Those Crazy Haters!

When Becca Mayes beat me up in ninth grade, there was almost a reason for it. In that case, I actually did something inconsiderate (asked her boyfriend if it was true she was a slut (I wasn't one myself, yet, and I was sincerely and naively curious about a rumor I'd heard)).

Becca stalked me for about a week. Stood outside my classes, glaring through the tiny windows on each door. The day finally came. After homeroom, Becca, Lisa Ryan, and another girl started grabbing me, pulling me into the bathroom. All I could say was, "what about my books?" (The big pile of books in my arms, where to put them down.)

Once she had me in the stall (yes, I tried to stop them dragging me there) most of it is a blur. I remember ducking the punches. I remember the loud echos. I remember using all my strength (successfully) to stop her from flushing my head in the toilet. But, I mostly remember the ridiculously civil, even therapeutic (for her), conversation we had.

Me: "Why are you doing this, Becca?"

Her: "You called me a slut!"

Me: "I'm really sorry about that. I asked John about what I'd heard. I am really sorry!"

(Thud. Thud. Whack. Some punches grazing off my face, some landing on the stall wall behind me.)

Me: "But we were friends last year! What is so wrong that you're doing this to me now?"

The little chat (Thud. Whack. Thud!) actually moved into how unhappy she was, how she hated me for being "so perfect," and how it wasn't fair that I got my life and she got hers. I felt sorry for her as she tried to beat the shit out of me (successfully).

The other girls, the door-watchers, participated in some parts of the conversation -- I was sure the unnamed girl's sister couldn't be pregnant if she had her period, the unnamed girl was sure her sister was pregnant.

Surreal? Yes.

The only time this sort of insanity happened in my life? Nope.

The next major time I recall was Gina someone spitting... no Lori Matarazzo spitting in my face at a dance. For this exchange I have no recollection what I might have done to spur the sputum. Perhaps I again said something stupid or naive. Or, perhaps I did nothing.

No one has physically beaten my up in a lot of years. But, I'm still a magnet for people hating me. Really, seethingly hating me. Almost every time it sneaks up on me. Almost every time it hurts my feelings at first. Almost every time I do some crazy dances to try to fix whatever's wrong.

Then I remember the pattern.

It happens.

Over the years I've gotten used to it. Not in any sort of "oh poor me" martyr kind of way, but, just a sort of an "it's the cost of doing business" kind of way.

When I'm in a group setting, an advisory board, for example, my style bugs a lot of people. I don't like to dabble with what-ifs. I like to decide and do. I like concrete achievable tasks, not theories and considerations.

The best groups generally have another strong-personality/leader type to balance me out. Someone who recognizes the value of detailed planning and consideration before taking action. Almost always, though, I ruffle feathers. It's okay. I also get things done, and that's more important to me than being liked.

The last time I was in one of these messes, hooo-boy, did she hate me. Seriously hated me. I'm talking piercing stare-downs with the strength of lasers. All I could do was giggle with nerves, it was so insane. Emails like, "Did you enjoy your vacation? I sure did." It was brutal. The worst was, though, how she sucked me into insanity. She accused me of theft, of power-plays, of dishonesty, and all sorts of almost-criminal acts. I prayed like a crazy person, as I had become nuts wondering what I'd done to make her hate me so. Crying over it one night, I asked Josh why these people latch on to me. "You're outgoing, you don't hold back." That's really what it is most of the time.

A wise soul explained that particular situation this way. Some people take on leadership. Others see those leaders with bull's eyes on their chests. Just looking for that best shot. Take 'em down is their call.

My style and personality aside, there are people out there looking for targets. I can't try to become someone these sick people don't notice. It doesn't work that way.

My best spiritual guides have always told me to pray that the people who drive me most crazy, who hurt me most, that I should pray they get everything I want in my life. Simple. I pray they find peace. Remarkable what praying for them does. I usually move directly into forgiveness.

When I'm most healthy, I treat these people with respect. I consider what my role in the relationship is. I find what my part of it is, if there are things I've done that need amending. Then, I promptly ignore almost anything they say. I pray for them. I feel sorry for them. And I move on to the next thing.

It's my natural tendency to isolate. Part of why isolation soothes me so is I don't have to deal with the Haters. But I do like to make things move, so I don't stay alone for long.

Last night I was honored to speak to a large group of people about issues near and dear to me. As the words came out of my mouth I knew my positions were strongly held. I knew it was likely I was really, really pissing off some people. I also knew there would be others who would just as passionately value my message.

Dancing around trying to make people happy is one of the most miserable ways to live. I know. I used to do it all the time. Being my authentic self, my considerate and caring authentic self, I can only hold fast to the knowledge that I am well-intentioned and well-meaning. When those crazy Haters come at me, I say, "hey, what's up? I'll duck your slugs today, but go ahead and throw them if it makes you feel better."

I'm no punching bag, but, if I took everyone's opinion of me more seriously than my own self-assessment, I'd be in quite a bit of misery. Here's to doing enough good in the world, being courageous and strong enough, that I keep pissing people off.

"i can be changed by what happens to me. but i refuse to be reduced by it." -- Maya Angelou

"Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great." -- Mark Twain

Writing.

Anne Lamott really pisses me off. In fact, when I saw her Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year in the parenting section a couple years ago at the Harvard COOP, I actually gave the book the finger. Such was my resentment at some writer journaling in public about motherhood, like I could. Or, like I should.

It must be trite, it must be drivel, it must be painfully common. How presumptuous to think she had something unique and fascinating to say about parenting.

The fact that my resentment blossomed and exploded with physical force (the middle finger jammed up at the softcover book) didn't elude me. I recognize jealousy. I recognize fear: Afraid. Really, really afraid. Here was this dream and someone else was living it and how could I possibly ever do it if other people already are. I only want the path less traveled on; I won't be a sheep or a lemming.

So it required great bravery on my part last week to pick up the book, purchase it, and open the cover to read. I finished it in 36 hours which says a lot as a parent of a 4 year old.

That weekend as I read, I began feeling rumblings in my body. Discomfort. A loosening of my glue.

I turned to the wisest person I know. I turned to this four year old who has spent her life facing her fears and asked, "Sweetie? There's something I really, really want to do but I'm scared to do it. But I want to do it, but I'm scared. What should I do? How can I do this thing? How do you do it when you feel this way?"

Very seriously and with several long long seconds of contemplation, she looked at me with those ocean-deep eyes and gave me the answer. "Mommy, I listen to what my body is telling me. I might need to give myself more time with my Mommy first, but when my body tells me I'm ready, I just do it."

Later that day, lying on my back finishing up the Lamott book I spilled empathetic laughter every few minutes. With my four year old audience demanding it, I read the funniest portions out loud (meatball-like poops rolling away, slapping an infant for fear it wasn't just sleep overcoming him but rather a seizure). Most items made Maya giggle, too.

Years ago (1996 to be exact), I began writing a weekly column and posting it online. This was before I knew the term "blogging," and certainly the activity of blogging hadn't reached the masses. My self-imposed deadlines kicked my ass, really. I took them so seriously. I remember many a Wednesday evening sweating and twisted at the computer screen researching "What in the hell is going on with the Hutu and the Tutsis?" Or simply commenting on my latest self-revelation that I somehow imagined might interest someone.

For the past year, I've known an intense magnetic pull bringing me back to writing personal essays. I left them when I became suddenly embarrassed at how self-obsessed I knew I seemed to some.

I've found the courage to begin reading these kinds of things again, Anna Quindlen, Barbara Kingsolver, (and of course that beastly and fabulous Anne Lamott), most recently. In their words I've found not only camaraderie but also inspiration. Much of why I drink their words with such abandon are the feelings I get of a Shared Experience. As I approach my own writing, I feel a permission to address the day-to-day.

Each essayist has a unique voice and experience, no matter how common the theme. Knowing I can say "what's already been said" and have it still be new and unique simply because it comes from me frees me from the sheep and lemmings fear. Any path I choose will be less traveled because the path belongs to me.

I'm falling apart from the inside out. I'm unhinged, unglued, and frighteningly free floating. My writing days return like a herd of buffalo. Knowing I seem just fine, perhaps a little tired, but as if I'm a functioning member of our simple world, well, that's just craziness at it's strangest. How these feelings can be mauling my insides while I stroll through the pumpkin field with my darling daughter and my dreamy husband? I know it's all because the writing is coming.

I know it because my body says I'm ready.