Down Hill and Up Again

Hill, Michelle's last name was Hill.  As warped as it may seem, considering what I talked about last time, I really enjoyed being at her house.  I would watch as her mother "scratched" her head before washing it and wonder what the deal was.  I loved the music that was always blaring, it was groovy - "don't rock the boat baby".  It wasn't all bad, just the pretend playing.  Playing dr. 

Okay, we are at a new school, Antonio Olivares Elementary school.  a huge, modern, open floor plan thing where it was never quiet.  Michelle is still around at this point, but I know she is leaving, she told me.  I feel like my best friend is going away forever, which she is, I never heard from her once they moved.

I wander, friendless, alone.  There are a couple of girls on my block, but the only way they will play with me is if I swallow dry pieces of dog poop like pills first.  Looking back, it was humiliating, but hey, I wasn't alone.  Then my hill becomes less steep.

The first time I saw her, she was wearing a rabbit fur coat.  She has long wavy hair and is the most popular girl in school.  Of course, I'm not cool enough for her.  I don't speak Spanish, I don't have cool clothes.  I wanted her for my friend.  MY friend.

One day, without even checking with Mom, I follow her home, straggling behind her and the group of friends she is with.  I watch as they go to her house.  I finally get my nerve up enough to go and ring the doorbell.  A woman opens the door and asks me in.  The girls are all in the backyard.  I am not welcome, but the woman tells her daughter that I am a guest in their home and that she should be nice to me. 

That's how it all started.  We are still friends today.  She had something I desperately needed - no siblings, and I had just what she needed - rowdy brothers to play with.  I can't tell you when we became "sisters", I just know that we are and always will be.  We can go months without talking and it's like it was just a day.

I don't know if she knows, I have tried to tell her, how much her friendship has meant all these years.  It was her father who bought me my first makeup.  He took me to the makeup counter at JC Penney's and she helped pick out my colors.  I was so excited and proud.  I don't remember what my parents said about the makeup - I don't think I was even allowed to wear it yet.  I think that's why her father got if for me, he knew and he cared.  All the other girls were wearing it and I stuck out like a sore thumb.

My years of hell were behind me, but again, the damage was done and nothing was going to repair my injured psyche.

Okay,  4th grade.  I am secure in my friendships.  My life is somewhat normal, if you discount the odd fascination I had with sex and my own body.  I knew something was wrong, but it would be a long time before I knew what.

Our family had Bassett Hounds.  Short little lazy fat dogs.  Adorable, but too small to scare the meaner peoples of the neighborhood away from our house.  The kids actually laughed at them and threw rocks at them through the fence.  Dad decides we need a better watch dog.  One day he comes home with a St. Bernard.  Beautiful animal, and I LOVE animals!  One day, out of the blue, the dog decides to bite me.  Did you know that you can fit a 4th grader's face in the mouth of a St. Bernard?

All I remember is putting a hand to my face and saying - "He bit me!"

The emergency room at Wilford Hall Medical Center.  Lights, stabbing pain in my face.  Tugging, Dr's talking.  My Dad never left my side. 

It took close to 200 stitches to close up all of the wounds on my face.  I am bandaged up, given anti-biotics and sent home.  If I wasn't an interesting enough insect for the bullies at school yet, now, I had hit the trifecta - and the bullies weren't all kids.  My 4th grade teacher herself called me dogface.  She was a particular nasty piece of works.  She took great pleasure in tormenting her students - except for her favorites.

This was really my year for being "different".  The dog bite wasn't enough, my Dad decided I was too moody, cried too easily.  Off to group therapy.  Get picked up from school, in front of everyone by my Dad and go off to become "normal".  I was moody,  I did cry too easily, hell, I even slumped around with bent shoulders.  The dr. was consulted as to whether or not I needed a back brace - good grief - please paint a target on me! My Dad even took me to the dr. because my boobs weren't developing evenly - one was bigger than the other - PLEASE!!!!  I don't know how, but I did survive 4th grade.

5th grade - what a change!  My teacher is a soft spoken, loving, gentle southern lady.  She even knew the relatives of Laura Ingalls Wilder - my hero.  How I envied Laura Ingalls Wilder. 

I breezed through fifth grade in relative security.  If I didn't play dodge ball I was safe, I got left alone.  I spent most of my recess time on the far outskirts of the play ground and dirt field it was attached to.  I even made a few other friends out there. 

One of them lived in a junkyard - literally.  Her back yard was scrap cars and all kinds of cool junk.  The perfect place to play hide-n-seek or just hang out in.  I love junkyards.

I spent the night at another friends house.  I spent the night slapping and picking at the fleas that covered me in her house.  We didn't even sleep in the same room.  I don't know what the purpose of us having a sleep over was.  We didn't even get to stay up late.  I hate fleas.

All this time, I still had my favorite friend.

I also had something else.  I had a NEED,  a NEED to find God.  I loved going to Church.  I went with whomever I could.  I did Catholic, Baptist and a few that I have no clue, let's just call them very enthusiastic Christians. 

At one Church, I personally witnessed mass hysteria, heck, I even joined in.  I remember, I had a cast on my arm (I was soooo clumsy) and I couldn't stop sobbing.  Their father actually had to carry me to the truck from the service.  I have never experienced that again. 

God always WAS.  I knew he was there somewhere, I just needed to find him.  I needed to find that next window to step through. 

Beautiful, Bloggable Me