"It was a note scribbled on an intentionally crumpled piece of paper. No purchased card could have captured the essence of that note, or of the crumpled course my life must take."
Ninth Grade
Through the years I began to observe the mannerisms and personalities around me with fascination, watching conflicts with casual objectivity as rivals floundered in their own short-sightedness. I watched also, as people mocked the less fortunate, who unknowingly attracted such treatment like a magnet through their own erring behavior or ungainly actions. Some people were simply difficult to abide; often those individuals did not even realize their high "avoidance factor" despite continual, and sometimes abrasive, repulsion. I observed the tensions between parents and children as the latter reached the restless age of rebellion and need for individual freedom. I could understand both sides of many arguments or confrontations, and often empathized with each opinion.
Through surveying the world from a distance, I learned invaluable lessons. I hoarded reactions to various personalities and situations and studied them intently in retrospect. In gathering such information as human responses, I began to realize why I disliked certain people and ways of life, whereas previously, I had merely felt inexplainable disgust or anger. More than anything, I learned that people generally did what they wished to do, barring few exceptions, and true kindness was a rare commodity. That which I saw was real; it was not an impressionistic ideal of life, for personal interaction could bring dejection as well as elation. Far from being cynical, I came to believe one was his own best friend. I remember that I began to feel sorry for Todd. He seemed lonely, separated by a societal barrier which was invisible to him. Unaware of the reason for this unseen yet impenetrable wall, Todd sought to find suitable ways around it, which consequently resulted in forming my most pungent memory of my oldest brother through its emotional impact on me. Although I was yet in grade school, the incident was unforgettable, and forever marked my heart.
It was a blustery winter evening when Norm and his friend were preparing to depart for his house. With an air of determination, Todd informed them, "You're not getting away from me this time," and set about dressing himself to meet the harsh winter chill. Meanwhile, tired of waiting, the two dismissed the scene for their destination as Todd continued to dress.
Once fitted for the elements, clad in his orange snow-suit and boots, he trudged up the silent, snow-blanketed avenue as I watched through the kitchen window. Before reaching the house, he stopped and resolutely turned toward home, not desiring to undergo further pursuit. I felt my heart break for him as my eyes welled up with tears. How lonely the world could be! I decided in an instant to meet him at the door, clothed in my winter coat.
Together we took a long walk in the snow, heading down a wooded path to the quiet street below. We spoke of many things, gently laying the foundation for a night that I would never forget. I believe our stroll, although spurred through loneliness, was the most relaxing interlude I have ever shared with Todd.
As time progressed, the gap between our personalities widened. When engaged in a serious conversation, I found the time thus spent to be exhilarating, for Todd's intelligence was of great merit; it was increasingly difficult, however, for me to accompany him to various functions as I failed to understand the reasoning which prompted some of his actions and behavior. Desiring to blend with the crowd rather than direct its attention, I was flushed with embarrassment at any mannerism which was apart from the ordinary spectrum of social conduct as I saw it to be.
Everyone views life through his own eyes, and although the ideas of individuals coincide at various points, it is virtually impossible to assume that which is "right" for someone else at a given point in time. This was another area in which Todd and I differed considerably, yet here I was able to comprehend the motive behind his good intentions. Because Todd declined invitations to attend outings early in life, he later found he was no longer asked to join in a group's activities. As a result, he eventually forced himself to become involved in multiple organizations thereby making up for those he had missed; he evidently enjoyed the bustle of activity which the groups provided, and was soon absent from the house nearly every night.
When Todd saw I was declining offers to attend parties or dances, he thought I was following similar actions which had introduced alienation into his life, and I would one day discover that I was not only alone, but lonely.
Mar. 23, 1977… (A boy) called and asked if I could go to the dance at his school. When I called him back, he was really discouraged and mad that I didn't want to go. But, man, he's so gross! Never ever combs his hair. How sick. Todd really lectured me on how I should go 'cuz he didn't when he was my age, but I can't relive his life! He makes me mad sometimes.
He pressured me to accept these invitations despite my reasons for desiring to stay at home. Consequently, it made me become leary to divulge any plans to him for fear I would find myself in a situation that I detested; his arguments were fierce and unyielding, and I sought to avoid them whenever I could. Moreover, I wanted to form my own decisions and began to resent such stubborn, relentless interference. I believe it is better to "let be" than to stray beyond one's bounds into the gray and scarred battle ground where individual decisions are waged and won; it is prudent to counsel, but never so to force.
Todd was unbelievably innovative. He could construct posters and cards having multiple moving parts without losing any degree of his meticulous patience. The quality of perseverance was a further boon to his imaginative efforts, and he created countless fascinating objects dating back to my earliest memories. I received a greeting from Todd during my long stay at Mayo. It was a note scribbled on an intentionally crumpled piece of paper. No purchased card could have captured the essence of that note, or of the crumpled course my life must take. Todd always had time to take a walk or to play a game. He never forgot a birthday… with gifts he was equally creative. One birthday I received a huge balloon (a factory reject) which was a source of awe and amazement for us all. We filled it with the exhaust end of the vacuum cleaner since no one had lungs with the capacity for inflating that monstrous thing. Another year, short of funds but long on loving thoughts, he collected a wide sampling of floral and tree seed pods. For me, that meant endless possibilities in creating.
Toward the end of 9th grade, I had gained a fair amount of confidence. I was amazed to note the way in which the improvements in my health and appearance affected my self-worth; I no longer felt like a helpless child clinging to my mother's skirt or father's pants leg for protective solace. I was less reserved, feeling that my opinions were just as valuable as those of others, and decisions, though sometimes tempered by my parents, belonged to me. Life was not merely passing by; I possessed both the ability and the will to actively pursue the means toward a hopeful end. The variables along the way would affect the resulting success or failure, but that, I knew, was simply a part of life's uncertainty.
Academically I improved as my physical strength increased. In reflection, it was obvious that my tutor had not over-taxed my capabilities during the previous year; I was grateful that she had not, for the nature of my illness was such that I was forever unsure of the state of my health. Upon my reappearance at school the extra effort required for 9th grade curriculum initially demanded more of my time and mental exertion; when I finally redeveloped my listening, comprehension and study techniques, however, I felt less hampered by the work load.
In addition to the basics, I was able to take a course in woodworking. Happily, I was not the only girl to have fostered such a "sexually uncharacteristic" whim, and the two of us felt less ridiculous seated among our masculine counterparts, knowing our endeavor was not entirely foreign to the minds of other females. My apprehension was unfounded, I discovered, for in time I saw that my work exceeded that of many of my classmates; I was more particular, concerned with the appearance of the finished product and willing to direct effort toward the perfect, rather than haphazard, completion of a project. Moreover, I had a natural love of wood and wished to acquire certain skills therewith, reasoning that one day I would rebuild or at least refinish antique pieces for my own home. I was no advocate of women's liberation; I simply found interest in many activities and subjects. I had to prove nothing to anyone but myself.
After finishing a class project to my satisfaction, I began earnestly on a project of my own design. That which I determined to make was a cedar chest, and looked on excitedly as the instructor pulled a stack of cedar boards from the storage closet and placed them on one of the work tables. The first course of action, he said, was to glue the smaller boards together, after which the uneven width would be surgically altered in the planer. I noticed several imperfections (worm-eaten tunnels) in certain boards, but the teacher was unmoved. "Those can be filled with wood filler," he replied, walking off. I gazed after him doubtfully wondering how I could trust a man who, in one hour, had to coach his 25 students through their 25 different projects. Nevertheless, I started my work, trying to envision a lidded box in the stack of wood which had probably been intended for a bonfire.
Meanwhile, other school-related activities gathered momentum as the academic year drew ever closer to its end. As one of the art editors for the yearbook, I was instructed to design several covers for possible use. My effort resulted in developing four options ranging, in my opinion, from "nearly philosophical" to "cute"; I placed my endeavors on the desk of the teacher whose spare time was choked with yearbook duties. My designs would not necessarily appear on the yearbook cover, but I was satisfied that I had succeeded in creating original ideas.
Mar. 31, 1977… We had a band concert in the aud. and during the middle, Mr. C. got up and read off the nominee for HALL OF FAME and I was one of 'em! (A friend of mine) wasn't tho, and she didn't even congratulate me.
April 20, 1977… I was nominated for American Legion! I didn't really know 'til homeroom, when we were to vote on it!! (I voted for me!!) There were 5 boys and 5 girls altogether.
Mr. Cox took a photograph of me for the special American Legion section of the yearbook so that my grotesque photo, taken when I still had no hair, would not, at least, appear in the separate section. I was relieved and quite thankful to my understanding instructor.
April 21, 1977… Mr. C. said my design would be used for the cover of the yearbook!!
Perhaps all of the previous events were too much for me; I was suddenly ill with migraine headaches in a manner which I had never before encountered.
April 26, 1977… Got a migraine headache at 5th period. Didn't go home though. Called Dad when school let out, but there was no answer, so I had to walk home. It was hard, but I made it.
April 27, 1977… At 2nd period I got another migraine. It took a half hour to get Dad 'cuz he was outside. Finally I got home. I felt bad!!
April 28, 1977… You won't believe this! I didn't! Well, I got another migraine today right after lunch. Dad got me again. Slept most all day.
After three days of head-wrenching, I decided to play it safe and recuperate at home. I found I became paranoid concerning the multiple headaches, and feared that my worry would result in more pain.
A week later.
May 5, 1977… Got a migraine AGAIN!!!!!… Dad got a prescription for me and it said to take two capsules, so I did and a half hour later, I got all numb…
How well I recall that incident. I was seated at my place at the dinner table after having swallowed (miraculously) the pills, when I suddenly was immersed in a bath of incredible, yet unfounded hilarity. I began to snicker, then burst into a cascade of inexplicable laughter. My family looked up from their plates and, because of humor's rather contagious nature, broke into bewildered smiles and tried to detect the source of my behavior. "Really…" I replied, "I don't know why I'm laughing…" Then, just as rapidly as it had begun, the laughter ceased and I was convulsed in a fit of tears. It was embarrassing to me for I had no control over my emotions, and agitated, I fled from the room. At length I was able to quench my strange and unbidden tears while Dad sat beside me with a worried look on his face.
Afterward I marveled at a drug's ability to produce such startling effects, yet I was equally startled by the fact that some people knowingly swallowed pills to acquire mind-altered states of being. Such was not my goal in life; self-control meant too much to my inner presence to eradicate reality.
A week and a half later I had another migraine. It was full-blown; I even had to vomit. I didn't, however, take another pill. Lack of control was much worse than the presence of pain.
May 18, 1977… School. I got a trophy for doing the Vision cover and also a certificate for (submitting) "A Friend" in "Accent on Ink." Great!!
June 1, 1977… The 9th graders got yearbooks today. Everyone liked 'em… Dad got me and helped me take my cedar chest home.
June 2, 1977… Last full day!! We signed yearbooks all day.
The last day of school was always fun. It was a time for reflection and reliving past events, and while in the midst of such activity, one classmate turned to me and casually asked, "Laurie, you had cancer, didn't you?" "Yes," I replied, and briefly related that which had occurred to me, including my loss of hair. At one point in the conversation, I noticed the teacher staring widely at me, as if in disbelief. "You look healthy now," his face seemed to say. After the conversation turned to a different subject, the teacher sat down on my desk and asked more details of my experience. Suddenly, he began lamenting his marital difficulties and personal problems. It was my turn to listen in disbelief; it seemed odd to be selected as a teacher's confidant. Although aside from teacher and student we were both human beings, I did not feel comfortable with the conversation. I tried to react as an unsurprised, objective listener; perhaps having been subjected to pain, he felt comfortable and rather compelled to tell me of his own. It was something I never forgot, nor did I encounter such circumstances again.
The end had come of what, at first, had been an emotionally draining year. I had experienced much kindness and cruelty, pleasure and pain, yet I persevered through all the trials and returned all of the smiles… and at last, the positive outweighed the negative.
As I left the hallways of the junior high school which had, only three years before, appeared a massive array of corridors, I welcomed summer with customary gladness and reveled in the freedom that greeted my steps. My exit was not saluted with lengthy accomplishments or popular admiration, and that did not mar my happiness; I cared neither for applause nor popularity. I knew, however, that I had done my best and touched several lives; making an indelible impression on someone's mind was indeed the highest of compliments that I could have merited.
Directions
Directions are disturbing,At least they are to me,How anyone ever follows themIs more than I can see.
They say to take notch "B"And slide it into "F"Or else to take the "right" sideAnd fold it to the "left."
Then in opening a band-aidThey say to pull a string,Well I could pull and pull and pull all dayAnd never reach the thing.
And say you want some Pringles,Preferably for Brunch,But you couldn't get them openUntil it's time for lunch!
Directions are a problem,(I think to everyone),And it's comforting to knowI'm not the only one!
Lauren Isaacson 9th Grade
"I felt as if my heart would burst, for never had I experienced such profound closeness with nature. . . My sense of reality had heightened and every inch of my body was alive with incomparable sensations."
Summer 1977
The middle of June was slated as the beginning of our summer vacation, and on the 15th, we departed for Colorado. It was a grand trip, for Dad had promised an extensive vacation following the debilitating chemotherapy treatments, and told me that we would go anywhere I wished. My choice was not a difficult one; I had always loved the west and desired to see both "old sights" and new. The resulting journey made its first stop in the Colorado Rocky Mountains, but since we had been to the area numerous times, we did not tarry long; the day after hiking up a small hill and splashing barefoot in an icy mountain stream, we drove along Trail Ridge Road and headed north to the Tetons and Yellowstone National Park.
Yellowstone was a source of much fascination, yet prior to our arrival at the park itself, a short ramble in the roadside brush (for the purpose of taking a better scenic photograph) led to the discovery of an entire moose carcass. I quickly hoisted the head into the air, and positioned it before my own, whereupon my mom excitedly captured my lack of respect for the dead on film. Unable to relinquish my antlered scull, my parents agreed to stow it in the trunk. The weathered skull had been callously separated from its body without last rites or a solitary tear, but, driving from the area, I did not really think the moose would mind.
The next day, after scouting past numerous bubbling geysers, I bought a moose charm in a souvenir shop. I wished to commemorate my find of the previous day (and perhaps, subconsciously placate the moose's spirit if it had suffered any ill-will toward my action). We also decided to eat lunch at that time since the restaurant was in close proximity to the renowned "Old Faithful," and being so close, had ample time to finish our food before it again blew its steam skyward. Lunch arrived soon following our order, yet time began to drift away as Mom delved into her mountainous chef's salad. It was obvious that we would miss the eruption of Old Faithful if direct action was not taken; Dad and I said "good-bye" to Mom and dashed on to the extensive patio where other visitors were gathering. Eyes were riveted on the strangely steaming mound; a few men checked their wrist-watches, as if doubtful of the geyser's punctuality. No one was disappointed. Exactly one hour after its last appearance, a mad bubbling issued from the previously silent pit and multiplied its violent surges until frothing liquid shot into the sky. People oohed and ahhed and pointed fingers. Cameras clicked furiously.
When the show was over, the crowd disbursed and Dad and I returned to the restaurant to fetch Mom. Fifteen minutes had elapsed; she would probably be waiting at an empty table, nursing her glass of water to alleviate boredom and nervousness. We turned into the restaurant and couldn't believe our eyes. There was Mom, still poised over a fair amount of salad, eating diligently; "the salad wouldn't leave," I thought. At least she wasn't bored during our absence.
Mom eventually finished her salad and we resumed our sightseeing. Yellowstone Park was an intermingling of beauty and oddity, and as a result I used a fair amount of film. The animals, though wild, were close at hand and I was able to see buffalo and elk to my fulfillment. After two days we left the park and headed into Montana and Washington, stopping to see the Grand Coulee Dam for my dad's benefit. I was not impressed and did not care to linger over the massive system of water retention, yet the trip was not entirely my own and I therefore tried to suppress my disinterest.
The following day proved more to my liking as we once again headed into a park. I had never before seen Mt. Rainier and was truly awed to view the spectacle created by the superior snow-capped mountain. Though surrounded by other mountains and lushly forested valleys, Mt. Rainier dominated one's attention like a bejeweled lady among serfs.
June 23, 1977… Went into Rainier. At this one place this jay would come down and take a peanut out of Dad's hand (in mid-air). Went to Paradise (visitor center) and hiked up near Mt. Rainier. I never felt so good in my life. Had to walk through snow in around 3-5 places. It was real neat.
The day was the highlight of the entire vacation. Separating myself from my parents, I sped up the trail, spurred onward through a boundless source of energy and excitement. I felt as if my heart would burst, for never had I experienced such a profound closeness with nature. I enjoyed the beauty, but basked in the ecstasy which swelled from within. My sense of reality had heightened and every inch of my body was alive with incomparable sensations. I listened to the world, to the breeze tossing the fragrant pine; I absorbed every detail and mourned the journey's end, whereupon the noise and clutter of civilization would scour away the feeling which I so desired to prolong. Seldom was I entranced by emotion; I slowed my pace and then stopped to breathe a final breath of tranquility before surrendering my blissful state of mind to the realm of the ordinary.
Retracing my steps, I eventually met Mom and Dad ascending toward the direction I had climbed. "There's quite a bit of snow up there," I told them. Sporting only tennis shoes and sweaters, they quickly re-routed their steps and chose a down-hill trek; they had exercised enough for one day anyway. The three of us ambled down the mountain-side, stopping once for a snowball fight which could not be resisted. It was amazing how rapidly one's mental state changed with the introduction of various sensations or the presence of other people. My previous feeling was now only a memory, firmly implanted, yet miles from my grasp. It was a gem, secure in my mind, and I knew that I was somehow wealthier than I had been.
Two days after Mt. Rainier, we were driving down the Oregon coastline. At several intervals we stopped so I could test the breakwater beneath my bare feet. The shore was beautiful, despite the gray clouds and ocean mist that eventually obscured the farthest cliffs from view. I seemed to be walking in a colorless world where all things grew only darker or lighter shades of silver gray. The water was icy and forbade me enter; even the foam which rushed up the sand to enrobe my toes was too frigid to withstand, and sent me sprinting from the constant waves to higher ground.
The following day we continued through Oregon to Crater Lake, a magnificent sapphire body of water which left my eyes agape; then, between destinations, we met a trucker who took us on one of his lumber runs. As we mosied down the long state of California, we toured a lumber company and then were awed by the magnificent stands of Sequoia Redwood trees which soared above all else with an aura of statuesque grandeur. The giants were some of the oldest living things on earth, and it seemed incredible and obscene that anyone should desire to cut them down for timber. Compared to the trees, my life seemed a mockery, a dwarfed and highly insignificant thing. All did not depreciate with age.
Our stay in Santa Monica encompassed eight nights and as many days, as we enjoyed a variety of sights. We stayed with relatives who knew the area quite well and therefore provided a guided tour through some of the attractions, including Universal Studios, Huntington Gardens, Will Roger's Ranch, and shopping mall, and of course, Disneyland. No trip to the west coast would be complete without a jaunt to the latter amusement park and we made ours an all-day affair. On our own we traveled to another amusement park, Magic Mountain, which boasted a vast array of rides better suited to my suicidal whims. At the day's end, my dad and I had been whipped, jolted, plunged, riveted and lost as many stomachs as cats have lives to have satisfied my boldest cravings for at least a month. Mom, as usual, was most content to sit and watch. Had she indulged in some of the wilder rides, I fear she would have at best, suffered from acute hoarseness and at worst, been carried from the park on a stretcher.
Leaving California, we stopped at one of their famous "Date Farms" and to my utter disappointment, saw no date trees. At least the place did not charge admission or try to plaster a revolting bumper sticker on the car while shopping within the "supermarket."
Skirting the southern route through Arizona on our way home, I discovered the meaning of "hot" when referring to weather. At 112 degrees I was extremely pleased that we had an air-conditioned car; ventures into the sunshine were like tiptoeing through a blast furnace. Sweat dried on the face, forming a sticky glaze with the dust floating on the hot air currents. I would not have been surprised to see spit dry before hitting the ground.
Two days into the blistering heat we stopped at White Sands National Monument. The sand was so blindingly white that attempts to gaze at the drifts without sun-glasses were hopeless endeavors. On that particular day I was unable to walk bare-foot on the fine sand due to its scorching heat, and we finally decided to duck into the visitor center before shriveling into sun-ripened prunes.
The trip was nearing its end, and I looked forward to sleeping in my own bed and investigating my mail. Even restaurant food lacked its excitement as the days progressed, which was a definite sign that I had turned my thoughts toward home. There was one notable exception, however.
July 11, 1977… Stayed at a real neat motel… and ate at its restaurant. Swam for an hour and half. After awhile, I started talking to a guy in the pool with me. After awhile we saw a drunk guy! It was funny. Then he asked if I wanted something cold to drink (an RC COLA). We talked awhile after and Mom made me come up finally. (a sad face) He was from Dallas, TX.
The evening was memorable for my mom also, who, for a short time observed our conversation at a pleasant distance. Since I had removed my contacts for fear of losing them in the swimming pool, my vision was rendered useless with regard to recognizing faces and perceiving detail at distances greater than one foot. Therefore, when my "friend" excused himself from the area, I sought my mom's visual acuteness and asked cautiously, "Mom. . . what's he look like?" I was relieved to discover that she found the guy attractive, and settled into a pool-side chair as Mom retired to the room, noticeably humored by my inquiry.
Such brief encounters augment confidence, for therein one is able to discover his attractiveness to the opposite sex. Ours was the type of interaction which was fleetingly romantic, yet bereft of expectations; each of us knew the conversation would last no more than several hours and end with a smile and a reluctant farewell. I believe the intrinsic briefness created the comfortable atmosphere, for when one knows he shall never see someone again, he leaves behind the fear of peer groups and personality changes which often accompany a better knowledge of the other.
The next morning when I recalled the previous evening, I realized with horror that if I saw the boy, I would not recognize him and hoped for a clean escape from the motel. To my relief, I saw no one who remotely resembled a male teenager, and dismissed myself having only faceless memories of a pool-side conversation and a cool RC Cola.
The family vacation was over after four weeks, and we were all glad to be home. The trip was fun, yet it served to strengthen the heart strings attached to our oak trees and modest house, and though familiarity of itself was not love, it certainly did not subtract from love's essence.
The remainder of the summer was spent in an easy, enjoyable manner. I whiled away the hours on my bicycle or indulged in one of my crafts; I met with friends from school, and stayed at my sister's house for one week. Junior High School was a memory, pasted between the pages of a scrapbook. Even my unfinished cedar chest had, by summer's end, found its way into the garage attic.
The last days of freedom melted under the hot August sun, and I began to wonder how three months could have escaped so soon. I once again traveled to Mayo Clinic and returned with good spirits. The latter part of the same week Todd moved to a distant Illinois town to accept a position as a woodworking teacher for ninth grade students. The wheel of change had begun to turn, and "home" meant three people instead of four.
Tenth Grade
There were no miraculous suggestions, books, pills or other devices which could have properly prepared me for the onset of growing pains. My High School years, more than any other time in my life, proved to be the toughest emotional battleground. As I grew physically, mentally and socially, my emotions were constantly fluctuating, eventually creating a finely-honed, razor-sharp edge on which all interaction was carved into a deep and memorable impression in my mind.
Tenth grade came as somewhat of a shock. It reminded me of the terrors of seventh grade, for I had a different locker, an entirely foreign building and a new and larger mass of faces to which I was supposed to become accustomed. The lunch room appeared enormous to my nervous stomach, and among the flood of students pressed before the snack counter, I considered myself lucky to have made it to the front to order. Once I had my lunch, usually a long john and orange drink, in my possession, I turned reluctantly to search in desperation for a familiar face with whom I could sit and more pleasantly pass the time. If I saw no one, I would find a seat apart from the various congregations and open a book as if trying to read. While I ingested my donuts the words danced meaninglessly across the page beneath my unseeing eyes; insecurity prevented me from attempting to seek my acquaintances just as pride demanded that my attention be riveted to a book.
The classes were not as distressing as lunch time, with the possible exception of physical education, since they were governed by one's teachers rather than oneself and generally did not reflect complete anarchy. I was much more relaxed in a routine setting wherein nothing was left to chance; I had no anxiety toward finding a seat, since one's initial choice usually lasted the entire semester, nor was conversation a worry because it was not permitted after the beginning of class anyway, and if I failed to unearth rare gems of humor, silence did not endure so far as to become embarrassing.
I disliked negative attention and therefore often neglected to raise my hand during class discussions. Of course, if the truth shall be made known, I so despised directing another's gaze, that virtually any attention was, from my point of view, "negative." Therefore, if I raised my hand, I wished to be certain my statement was correct and sometimes went as far as writing my answer on paper so that I would not stumble on my own tongue, as was my habit in a stressful situation. Another habit, however, sometimes impeded my valiant intentions. That, by name, was day-dreaming. Having an innate stubbornness within me, I would foster ill-will toward subjects which, despite my greatest effort, I failed to grasp; enter, day-dreaming. Such was the case with an "Honors English" class which I made the mistake of accepting. The class was basically the duplicate of "regular" tenth grade English but wielded a decidedly tougher grading scale and a faster pace. Only one of the three teachers who taught the over-sized class had sensible expectations of the students and a personality which reflected no favoritism among her subjects; unfortunately, I was lucky enough to study under her guidance only the last semester. The first semester I fell under the instruction of one of the other women; she was single, opinionated and sharp-tongued, and had the habit of dissecting the least complicated story into shreds of symbolism and hidden meaning which would have amused the authors to no end had they been alive to contest her brave statements. The teacher had no room for differing opinions; the only way to succeed on tests was to regurgitate that which she had proclaimed as having relevancy or truth. Reflecting on her marital status, I quickly understood.
Seated in English class one day, I found myself lured from the discussion momentarily to exercise some uninvited thought. When I returned my awareness to the classroom the teacher was looking around the room for a volunteer to answer her last question. I decided to raise my arm to reply, and she nodded that I should speak. After giving my answer, the teacher studied me indifferently and remarked, "That answer has already been given." I shifted uneasily in my chair, deciding to follow the lesson more closely. Several questions later, another multiple-answer question was presented to the class. Hands went up around the room and answers rushed into the teacher's ears. A favorite student raised her hand to offer a reply, and when bidden to speak, her answer was a virtual carbon copy of the previous speaker's. The instructor smiled at her pleasantly. "That answer has already been mentioned, however, since it is of such consequence, I'm glad you repeated it." I stared in disbelief and knew that I had no hope of winning under conditions as deplorable as those I had just witnessed.
With the initiation into high school, I decided to attempt a routine as near to normal as my system would allow. The last thing I desired was a complication which would separate me from other students, so I elected to store cookies in my locker to provide the extra energy I sometimes required to alleviate an infuriated stomach or an aching head between meals. I tried to forego my snacks entirely, but decided my action was unwise after repeated and quite audible rumblings of ignored hunger pangs during class. Because the consumption of my snack would occasionally swallow an extra minute of my time, I procured a note from the school administrator that officially excused a late entry into class. I rarely needed the note, and the teachers knew I was not the type to abuse such a privilege; the system worked very well.
I felt more "normal" physically than I had for many months, and decided that I should try to negotiate a hated physical education class even though I would not have had to do so given my health history. Although it was tempting to avoid the issue altogether by procuring a medical excuse from my doctor, I did not wish to invite failure through cowardice on my behalf. Too often I watched people use health problems to buffer a difficult situation or create an unwarranted advantage when in actuality, their only lameness was the excuse which formed on their lips.
My progress in physical education depended to a large extent on the progress made by my stomach to digest its food. If it decided to cooperate, my activity was in no way impeded. However, because of its irregularity, such cooperation was markedly infrequent and I would often find myself uncomfortably nauseous; as the sports grew more demanding, I knew that the class was not going to be acceptable. I was of no value to the team if staving off the urge to vomit, and the teachers disbelieved my need to sit quietly on the side lines. "You look fine to me," their appraisal seemed to say. I almost wished my stomach would yield to its sickness and give the doubting teachers an eyeful to cure them of their disbelief. Eventually I asked my doctor to write a medical excuse for me which served to place me in the library for "study hall"; this arrangement pleased me for I was then free to study, read, or dream as dictated by my mood. Physical activity was pursued at home during periods of good health; this was no awkward adjustment since I desired to maintain my fitness, and when I felt well, I did not spend time slumped sluggishly in a chair. Seated in the library, I reflected gratefully that I had not taken any drastic measures before securing the written excuse; I also knew that, since I was no tyrant, I probably could not have given such a gruesome display even if it had been a foremost desire.
"I was always reminded of a tea kettle filled with boiling water which had to let off steam or explode; had I been unable to "blow-it-out," my emotions would have strained violently against my being, and while a shattered teapot could be replaced, sanity was less easily restored."
Eleventh Grade
Adolescence is an explosive age wherein change is an intrinsic factor. One begins to weigh the significance of specific values in an attempt to discover which values shall be given foremost importance in life. There are numerous trials and errors, and many lessons are learned through failure or fear. An elder's words of wisdom are not always sufficient to curb the pangs of rebellion; the youth wishes to use his own mind to dictate that which he shall experience rather than to live through the vision of greater knowledge.
With the onset of 11th grade, I had gained enough confidence to pursue my version of parental rebellion which, compared to my characteristic desire to please and meld, baffled and then concerned my mom and dad. Disputes generally centered on minor details such as curfew, yet progressed to include whose company I could keep and which events I could attend. For the first time in my life, I was trying to make my conflicting views heard. This measure only created misery on all fronts, however, because my father did not welcome variances of opinion. I never yelled in my efforts to illustrate my views, for that would have proven disastrous; but despite my steady-voiced assertions, conversation became more difficult and rendered the family bliss into a sort of haphazard time-bomb. As a result, I began to foster unwanted feelings of intolerance toward little quirks and mannerisms, as often will accompany deeper grievances and unsettled disputes. Instead of accepting the gap of understanding that had evolved, I projected the frustration which came from the impasse upon petty outlets. The little things ate at my mind and aggravated me beyond all reason; I despised myself for allowing such inconsequential details to taint my father's image or turn me from his love.
With my mom, it was different. She allowed me to voice my opinions although they differed from her own. Despite my plea for "freedom " I was choked by the ambivalence of my emotions. I longed for choice yet craved intervention. For example, certain days found me in an unexplainably aggressive state of mind and my anger begged to be given reign over rationality. So perturbed was I with my inner turmoil that sometimes I wished to argue for its own sake, creating an issue to banter back and forth like a volley ball; other times I wanted mom to say "no" and thereby settle a dispute which raged internally, for parental objections were often weightier and less subject to contestation than were personal decisions to forego a particular event. Of course, there were also those things which I desired to discuss, yet felt compelled to remain hidden from my mom; I knew that to share certain instances would have jeopardized my ability to see many "friends," and although many of those individuals I later decided to avoid, I needed to make the decision on my own.
One person who understood was Norm. It was not so long ago that he had undergone the need for independence, and sympathized with my sometimes over-blown grievances. When I spoke to Norm it seemed that my "problems" dissipated into the wind or became so insignificant that I could easily bear their weight. The changes in my outlook and disposition seemed only fleeting steps to adulthood, rather than imprisoning hours.
In my eyes, Norm's life was a reflection of perfect balance, self-sufficiency and peace of mind. I longed for the day when I too would be able to own a house and make all the choices that were his. I dreamed of such a life, and it seemed incredible that he would ever seek an alternative. Paradise, however, as well as prison, is in the eye of the beholder.
It no longer seemed of much importance. He could do it, and the knowledge of his initial success was of more worth than continued success. Norm decided to move home.
The divorce had left my brother with half of a house and, in certain respects, half of a life. It was necessary at the time to prove to himself that he could live alone. Therefore, Norm paid for a house and refurbished its interior; he performed all domestic functions while working a 40 hour week; he found mental stimulation through books and occasional personal interaction with friends. Such accomplishments provided a sense of satisfaction; the gradual rebuilding of Norm's physical world complimented the restoration taking place within himself.
Once Norm had finalized his basic dreams in the material sense, however, it grew obvious that the inner rebuilding which still clamored for completion could not be done alone. He was the sole spark of life in a house from which the cobwebs of deceit could never be wiped. But for an attic full of worn out memories, his was an empty house. Houses, of themselves, do not indenture the heart; thus, without regret or apology, Norm came home.
January was the coldest it had been in years, or so it seemed. To brighten the blustery evening, Norm had invited me to share a pizza with him at his house. I gladly accepted the invitation and spent several pleasant hours staring at a lively fire and talking. I departed feeling very content, never suspecting his oppressive loneliness. Norm had concealed it from everyone, and it came as somewhat of a surprise to see him standing at the door so soon after saying good-night; loneliness pooled in his eyes and I realized it had filtered deeper than any cursory glance could have perceived.
Personally, I was elated at the prospect of sharing the upstairs with my brother, especially if living at home was what he truly wished. Several years earlier the arrangement would not have succeeded; then he sought to free himself from the constraints of youth through establishing his own credibility as a functioning part of society. Now he had tasted life's offerings, the sweet and the bitter, and knew that he could alter his happiness through certain changes on his part. Loneliness was one pain which he had the power to alleviate; his return was a matter of choice, not defeat, and with a clear conscience regarding his desire, pursued his intent. After assuring his welcome, he and I drove to his house so he could secure a parcel of clothing and other necessities for the night.
As one household began to dissolve, the family home eagerly digested the other's former occupant and his belongings. It took several months for Norm's house and major furnishings to be sold, but those objects that he wished to retain were loaded unceremoniously into sacks and stashed in the attic or placed hastily about various parts of the house. A microwave found its station on the basement counter, and shelving provided a haven for his stereo equipment. A handsome recliner stole a living room corner and became known as NORM'S CHAIR; if he entered the room to find HIS CHAIR occupied, he didn't quite know where to sit. It became evident that this home was his home and, with an ample dose of personal interaction and companionship, the emotional wounds had begun to heal.
School was actually fun for me after my tongue lost some of its shy inhibitions and I was able to joke and carry on conversations before classes. I joined no extra-curricular activities, however, since I valued free time and generally wished to go home or to a friend's house directly following school. Moreover, I entertained the idea of finding a part-time job, and did not wish to spread myself so thinly over those undertakings which I had deemed to be worthy of my time; I was still a perfectionist, and that ruled even the most rebellious of my whims.
That autumn I obtained employment at a fashionable store in a local shopping mall. I was notably excited since the job promised to be better aligned to my interests than either of my other jobs… babysitting and a two week stint at a fabric store. The former, I decided, demanded too much of my tolerance and felt I should quit before I was jailed for child abuse. Actually I, the sitter, was the abused party; I would return home after an evening of utter turmoil clenching three dollars in my hand.
On the worst occasion, I was to sit for two children at the end of the avenue. Soon after my arrival I discovered I was sitting for only one child; the other a monster. Inside of three hours he managed to reduce my state of mind to that of a murderess. He disobeyed every request, every order, every threat. He ignored his mother's dictate that specified he could eat no more than two candy bars. After consuming five, the bag of candy went on top of the refrigerator, the sole place in the house which he was unable to reach. The monster, outraged, then proceeded to unshelf every toy he owned and move it into the living room. Afterward, he decided to hide in the closet.
For a brief moment, I was relieved. Seeing this action had an adverse effect on me, in his opinion, he came out, wielding the vacuum cleaner, and tore about the house like a wild thing. His next move, unfortunately, was to raid another closet, from which he carefully selected a bag of rubber bands. These he pinged across the room, firing joyously, until I impeded his efforts. The rubber bands found themselves on the refrigerator.
I looked up. Ten o'clock. Unbelieveable. The parents said they'd be home "around twelve." I took a deep breath and noticed the monster was cackling from some unseen location. Deciding that I should pursue the source of my discontent, I finally found him grinning widely at the door of his bedroom. "I let the gerbils out of their cage," he announced proudly. I rolled my eyes. "Terrific," I replied, lacking any enthusiasm. As I had a gerbil, I was not frightened at the prospect of catching the rodents, but was concerned they might become lost in a couch or any of the thousand other places a gerbil could hide. I immediately dropped to my hands and knees, knowing they generally fled beneath the furniture, and searched the carpet for the tiny animals. Sure enough, they were nervously enjoying their freedom under the bed's protective cover. I succeeded in flushing them into the open, whereupon they were promptly stripped of their liberty and lifted, by way of their tails, into the cage.
I turned out the light and marched into the living room where boy monster and his sister plotted against me behind suspicious smiles. I sat down and he left the room; not desiring to be surprised, I followed, entering his room just as he was about to unleash one of his gerbils again. "No!" I yelled. He disappeared, leaving the business of finding the gerbil to me; it took a bit longer this time because the mite had escaped to the master bedroom before I could detain it. Once I had the animal by the tail, I returned to the bedroom in time to intercept the monster's second attempt to free his other gerbil. Determined that no more searches would take place that evening, the gerbil cage also decorated the refrigerator top.
Of course, bedtime was a chore in itself, but one battle which I was determined to win. Through a stroke of luck or a dream realized, the two finally went to sleep, leaving me to blink at the T.V. in a fatigued stupor until I collapsed on the couch.
The parents returned well after two o'clock in the morning to find me slumped where I had fallen several hours earlier; I had earned the sleep, especially under the circumstances that I endured. Having baby-sat for over seven hours, on which I had not counted, I felt that my brush with insanity would be buffered by a "substantial" payment. The husband handed me some tightly folded bills and two quarters as I stepped into the night air, and by the feel of the wad, I trusted his integrity and believed that my effort might have been worthwhile, indeed. The "going rate" was at least 75 cents per hour, with the rate increasing to $l.00 or $l.50 for every hour past midnight. I calculated in my mind as I paced toward my house, knowing that I had been gone seven and a half hours, and turned the bills over in my hand with anticipation. "A five and maybe a couple of ones. . ." a thought echoed. I opened the door and entered, removed my shoes, and went into the kitchen to see what the light would reveal. Unrolling the bills reverently, I straightened them one by one and put them on the table. One, two, three, four dollars. . . and fifty cents. I stared silently at the bills, recalling that my minimum payment should have been $5.75. I felt used and cheated, and frankly, quite insulted. My mom, too, was angry and said I should protest my under-payment, but I was afraid to call "grown-ups" and let the matter drop.
The following week I received a phone call from the mother, requesting that I baby-sit some night that week. I had not honestly let the matter drop, for it had festered in my mind since its occurrence, and bid me forego further assignments with that family. "No," I replied. A hush ensued, urging me to explain. "I won't… I can't handle your kids." In a diminutive tone, the woman acknowledged my statement and said good-bye; by her response I somehow felt she had just experienced de ja vu. In certain respects, I pitied her, and in others, I pitied the children. The latter would one day rise to discover the world was greater than mother's protective and generous arms could encompass. Perhaps the former would one day wonder why she had treated "no" like a word from a foreign language.
Deep inside I believe that humans desire a sense of discipline from youth; guidance assures a child that his guardians care about his life enough to intervene in areas of possible danger or misdirection. Discipline commands respect toward oneself and others because it brings order to chaos and reality to life. As I grew and observed my classmates, I saw those whose parents were not restrictive often led sordid lives. They lied excessively or vulgarly splashed the truth before their parents to openly wound them. I cringed to see such cruel treatment of good people, for these parents had never lived lives similar to their child. At first I was baffled by my classmates' apparent hate for their parents, so I compared their lives to my own and discovered that, as children, tantrums and tears produced their desires. I used neither, for neither would have proven effective; "no" always meant "no" whether referring to a request or given as a disciplinary expression. I respected my mom and dad's authority, which consequently augmented my love for them. This was essentially the differing factor which separated my childhood from that of my friends. I concluded that their "hate" evolved from a lack of respect combined with the bitterness of leading empty, selfish lives; instead of searching themselves, they blamed their parents for their frustration. The parents cannot bear the entire burden, however, for each normal human possesses a mind which is quite capable of inviting either positive or negative change into his life.
Discipline is essential for the attainment of maturity, and the sooner one encounters it, or becomes aware of its necessity, the sooner growth can begin. I reflected over my current wish for freedom, and was silently glad that my parents had always voiced appropriate objections toward my sometimes doubtful intentions. No one had ever labeled me a "brat," I mused with satisfaction, so why should I babysit for other people's nightmares?
My first "real" job, for which I filled out an application, was as a clerk in a fabric store. Since my ex-sister-in-law had worked there and because I sewed occasionally and purchased goods at the store, I viewed the place as somewhat of an old friend. That fact did not abate my initial nervousness, however, nor did it serve to reverse my ultimate opinion of the place once its image had steeped in a boiling pot of reality. I liked people, but when people became "customers" certain nasty transformations often took place. This I quickly learned when, without ample training, I was hurled amid a mob of angry women who had stampeded into the store for the weekly bargains and expected rapid service. Once my nerves were ruffled, I tottered precariously on the edge of tears; I wished to please, but my conscientious attitude could not tolerate overt customer hostility when I was doing my best.
After the cyclone dissipated, I would return bolts of fabric to their various locations; if I did not know where a certain type should be placed, I asked for direction. Inquiry, I reasoned, was better than making rash mistakes. This part of the job, combined with cleaning and general upkeep, became my favorite as I needed not worry about customer interaction or managerial displeasure.
After two weeks, the manager called the three night employees to the counter after closing out the cash register in order to voice some complaints. Because I was the newest employee, he directed many explicit implications toward me, essentially blaming me for numerous misplaced bolts of material which he had gathered throughout the store and brought to the counter. He reported, also, that the money in the register and the amount dictated by the receipts did not coincide; "someone," he said, "has been short changing customers." He looked at me. "Laurie, you've got to be more accurate and speed up." When the speech was over and the misplaced cloth returned, we all fled from the store; company morale, I previously learned, had suffered under this manager. I reached my car and, once inside, let go of the frustrations and hurt that had multiplied since the job began, letting myself cry freely, without restraint. The blame, I felt, was unwarranted. The assistant manager had told me earlier that week that I was doing fine. I had not been responsible for the misplaced bolts of cloth, for I'd not seen those particular patterns that day; a customer could easily have decided against the material and stashed it in the nearest rack. As I thought about the excess cash, I recalled that, in past experiences of making change, I classically over-paid, not under-paid the customer, which would have resulted in a loss for the store. While I may have been responsible for some error, I believed that all complaints could not lead to me.
For the sake of my nerves, I decided to quit the job. I dried my tears, drove out of the parking lot and headed home, where I then called the store and told the manager I was through. I felt better than I had felt in two weeks.
My job at the shopping mall was a vast improvement. Not only did I work for an amiable manager, but I did not have to ring up sales at all. A cashier was in charge of that responsibility. Moreover, when I eventually learned to act as a replacement cashier, I had no qualms toward making change since the machine instructed me "how much" was owed or received; I had only to count the currency.
Again, my favorite part of the job dealt with the stock itself, rather than the customers. I enjoyed helping people when they desired assistance, yet revolted internally against the thought of administering high key sales pitches to the public. This was the only objectionable aspect of my employment at the store, for occasionally the manager would encourage me to be more aggressive toward customers and try to sell merchandise to those who had no intention of buying anything. Admittedly, I would have preferred to hide behind racks of sweaters, sizing and straightening, than to approach a stranger and ask, "Could I interest you in a dress today?" followed by a persuasive cascade of sweetness and sales talk. Such tactics never worked for me and I found I sold more through helpful suggestions than flamboyant appeals. Nevertheless, when sales dropped after Christmas at an alarming rate, reflecting the fact that everyone's closets were full and their wallets empty, only the best sales people were given enough hours to add up to a worthwhile pay check. During this decline, I spent most of my working hours in the storeroom, unloading and hanging new merchandise. This suited me perfectly, despite the few hours and accompanying meager pay; if only I could have found a part-time job dealing exclusively with stock work, I would have been in a state of bliss, able to simultaneously work and think. . . and be paid for my time.
As the working hours decreased and I found that I had spare time beyond that which was required to accomplish my homework, I sought excuses to obtain one of the cars and escape my self-imposed prison at home. With friends or alone, I would shop, run errands, or simply drive around the city streets. The car became a symbol of freedom and attainable destinations, an inanimate capsule devoid of judgemental constraints. In the car I could whoop and holler, cry or laugh; I could vent my exasperation to the music on the radio, or wallow in a pool of depression without spreading the effect upon anyone else.
I was essentially adrift on a sea of emotions, constantly hurled from happiness to depression and back again. As contradictory as it may sound, I believe the instability of my emotions was the element which permitted me to maintain overall sanity; instability was one thing on which I could depend, for no emotion seethed within me long enough to create duress of itself.
I asked myself, "Why am I depressed?" I had no right to be depressed, in my opinion, yet I felt I had no control over my radical ups and downs. "I'm healthy for the most part, my hair has returned, thicker than it was previously, I'm doing well in school and have a few people to call 'friends' . . . so what is wrong?" Through that year the question remained hidden in the back of my mind, unanswered yet unshakeable. I continued to pursue happiness through a confused sense of individualism and an uncharacteristic flurry of activity. I was befuddled by my own ambivalence and, to further harass my state of being, allowed the fluctuating emotions of others to work upon my mind, thereby creating disturbances beyond all reason.
To this end, I fancied myself to be in love with a young guy with whom I had become acquainted through "in-the-hall" pleasantries and smiles. After two "dates" we discovered we could converse remarkably; I was delighted by the apparent honesty that we shared and became confident that our's would prove to be the romantic friendship of the decade. Having been subjected to hurtful and unreasonable endings of relationships, however, I had no intention of placing my pride in jeopardy through a display of groveling affection or stifling promises. I told myself to subdue my feelings and expect nothing, yet hoped desperately that the dominoes I had erected would fall in the orderly fashion that my forethought deserved.
As it happened, my "dominoes" fell in a manner which had no sense of order. I learned quickly that "good deserts" had nothing to do with the final outcome of a situation, and even one's offering of platonic friendship could be dealt a cruel blow or be considered unacceptable. Despite these unwarranted actions against my cautious and understated affection, I could not entirely cancel the heartfelt wishes my mind contained because he continued, at very sporadic intervals, to encourage a romance. In no time at all I was thoroughly confused as to the part I played and my significance in his life. On certain days he spoke to me at school,and other days I was ignored or avoided. The same was true pertaining to encounters outside of school, which often resulted through chance rather than a specific plan. Whether he would assume a romantic stance or pursue a totally platonic guise became a valid mystery. This infernal uncertainty did nothing to promote self-confidence, for within me I continually questioned the purpose of his unpredictable snubs; was I too tall? Did I embarrass him? Was I not in the "right" crowd? Questions, unanswered, riddled my mind and shook my heart. As the school year coasted along, I began to realize I couldn't necessarily take all of his cold shouldered greetings or lack of acknowledgement as personal digs against my presence. He had problems of his own and moods of his own; this revelation on my behalf only gave me more reasons to worry and dwell on him, however. No longer did I cope only with my own burdens, but attempted to share the pronounced emotions displayed by my "flame." When he looked melancholic, I too, soon adopted the feeling for myself; if he was happy, I could be happy. I quickly became aware of the fact that my technique was indeed a lousy one and the potential for happiness was quite slim. With my friends having only mouths, their ears plugged with their own concerns, I resorted to the written expression of my personal pressures. Though the paper could not respond, it similarly could neither judge or reveal my emotional sieges of ink, for the hurried scrawls were carefully concealed. In this fashion, many troubles were rationally resolved; my thoughts were considerably less hideous when viewed as written words, set apart from the mental clutter composed of both reasonable and emotional meanderings. I could objectively scan the bold sweeps crossing page after page and discern the real from the imagined… My deep felt depression carried through to today. . . as well as my bad luck! I saw D as I was coming and wasn't extremely thrilled, which is a shocker in itself; and to top it off, he barely squeaked out a "Hi" to me. That wasn't too much of a surprise, because he has been known to ignore a person. . . me, for example. I must admit I'm really not all here today. I just don't understand what is going on with him. One day he is my friend and the next, he is a stranger. . . Oh, well, I can get so depressed sometimes, it's not even funny! The weird thing is that I'm not especially depressed today, I'm just in a weird mood. . . When I got home, Dad got mad because I forgot to tell them about the PSAT test. He asked about five different times why I didn't let them know. I was so shocked that I went outside and climbed the big pine tree. I'm upset when I do that… especially when there are no branches on the lower half of the tree, and I had to jump to the lowest branch! I got in a better mood after awhile, but it took a bit of psyching on my part!
Spring 1979
Walking down the wide highway of life….Happy, but confused.I've noticed you walking that highway too,And I've often wondered if you felt the same way I do…And then one day you came to me,Smiling, and holding out your hand in friendship.Was it two weeks? Four?The time seemed to fly pastWhenever I was by your side.With you, I had no fear to reveal myself…I felt comfortable and secureWhen you were near,And thought of you constantlyWhenever you were away.
In addition to hurried prose and diary entries, I also began pinning down my feelings in the form of poetry. Within the poems I could lament my confusion and aloneness, and the self-dependency which had become threatened by my offering of friendship and its subsequent futility.
Love Rollercoaster
Days robed in silence…depressed for awhile,Then turn around with a flash of a smile.Happy, contented, with work and with play,Don't get excited, it's only one day!Tapping my shoulder, "HI, there!" he said,One hour later, I wish I was dead!So much confusion, so little I know,Oh! To run and hide…to get up and go!Age seventeen and still the same goal.Filling my mind, my body, my soul.My love is something I just can't ignore,But I'm so tired…Can I take any more?Depression sets in like a cold, dark stare,And spurs my asking "Why do I care?"That question comes again and again…Face it kid…this is the battle that you'll never win!
Lauren IsaacsonSpring of 1979
Love's Confusion
Words…Interpreted, exaggerated…Glances…Real and imagined…Actions performed to hurt,To confuse, to make happierSome stranger's day.I am that stranger,Jack of many trades.A translator,Psychologist,Handyman, all in one.Like a stranger,I am trying to know you.Like a translator,I am trying to understand.
Lauren IsaacsonSpring of 1979
A Heart Untaken
I gave my heart away,That's not easy,No, not at all.I am…dependent…On none other than myself.So why then, am IStill falling head-firstInto a bottomless cavern?Yes, I gave my heart away.But it was left untaken,Blowing in the wind.How can I describeThe way I feel?There are no wordsTo relate the emptinessAnd darknessWhich has prevailedUpon my soul…My entire being.I need to be reconstructed,Rejuvenated…acceptedBy those I love.Is that asking too much?How is one expected to liveIf no one will accept his love?He cannot live…Merely exist.
Lauren IsaacsonSpring 1979
Love Is
Love is,It has no time,No place.When there is love,One knows;It can be felt in the airLike a cool breezeFrom calm seas.Love can penetrateThe heartLike a sword;it can be painful,And tear one apartPiece by pieceUntil one is only halfOf what he was.And yet,One hangs on to the feeling,Scared to go onBut unwilling to let go.Love is an emotionWhen in its truest senseIs stronger than steelIt will not dieEven after life.Love is beautiful,A feelingWhich cannot be matchedOr copied.Love is.
Lauren Isaacson 1979
Searching
My life…Sometimes like a lovesong;Contented with the little things,But forever striving for the loveI feel I missed somewhere along the way.It's all so confusing, this.Life… so real, so complex.It's everchanging, and sometimesI lose my way and stumble…Always able to get up once more.Maybe one day I'll not get up…Just wait until someone picks up the pieces.But my wait will last 'til eternity,For no one travels my path.Alone? … no.Merely unique… one of a kind.Finding a true friend is a searchNot easily fulfilled…But then love is not a song easily sung.
Love is serene and peaceful.Love can make you go bananas!Christmas…love with a special kind of warmth.Love is a joy ride!Love… the natural high.
Lauren IsaacsonApril 17, 1979
As I reflected on the words I had written, I perceived I had turned my back on my greatest ally, myself. I needed to depend on myself for strength and happiness, for a burden is essentially one's own to bear. No amount of sharing and communication will take the place of one's personal acceptance of a problem; a candle cannot illuminate the darkness for one whose eyes remain closed.
I reviewed, also, my diary entries of the months passed.
Feb. 9, 1979… Friday the ninth… what a fantastic day! I felt terrific. I talked to (him)…he came up to me at my locker! I was the one to say "I've gotta go now." Wheee!
Feb. 14, 1979… (He) and I talked. He said he was going to buy aValentine's Day card (for me) but forgot!
Mar. 8, 1979… (He) and I may go to a movie this week-end for his birthday (on me). I was a little surprised he brought it up! I was in a great mood… had a great day!!
Mar. 14, 1979… (He's) making it a point to avoid me…nothing new though, right?
Mar. 29, 1979… I talked to (him) at least five minutes straight!
Apr. 19, 1979… I'm so down. I sure wish I could get out of it!This is a real drag.
Apr. 23, 1979… I was in such a great mood today. Nothing really happened though. Ha! Oh, well. Maybe you're happier that way.
May 2, 1979… Cry! It would feel better…Bad day. I was depressed most of the time…
May 3, 1979… Talked to Dumbo quite a bit, considering I usually can never talk to him! I don't know why that makes me so happy.
May 21, 1979… Pretty good day. I talked a TON to (him). Yippee! He said he saw me Friday night on 23rd Avenue. He kept looking at me!! He said his weekend wasn't that great. I guess that makes two of us.
June 1, 1979… Last month I saw (him) once. It was 10 days between then and the time before. I hope its never that long again, although I can handle it better this time…if it works out to be that way.
June 16, 1979… At 6:30 D. got me and we went to Peterson Park (because he forgot to take money out of the bank) and played frisbee and talked while (his friend) filled up the tires with air… it was fun. (He then took me home and went to a party.) I guess Norm and Mom and Dad were talking about him… he didn't go to the bank and get some money even though he knew we were going out that night. Norm told them, "If I knew I was taking a girl out, I'd make DAMN sure I had some money!" He was a little mad. Mom told me that.
I saw my infatuation was rather pathetic. Ours was an empty relationship, devoid of stability in its most meager sense. I recalled how often his intentions were rejoined with apologetic excuses when those intentions were waived to pursue other activities in which I had no part. Such treatment consumed trust and debilitated affection, causing me to turn gradually from my romantic ideal and grasp reality, despite the pain that the action entailed; self-deceit would only delay the inevitable hurt that naturally accompanied unfulfilled dreams.