Fitting In

Photo by Kristina Tripkovic on Unsplash

TRIGGER WARNING: Bullying, mild racism, and brief mention of sexual assault. 

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I remember not fitting "in" with the "cool kids" from a very young age. I can't remember as far back as preschool, but I'm pretty sure no one really cared what I looked like or how I acted, then. Young children are the best teachers in that way - for they aren't concerned with looks nor are they set out to become the "most popular kid of all." They are far more concerned if you have the wrong sandbox toy and who to share (or not share) their chocolate chip cookie with. But elementary school was a completely different story. 

I was adopted from South America when I was a baby, into a well-to-do white family. This meant that I lived in a nice neighborhood, with plenty of other children, and grew up in a very white-dominated community. Which, for the most part, was fine. But started to pose an issue when I arrived on the bus to elementary school. 

I was one of 3 or 4 colored kids in the classroom during my 4th-6th grade years. I got the same education as everyone else and the teachers didn't treat me any differently, but the students did. I was asked by some of the kids, a few times, why I "wasn't like the others" or why my skin was "dirty" in comparison to theirs. On the playground I was often left alone to play. 

This was good for my imagination but not good for me socially. 

In addition to feeling outcast, I was also pretty horrific at sports (no one wanted me as their soccer goalie and I sure as hell don't blame them), and I was also a terrible sport when it came to P.E. because I just couldn't be bothered to do pull-ups on the monkey bars. This quickly separated me from the early "jocks" and "athletes" of the class. I was sometimes relieved when it rained and we could spend recess inside - further relieved if recess was replaced with handwriting class (...I loved to make big swirls with my cursive, okay?) But that made me "weird."

The only classes that I felt that I excelled at were within art and music. In art class, I was allowed to be messy and weird. I could draw outside the lines and wouldn't get in trouble because I was making "abstract art." In music, I could hold a tune and was pretty proficient with learning melodies and notes on a keyboard, and I could keep a rhythm with a tambourine, or some kind of percussion. Those two classes allowed me to be who I felt I was, without judgement. They were also one of the few places where I became "like everybody else" and no one questioned my skin color. 

Moving onto middle school, it became less about my skin tone and more about what I was into. I didn't "dress" like the popular kids - not that our clothing was much different, we were an outdoor school - but my likes and tastes were definitely different. 

I loved all kinds of music, from pop to classical, and I loved to write. Mini books, letters, diary entries, class notes, what have you - if there was a piece of paper in front of me, I was writing on it. But this made me "reserved" and "mysterious" and some of the kids - particularly the boys - didn't like that. 

I had a diary that I used to keep that had horses on the cover. I remember one day I wrote down my feelings for a blonde boy I liked. I knew that I didn't have a chance with him. He was well-liked, athletic, the complete opposite of me, and well...blonde. But I wrote about him anyway, because it was nice to fantasize about first kisses, first boyfriends, first anything really, at that age. To my horror, my "reserved-self" bothered these kids so much so that they stole my diary from my cubby and I walked into a washroom to catch a group of them reading my personal feelings out loud to one another and giggling.

When they caught me, gaping at them in horror, they busted out laughing, throwing my diary to the side and teasing me. The blonde boy included. I felt very much outcast at that point. The school was small, with only 29-30 students in a 7th-9th grade range. So to see a bulk of them laughing at my private thoughts was horrifying. Those kids looked at me different, every day, for weeks. I did my best to ignore it but I quit writing in tangible spaces. While I knew I belonged within the nature and the mountains of North Carolina, during that time, and in part, with that school, I also no longer felt safe. My first real experience of not feeling safe. My words had been taken from and used against me and it cast me out to the corner. 

Of course I had my happy moments there and I would still say that was one of the best schools I ever attended. I was allowed to grow into my skin and become my own person. I was given a ton of independence and space to grow, which I think is important when you're a developing teen. Eventually I graduated and moved on to high school. Very quickly I found out who the popular kids were and I was definitely NOT one of them. 

While I wasn't necessarily bullied for my skin tone all the time, there were definitely a few incidents that were race based, both by faculty and student. There was plenty of diversity there, as the school hosted kids from around the world, but something about brown skin really bothers people (and I have yet to really figure out why). So that set me aside from the population real quick. I was also buddy-buddy with a few of the female faculty, as they were like second moms to me, and that meant that I was connecting with the adults. Other kids instantly thought that I would be a narc to them, or didn't trust me because I chose not to have friendships with them, but rather with the adults. Which I did and didn't understand at the time. 

By that point in life, I had lost my mother to Parkinson's Disease, lost a mother figure to Breast Cancer, and had just graduated my first boarding school where I was given more freedom and independence than a lot of these kids had, so I connected with the adults better. Their lives resonated with me more because of the life I had already lived. So I knew I was different. I fell into my little group of singers though, and was once again, happy to make music. It meant that even for a little while, I could fit in somewhere. 

Following my sexual assault, during the middle of my "freshman year" I confided to someone (who I thought was a friend) about what had happened and they instantly told half the school. My horror story became their gossip. And once again I was cast out. This time because I had been assaulted by a girl - and that was just "not something that happened." 

I was whispered about in the hall, taunted by the bullies and even laughed at for enduring what I went through. It goes unwritten that that "friend" and I very quickly became enemies. It didn't help either that when I tried to report what had happened, that I was shut down - and quite quickly too. What had happened to me "certainly did not happen." That day, I was no longer just a "student." I was a student with an ugly story, who no one wanted to be around, and who was cast out yet again, into a corner. 

The first couple of years of college were kinder. I was able to make friends in almost all of my classes, I was studying interesting subjects, I had friends in my dorm hall, I got along with my roommates and suite-mates, and for more than 365 days, I felt like I had somewhere where I belonged. College is unique like that. There's a space for everyone. 

At the start of 2012, however, things took a turn. I entered into what would be the longest, most frightening, and abusive relationship of my life. And that meant that I became unrelatable to most. At first, there was nothing wrong. I was "dating" a girl. People were relatively cool with it. Except the inner circle, who know right off the bat that this "relationship" was a problem, because I never really consented to BE in that relationship (but that's a post for a different time). But it very quickly became an evident issue. I lost friends. Not because I was "dating" a girl, but because I became withdrawn. The more that I was isolated, the more I stopped going out. I didn't see people. I didn't talk to people. I didn't participate in extracurricular activities; groups that I had belonged to no longer wanted my service because I wasn't showing up on time, or I wasn't showing up at all. 

Once again, I felt like I didn't fit in anywhere. Friends stopped calling and texting. Friends that I had deeper friendships with - those friendships became strained - and they wouldn't always take my calls if it meant talking about the situation. Eventually, outside of the phone calls I was ALLOWED to have, I had no one at all. 

It was the first time in my life that I had experienced true loneliness. I truly believed that no one else was going through the hell I was living, and that no one would understand if I reached out and tried to explain that I was being suffocated from the inside out. It would take me 4.5 years to free myself from that relationship. And an additional year after to start to feel integrated as a part of society again. 

Nowadays I still don't feel like I truly belong. I have great friends - spread across the country - a good mental health team, and I get to do some of the things I love the most. But I still don't relate well with people my own age. I seek out connections to those who are at least a decade older, or who have lived a lot of life in their short time here on Earth. I'm also consciously aware of how I move throughout society vs. those around me. 

I have learned that I feel things - all emotions - deeply and think deep (and often provoking) thoughts and that is something that often unsettles people. I also have a decade+ relationship with death and depression that many don't have, which is also off-putting to those who can't handle those kinds of conversations. But I'm at the age now where I've made peace (for the most part) with my non-belonging (it still gets to me some days, I'm human after all). I've just accepted that I was put on a different path than most people and I'm incredibly thankful to those that can handle me and to those that have chosen to stick around throughout the years. It's definitely been quite a ride. 

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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: Josefina is a recent graduate of Penn State University and is a holder of two degrees - Psychology and Vocal Performance. She is also a mezzo-soprano, an on again-off again blogger, a certified social media manager, and a sometimes celebrity, fashion and portrait photographer. When she's not writing, she can probably be found drinking far too much coffee, hanging out with her seven pets, or behind the lens on a photoshoot.