One thing that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about is why I am the way I am.
For a long time, I believed that I knew the answer. See, I was seriously abused back in my school days. My family moved when I was in fifth grade, and from that point on, I was the class reject. I don’t want to dwell on the stuff I went through – but it was awful. I was physically beaten, and emotionally isolated and tormented. It’s fair to say that from the time we moved until the time I graduated high school, every single time that I thought I’d made a friend, they’d turn on me.
It seems like that’s the answer. Those horrible things happened to me, and as a result, I’ve got this fear, this expectation that people will betray me.
It doesn’t really seem to make sense.
I graduated high school and went to college. And in college, I made friends. It wasn’t necessarily easy, but it wasn’t anything close to traumatic either. I went on to grad school, and made friends. It was harder than it was in college, but still, nothing close to the crippling trouble I have now.
After I graduated, and started working, that’s when the serious isolation started. Not immediately – but over time, it got progressively worse.
So how can I really say that it’s high school that did it? It didn’t stop me from being social in college, so why would it now? But if that’s not the reason, then why?
Is there a reason? Does asking why even make sense? It seems like it must! There has to be something, some reason, some cause. I can’t believe that there isn’t a reason. And yet, I also can’t make sense out of reasons. The reasons that make sense don’t seem to be connected to the times when things really changed.