Missing the Mark

Me in Tombstone, AZ, age 15 (1995)

Who can say what it was that really derailed me earlier in life leaving me stuck on the margins of Western society, watching as everyone else lives more respectable and “normal” lives than mine?

Maybe it was the word I misspelled in the all-school spelling bee in (I think) fourth grade. I proved to be the best speller in my class only to be publicly embarrassed when I misspelled the first word I was given (“cosmetic”). Or maybe it was the private joy I felt when my sixth grade teacher told me I was the only one in the class who tested out of seventh grade reading class only to have the humiliation of testing back into reading in eighth grade.

Again in seventh grade, I’d earned a spot in the talent show after auditioning with a piano arrangement of the title song from “The Phantom of the Opera” by Andrew Lloyd Weber and yet I couldn’t perfect it let alone memorize it in time for the performance. It was so terrible, in fact, that my piano teacher urged me not to perform it because she believed doing so would be both an embarrassment to her as well as to me. But the teacher who’d organized the talent show told me it was too late to drop my act and so, the night of the performance, my best still wasn’t good enough and, when it was over, I ran backstage to my friends waiting in the wings and cried.

That same year, the junior high principle called me into his office to tell me I’d tested high enough to be in accelerated English and I turned down the opportunity to move up because it was only offered during one period which conflicted with choir. I actually thought music mattered more back then. In retrospect, the adults shouldn’t have left that kind of decision to a 13-year-old.

I suppose the downward spiral could have started in tenth grade when I auditioned for the school play “The Crucible” and completely bombed. I was so terrible the drama teacher wouldn’t even cast me as an extra. Later on, when the school performed the musical “Grease,” I wasn’t even cast in the chorus. I’m quite sure that’s when my Broadway dreams officially shattered.

Singing was something I still thought I was good at. After all, I’d had voice lessons, I’d been a favorite for choir solos throughout junior high and high school, I sang in the praise band at the church youth service and had been a regular church soloist since sixth grade. But then, when I joined the Christian singing group known as the Continentals for a 10-week tour one summer, I auditioned for a solo the week of rehearsal camp, one I’d practiced repeatedly back home, but there I completely choked. I couldn’t even find the right key, a problem I didn’t remember having before. So I remained in the background all summer (though I admit, the role did kind of grow on me).

Regular blows to my confidence took place throughout my adolescence and continued well into my young adulthood. My one great surge in confidence came shortly before my most significant mental breakdown, the one that lead to an involuntary hospitalization in Thuir, France. For me, that was actually the turning point for everything in my life. After that I was never really sure I was good at anything. That thought pattern has been so prevalent in me that not even psychotropic medication and therapy have been able to completely resolve it.

Go back to school, some of you tell me. Well, I’ve tried that but it never goes well. I mean, I barely earned my bachelor’s degree. My university transcripts are nothing to boast of.

True, I’m writing and, although I don’t feel I’m a great writer, I enjoy writing and sharing my thoughts.

I saw an add once from RELEVANT magazine calling for new writers. RELEVANT happens to be one of my favorite publications and when I saw the ad, at first I thought about what a joy it would be to write for them. Then I wrote a response but never sent it. It was basically an anti-résumé, meant to be delivered attached to a giant, red flag.

Today is my 37th birthday and one I happily share with Victor Hugo and Stan Roberson. However I’m acutely aware that at my age I’m nowhere near where Post-Modern Western society expects me to be.

Don’t get me wrong. It doesn’t bother me to be childless and single. If that were the only problem, I think I’d be fine. But the milestones I truly regret not having achieved by now are independence and vocation. I just want to be able to say to a stranger “this is what I do and I’m good at it and I enjoy doing it.” At last I’d have respect and then perhaps the younger folk will come to me for advice and encouragement (and I’d freely give it them).

There is a downside to trying to change at my age, however. The psychological damage is now so deeply rooted and widespread that the process of recovery is going to be much longer and decisively more painful than it might’ve been when I was younger. But I have to wonder, “now me” is the “me” I know best, but is there another version of “me” trapped beneath the rubble who still needs to be set free?