High school was a bit weird for me as I operated somewhat on the fringes. Not outside but not in, either. I didn’t play sports and I wasn’t a cheerleader. I didn’t play in the band or perform in the school plays. I didn’t run for student council or run with the wrong crowd. Smart enough to get decent grades, but not driven enough to get good ones, I graduated more toward the top of my class than the bottom, but not close enough to stand out.

Maybe it’s more accurate to say I lived in the spaces between all the groups. Not really belonging to any particular clique, most of the people I hung around with were in the same boat, and we sort of developed our own little band of misfits. Not the Breakfast-Club-Allison-Reynolds-/-Ally-Sheedy-Captain-Crunch-Pixie-Dust-Sandwich kind of weird, but still not exactly not weird, you know? So much so, that my best friend at the time announced in 7th grade, that she was trying to get in with the “in crowd” and if that happened, she would have to leave me behind. That never happened, and she never did, but we grew apart after high school anyway.

Despite the separation, there was also a bit of crossover. My aunt was married to the Class President’s older brother, so I know her fairly well. My late husband, A, had been on the football team, so the athletes were friendly enough after we started dating. I was the scorekeeper for the soccer team, Copy Editor of our yearbook, and in the high school chorus, so there was a cross-section of individuals who I talked to. And because I grew up in a small town, there were a lot of people I graduated with whom I had known since kindergarten. But still I felt that I was in my own category.

And because I have imposter syndrome and my self-esteem has never been great, living in the “in-between” always made me feel as though I wasn’t really liked by many (aka any) people. Self-criticism is really hard to overcome because who are you with 24/7?? Yourself! My inner voice is brutal, and my closest family and friends will tell you that I am my own worst critic. I have gotten a bit better since high school. Somewhat better, marginally better, but I’m still a work in progress.

In any case, all of these emotions and fears and, apparently, misconceptions came to the forefront this past weekend when I attended my 40th high school reunion. I convinced S to join me so I’d have an anchor. (“Convinced” is somewhat exaggerated, as whenever I ask him to do something, he literally says “whatever you want”. He’s sort of like my personal genie in that if I ask, he will do, and we’re both fortunate that I’m not that person because he would be tired and broke, and I would be spoiled if I asked for everything I ever wanted!)

S and I “pre-gamed” at an American Legion down the street with a group of friends and their spouses, one of whom is my cousin. So we both got a warm-up to the actual event (and some liquid courage for me). When we walked into the venue, I was greeted with a name tag and a big hug from that Class President I mentioned earlier. That hug would turn out to be the first of many that evening from so many different people. As the evening wore on, I spoke to and received hugs from individuals I wasn’t even sure knew my name in high school. People whom I was intimidated by back then seemed genuinely happy to talk to me, and I to them! In my head, I had built up these scenarios whereby all the little moments in high school that seemed really significant at the time were still meaningful.

It’s likely that no one but me remembers the “slam book” a classmate made about me and shared with the 8th grade English class. Or the time that an older boy literally mooed as I walked by with a friend (and which I had learned much later by A – who had been sitting with his teammates before football practice – wasn’t about me at all). Or the time that one of the popular girls passed me a note in 10th grade science class and I heard whispers and giggles, so it literally took me half of class to get up the courage to read it. When I did, it said “Tie your sweater around your waist and go to the girls’ room.” Turns out that I had something on the back of my pants, and she was only doing me a solid. I was still so mortified that I didn’t take her advice until the bell rang at the end of class because I didn’t want 25 pairs of eyes watching me walk out of the room in the middle of it.

The point is, all of those memories – and others like them – take up too much space in my brain. I stress and I worry and often still believe I’m unliked and unlikeable.

The day after the reunion, S and I traveled home. While sitting in our living room, I thanked him again for joining me on the trip. He brushed it off, then commented on how many people made it a point to talk to me, and said for probably the hundredth time how nice I had looked the night before. I told him that I had really enjoyed myself, but was a little bummed by the photos. Although I had felt good in the outfit I’d worn, seeing the pictures made me start moaning about how much weight I’d gained since high school.

Having recently lost a bit of weight, I had been feeling better about myself, but seeing everything in black and white (or rather black and red, the color of my dress) just made me realize how far I still “have to” go. S told me he didn’t want to hear it. He said all the right things about how he sees me, and how others see me, and he didn’t want anyone talking poorly about his wife… even if the person doing it is his wife!

He instructed me to put my hands on my hips and say “I look great!” I tried cheating by saying “I feel better” but he wouldn’t allow it. I tried to soften it a bit and say “I looked great” at the reunion (which was still extremely difficult for me), but he didn’t approve of the distinction. I truly struggled to say something nice about myself because I don’t believe I deserve to feel good about myself. (Told you my inner voice is brutal.)

He went on to ask me which one of us looks at me more, and I had to admit it was him (because I don’t really care for mirrors and hardly ever really look at myself in one). Then he asked “so who knows better what you look like?” Eventually, with tears in my eyes, I stood tall, hands on my hips and said “I. Look. Great.” and then fought to keep more tears and the negative thoughts at bay.

It’s burdensome to constantly be at war with one’s own irrational thoughts, and I’ve been called a lunatic on more than one occasion for their ongoing influence in my life. It’s difficult to think positively when I’m also the one who is trying to focus on the negative. So there was one major lesson about the weekend that I am going to work on.

People seem to see me differently than I see myself, and they usually see me in a more positive light. I need to start seeing it, too. I need to speak as nicely to myself as I do to others, especially since I’m the voice I hear most often. I have a husband who supports me and is working hard to make sure that I start to see myself more as others do, but he also loves me as I am and doesn’t care one iota if it changed.

I need to stop thinking that I am lacking in any way… that those who love me, do so without reservations and without conditions. My worth is not tied to my appearance, or what I can give to or do for someone else. I need to stop thinking of myself as a lunatic living on the fringes of society and embrace the fact that I am a unique individual who has an entire village supporting me. And to stop caring about those who don’t because the good outweighs the bad in my life.

And maybe in another five years when the next reunion rolls around, I just might believe it.

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