“You’re Always Carrying that Book!”

I’m nothing special, says that voice in my head. The act of sharing my experiences will benefit no one.

Welcome to my first attempt at a personal essay.

I wrote it last week, actually. I wound up unearthing a lot of difficult memories in the process, and am still feeling a bit off. My consolation, as I share these thoughts, is that there might be some people out there with similar experiences to mine.

Using poetry, I explored some painful instances that I experienced while growing up. “Fitting in” with the other kids seems so trivial now—but the truth is that humans are social creatures. We all want to “fit in” to some degree.

I just never figured out how.

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Since making the choice to join Substack in September, I’ve come across fantastic personal essays by people who have examined their ordinary lives and found gold.

There’s nothing wrong with an ordinary life; a person who can find adventure in an ordinary life is in possession of clear vision, indeed.

I began thinking I could write an essay of my own.

However, as I examined my own life, there was a voice in my head whispering that none of it’s been interesting enough to merit sharing.

I’m nothing special, says that voice. The act of sharing my experiences will benefit no one.

Perhaps I soldiered through with this segment is to challenge that perception. Someone might come across it and realize…“My life is worth celebrating, after all.”

A photo of me in Paris, next to the Seine river

To aid me in putting my struggle to words, I turned to the immortal poem by Mr. Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken. It’s a beautiful poem; to read it all, click here.

It begins with these poignant verses:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could…

In my mid to late teens, I found myself in a similar place.

It was a season in life during which I watched the majority of my acquaintances take a busy road. I imagined that it was one of the roads referred to in Frost’s poem.

Ever clinging to literature for consolation, I pictured a chaotic road and a quiet one. All of my acquaintances took the busy, well-trodden road. As for me—I do not like noise and chaos.

Not feeling that I would enjoy walking it, I was hesitant to join them.

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The thing, though, is that I did want friends. I always have.

My flesh-and-blood, offline life has always been devoid of meaningful friendships. I’ve never had someone to hang out with at the mall. I’ve never been invited to a birthday party.

(I have been invited to plenty of weddings, and a couple of times that made me feel more sour than included).

Do not misinterpret me. I did try to approach these people, especially at church, which was—and is—my favorite place to be.

I did my best, but no matter what, other people never seemed to…well, like me.

The Sunday school kids would gather in spontaneous small groups after lessons each week; I never found myself among them. Instead, I listened awkwardly from outside of their circle.

One year, on Valentine’s Day, I made a bunch of ‘friend-valentines’ and handed them out to these kids, in the hopes of forging connections. At the end of the day, I found most of my valentines on the floor or in the garbage.

Well, I thought, I guess that’s what my friendship’s worth.

During one of the few times one of them spoke to me, they said in a tone of disapproval, “You’re reeeeeeally quiet.”

In another instance, someone who was quieter than me exclaimed, “You need to be outgoing!!!” (A decade later, he still goes to the same church as me; he’s also still quieter than me.)

I wanted friends, but I did not have the same interests as other kids. I would try to speak, only to be ignored or interrupted. It went on until, eventually, I gave up and opened my book, which I always had with me.

I was then told by an indignant person, “You’re always carrying THAT BOOK.” As if it were a virus or a rabid animal. (Can confirm: books have always been my friends. Also, books can be dangerous.)

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The incident that hurt most happened during my final weeks of Sunday school. I had undergone carpal tunnel surgery and was feeling depressed.

During my recovery, two ‘friends’ from church were making a very very public riot on Facebook about how excited they were to see the new Harry Potter movie that weekend. I also liked Harry Potter.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother messaged one of them, the one who seemed nicest, asking if they would invite me to join them (she would pay for my ticket). The reply was that they had already agreed to go together, sorry.

After that, neither of them acknowledged me…ever again.

I guess it’s fair enough that I wasn’t a part of their plan. The point is that I was never a part of anyone’s plan, even when I tried to make myself noticed.

I was too quiet. I wasn’t outgoing enough. I rubbed people the wrong way.

When I turned sixteen (or perhaps seventeen), I invited one girl whom I’d always wanted to be friends with to my birthday party at Dairy Queen.

I don’t know why; I always wanted to hang out with her. She seemed sweet enough, and I liked her family. They looked (at least, to my outsider’s perception) very faithful and fun.

I invited her via Facebook chat a few days prior, and she accepted.

On my birthday, I went with my family and one other ‘friend’ to Dairy Queen. There, I waited eagerly to welcome this person.

Well, I guess for some reason she didn’t want to go. She sent her little sister, instead, as if using her as a consolation prize.

I didn’t mind—I liked her little sister, too. The implied message remained: not even ice cream could entice people to want to spend time with me.

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On an emotional level, things are a little better at thirty-one years old, but there are still awkward points.

Most of those people have now married and had children. It means they’ve finished forgetting about me, and though I know it’s normal, sometimes I just want to curl up and vanish.

That girl I invited to Dairy Queen who didn’t want to go? She has three kids now. I saw her at church a few weeks ago and tried to say hi, but she hurried right past me. Did she even recognize me?

Her husband (whom I’ve never met) was friendlier to me than her. (He waved and said “thank you!” when I said “you have a beautiful family!” She was already out the door).

Perhaps she did recognize me, but since it was me, she didn’t want to take chances. Or maybe she was in a hurry because of the kids.

It happens; it’s life. Whatever the reason, it reopened inside of me an old, long-dormant wound: rejection.

I’ve experienced it all my life: rejection, being eyed warily, hearing sorry I’m busy, and awkward silences.

Unfortunately, I’ve discovered that it hurts just as badly today.

I’ve mostly found peace with myself, but to this day, I don’t fit in anywhere (except perhaps Substack).

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I’m not married with children, so married acquaintances don’t bother with me. (Dairy Queen girl is a prime example of that).

I don’t have a Very Important Career Title, so I can’t offer special courses on how to build a career or grow my newsletter. It also means I don’t have ‘colleagues.’

While I have traveled to wonderful places, such as Paris (that’s where I’m posing in the photo above), my blog is not a trendy travel blog with stellar photographs and anecdotes.

I’m not complaining about my place in the world—at least not as often. I’ve mostly found peace with who and where I am.

Human irony is that, when people do notice me, it’s apparent that they cannot accept that I have found my comfy corner.

I continue to get the ‘You’re too quiet’ or (acquaintances have passed on to me) ‘We just don’t know what to do with her!’ quips—as if I were a puppy, and not a human who could hold a conversation (or watch a movie, which does not require speaking).

Sometimes, when these comments are made often enough, I feel the sting of their words.

I’m an adult, and one thing hasn’t changed: I’m excluded from the group. The “normal kids” started “normal lives” which I cannot relate to.

What am I, then? Again, let us turn to Mr. Robert Frost.

The Road Less Traveled can be interpreted many ways.

At this stage in my life, I read the final verses and they help me to realize I have not missed out on anything.

Perhaps, suggests a voice in my mind, it’s the others who are missing out, because:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The road I elected to take, and which (in spite of the occasional pain) I do not regret, has helped me grow. It’s revealed things that I’m certain I wouldn’t have known otherwise.

I’m not saying that other people have taken wrong roads, or that they are ‘all the same’—we all have a story. Each of us is a protagonist. Each story has a roller coaster’s worth of ups and downs.

I do wish that people would learn to be kinder to the weird kid, because that kid has always been me.

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We are all characters in our stories. Depending on the attitude of the ‘protagonist,’ a story always has the possibility of a happy ending.

Have you taken the road less traveled by? Are you an outsider like me? Has adulthood hurt you, at times, as well?

How do you treat the outsiders in your life?