I stood alone on the blacktop. I had always hated recess, everyone would group off with their friends, and I would have to withdraw to my corner. I always tried to smile and appear content so that no one would think that I was strange and pity me. However, my efforts had entirely the opposite effect, as others walking by questioned my sanity in worried tones. I never could understand other people. So I just stared at the meticulously shaped hedges and counted the minutes of torture and solitude remaining. Suddenly I spotted a football soaring through the air directly at me. The culprit was Angela, of course. I saw my former best friend laughing brazenly. In other’s eyes I was nonexistent, but Angela’s grudge had not faded. I ducked, but the ball grazed my shoulder and left a pulsating impact.

•••

Angela came to my school when we were in third grade. I remember the moment I first saw her. She was a newcomer, and she stood out from the crowd. Angela was pretty and tall and everything I wished I was. She had pin straight light brown hair that barely grazed her shoulders, and her innocent-looking large eyes were the same caramel hue. Everyone was looking at her and wondering who she was. I assumed she was older than me until she was placed in my class. Julie, my best friend at the time, insisted that we go talk to her, and we did.

As we got to know Angela, I realized that something was wrong with this girl who quickly proclaimed herself the leader of our trio and made us tie and scrape the gum off her shoes. This girl who insisted we create matching Neopets accounts and play tag every day at recess. This girl who created a system where we had just three “chances,” and if we used them up, we could not be her friend anymore.

I mistakenly thought that perhaps this was what friendship was. At that time, I thirsted for companionship and acceptance and feared loneliness more than anything. So I went along with Angela’s rules and ignored the persistent feeling that this was not what I wanted in a friendship. I wanted to talk about books and a myriad of other things, but all Angela wanted to do was play tag and talk about boys. Those activities got repetitive and almost unbearable.

One day I decided to tell her that I didn’t want to be friends anymore. When I was around Angela and Julie I felt lonely, and when I was not I still felt lonely. So I told Angela that I did not want to be ordered around anymore and that I did not feel like her real friend and surprisingly added that I did not like playing tag all that much either. As expected, she didn’t take it well and told me to leave. Julie was upset. She asked if I wanted her to go with me, but I told her she should do what she wanted. My mouth said the opposite of my mind, which was begging her to leave with me. I reminded myself that Julie was a shell of her former self anyway, and she admired Angela so much.

I can still remember how she walked away, back to her chosen friend. She was the first of a long line of friends who left me. Now I wonder if I ever mattered to her as much as she did to me. I guess not.

Angela never forgave me. For the next three years she bullied me constantly. She threw things at me and called me names, but what hurt the most was the isolation. Whenever I started to make a friend or talk to anyone, she would whisk that person away to her clan. I don’t know what she said, but afterwards they gave me loathsome glares as well.

I will never forget her smirks as I stood alone at recess or in the mornings when we stood outside on the blacktop. I would stare right back into her malice-filled eyes and never let her see me as weak, but I fought back tears every second I stood in that parking lot alone and breathed a sigh of relief as we were ushered into the building.

I fell apart during those years. I loved learning and reading, but I started to hate school by the middle of fourth grade. I had to put up a brave front at school, but when I got home I would cry. At home I also felt lonely. My siblings were in middle and high school and never had time for me. They thought I was being childish and laughed when I told them my troubles. My parents had opened a convenience store and were so preoccupied that they didn’t notice I was struggling. I became really confused. I didn’t like school, but I felt isolated at home. I didn’t know where I belonged.

At a time when I felt that my world was crumbling to pieces, I started to read more. I did it to escape. I loved Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books and visualized myself on a vast open prairie, where hens roamed and wildflowers grew, starched sunbonnet in hand. I cried when I found out that my idol, Laura, had died before my mother was even born.

I would read Jane Eyre and feel Jane’s pain. I would read Little Women every year and cry when my favorite character, Beth, died. I would read books and feel connected to the heroines, unlike all of the deceitful people in my real life. Reality seemed like a horrible nightmare from which I wished I could wake up.

I realize that the circumstances then are what made me so withdrawn now. I couldn’t tell anyone my worries or they would laugh at me, so eventually I stopped talking and just read. My classmates made fun of me and called me a nerd, but when I read, I felt good.

My reading addiction led me to love academics and learning. I quickly rose to the top of my class, and I was acknowledged by my teachers at least. I gained a reputation as an intelligent girl who always seemed kind of upset. That year, I realized that my habit of smiling on the playground was only making me look crazy, so I tried to appear as blank and emotionless as possible. That conditioning is something I cannot get rid of even today.

Now, about five years later, when I am told by a doctor that I should consider taking medication, I try to think of the source of my problems. The memories of that time flash before my eyes. As I try to remember the things that I have tried so hard to forget, I realize that the impact has never gone away.

I could lie and say that everything has improved since then; I could say that I have evolved into a social butterfly, that I am surrounded by friends who I adore and who adore me. But that is not true. I am still a social pariah, I still have very few friends, and I still feel isolated.

Because of my experiences, I am reluctant to trust others. I feel like any more betrayal would destroy me. I sit in my classrooms and feel isolated, even when peers are surrounding me. I question what the meaning of a best friend is. I want to find someone who will understand me and accept me for who I am. Although I am strange and different and have felt devastated for years by my individuality, I have come to accept it. This is who I am, and there is no point in trying to change that.

Although the past has taken its toll and the impact remains, I am comfortable with who I am. The intensely clumsy, ditzy, diffident, and witty me is the only one that is real.