the acne worse. I didn't have any boyfriends, and the first boy I kissed I was made fun of for doing it. Then when I finally got a boyfriend, I was made fun of for choosing him. He wasn't "cool" either. Junior high was a place I couldn't just be me, and a lot of things I had control over, but others were just what they were.
High school continued the same as before. I still had braces, and the acne had mostly gone away. But I still didn't wear the right clothes or have the right boyfriend. When the cute boy who played the saxophone started giving me attention, I thought it was finally my time to shine. I was going to belong. I "had" something everyone approved of. Until I gave him a ride home one night after a football game. He told me to drive to the end of his street and park the car. I did, and after killing the engine, we started kissing. After a few minutes, he slid his hand under my shirt and up to my breasts. He began to remove my shirt and bra, and then placed his mouth on my skin. I asked him what he was doing and he said "I'm going to suck on your tit." I was so uncomfortable. I told him to stop, and he did, and then he waited while I replaced my top and told me to drive him home. We never spoke again. The days after that were not the same. I'd blown another chance I had at fitting in and belonging. And how? By simply being me. I spoke up when I was uncomfortable and was made fun of for doing it.
When I went to college, I still had a hard time making friends. My roommate had arrived a week earlier because she was in band so she already knew people and had some friends. I thought that would have put me at an advantage but her friends didn't think I was "cool" either. I still didn't wear the right clothes and I had a few months left in my braces. I hadn't suddenly become anything different. Anything cool. Anything good enough.
Being on my own then, in a sense, gave me some new opportunities and maybe a chance to find where I fit. I went out a lot to bars or to fraternity parties. I drank a lot. I had one night stands. Because booze and sex will make me cool, right? Nope. That didn't work either.
And here I sit at the age of 40 wondering if I'll ever really fit in anywhere. Even my address is mocking - every house in the cul-de-sac has an address that begins with 32. Mine starts with 96.
I still don't wear the right clothes but I've learned I'm okay with being comfortable, and that usually comes in the form of jeans and a t-shirt. My sense of humor is a little different than most - not crude or offensive - but off-center. I don't watch the popular shows on TV. I'm socially awkward and I like boy bands.
A lot of my experiences seem superficial and small and maybe they aren't "that bad." But the first time your jeans drag on the ground and become a little frayed, that doesn't seem so bad either. And then you wear them again and they become a little more frayed. You keep wearing them and they keep becoming more and more frayed, and before long they're too damaged to wear.
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Disclaimer: Please remember that these are real stories as
we remember them. We are not therapists and are NOT qualified to
diagnose, treat, or provide counseling. The coping strategies shared in
our stories are what we found to be useful and may not work for
everyone. Some of the content, as mentioned above, may be triggering. If
you need to reach out, please call 911, or go to your local hospital or
stress center. Additional resources include the National Suicide
Prevention Lifeline: 1-(800)-273-TALK (8255); the National Hopline
Network: 1-(800)-442-HOPE (4673); the Crisis Test Line - Text "HOME" to
741741 to connect with a crisis counselor; and the National Domestic
Violence Hotline: 1-(800)-799-SAFE (7233).
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About the Author:
Jane is a graduate of Ball State University with a degree in Journalism-Public Relations. She currently lives in central Indiana with her husband and three children. She spends her free time reading, writing blogs and book reviews, and enjoys listening to music. She is currently editing her first fiction novel and is writing two others.
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