Cringing Forwards

Freshly out of elementary school, I thought I was the shit. In 5th

grade, I was one of the few people who were cool enough to sit at the

round table during snack time. I wore cat ears, oversized sweatshirts,

and camo pants that were way too small, but I refused to give them

up. My tangled, frizzy, unbrushed hair was never seen down. I thought

cursing made me seem older, and being friends with boys made me

cool. I walked home every day, so sure of myself, in a pack of friends

that, as I lived the farthest away, would slowly peel off as I got closer

to home. I would bike around the neighborhood, going up to friends’

houses on a whim, not even knocking, just barging in to see if they were

home. I was so naive.

Four different elementary schools coming together as one is already a

recipe for disaster, but the fact that I didn’t have a phone, social media,

or an older sibling to teach me how to act made everything 10x worse.

The first couple of months of 6th grade were fine. I was still tomboyish

and close with my elementary school friends. But nobody told me girls

weren’t really friends with boys anymore, so one day during recess, I

went up to my friends. “Watch this,” I said, full of confidence. Looking

back, I’m mortified by what went down, but in sixth grade, I thought

that running over to my presumed friend would show how awesome

I was. We had been close friends since 3rd grade, but again, nobody

told me that things changed in middle school. And even though we had fought like puppies on my trampoline just a year before, he looked

horrified as I ran over to him and tried to swing on his arm. He kind of

just shook me off as if I were an annoying fly. I didn’t even realize it as I

walked back over to my friends, triumphant. They didn’t have the heart

to tell me until many years later that I had embarrassed myself in front

of the whole 6th grade.

Later that year, I ended up squished between two friend groups. One

was very toxic, but in that group I met my best friend. We would walk

home together even though we lived on opposite sides of town and get

snacks or go back to his house. We got so close that people thought we

were dating, which was weird, because I was pretty sure he was gay.

We eventually agreed that those friends were too toxic, so we left, and I

introduced him to group #1. Then COVID shut down schools.

My mom finally let me get a phone to stay in touch with friends

over what we at first believed was an extended vacation. With my new

freedom of a phone, I downloaded TikTok, and ended up with very

niche videos on my feed. Shortly after, I came out to friends and family

as pansexual and gender-fluid. I would tell everyone I saw. Being very

impressionable led me to making it my whole personality. None of

my friends ever changed their identity; they all told me I was strange

but still stuck by me. If it wasn’t cemented before, I was officially

considered WEIRD now.

***

In September of 7th grade, we were back at school and I had a solid

friend group of five. But school was hybrid, and I was alphabetically

separated from my friends. Even with this unfortunate odd-one-out

situation, we were still as close as ever. I did meet some new friends,

none of whom really lasted. I was still out and very vocal about it, I

think I was just trying to fit an idea of what I thought I was supposed to

be based on the social media landscape I happened to find myself in. I

got nasty remarks for it, and at the time I didn’t care, but looking back,

I hated that version of myself.

My group of five was still going strong so far, though. We would hang

out as often as possible, doing anything, even errands, together. But

because I didn’t see them in school, I started getting closer with my

sports friends.

The camp that I had been going to since the 3rd grade was back

open that summer. I thought that all my close friends couldn’t have

possibly changed that much after two years, so I acted the same exact

way I did at school. Not surprisingly, I was relentlessly bullied. I didn’t

care too much, because at that point I thought they were all jealous of

me after being told by my wise, all-knowing mother that “people who are mean to you are just jealous of you.” Looking back at that year

makes me cringe so bad. I was SO annoying! It always reminds me of a

photo taken that summer: while everyone was posing normally, I was

crouched down with a giant stick in my mouth like a god damn dog. I

was so naive in believing that doing that was anything but concerning.

That summer was awful. I only had two friends, and, in the middle of

camp, they told me they weren’t coming back the next year. I wasn’t

extremely pumped to return after that summer’s seven weeks either,

but I knew I would be in a bunk with different people, so I still felt

optimistic.

***

After that horrid summer, I realized that I wouldn’t mind changing,

maybe even becoming like the girls I had despised. I didn’t actively seek

out a drastic upgrade, but if it were to happen, I wouldn’t be against it.

In 8th grade, I started caring more about the things I had hated people

for. I would straighten my hair every now and then to wear it down. I

would put on mascara and lip gloss. I was for sure still weird. I mean,

one time a kid dared me to eat a piece of dirt from off the floor, AND I

DID IT, that’s not even just weird but also super gross.

If you were to ask my mom, she would say this was definitely

my worst year. I’m not quite sure what drove me, but I was terrible.

I wouldn’t do any of my work, like I got a 2.8/100 for my grade in English, I would shoplift and sneak out to friends’ houses, I would non-

stop fight with everyone, and I was disrespectful to teachers. My mom was so fed up that she even banned me from playing school soccer. My group of five then began excluding me, which felt so tragic; at

least that’s how I felt then. Reflecting, I was probably the one who

became more distant, given my new tendencies. This made it so that

my sports friends became my main group. I was on a club soccer team

with half of them, and just became friends with their friends. They were

almost nothing like me, but for some reason, still accepted me, so I

slowly started to become more like them.

A huge shift in how I acted happened on one random day in early

spring. My friend brought me her clothes to borrow, and that was the

first time I felt “normal.” Even though it was better than 6th and 7th,

8th grade was when my mental health started to decline. Not drastically

enough for anyone to notice, but I was quieter. That summer seemed

to be one of the best since before COVID, in part because everyone

HATED a new girl in the bunk so much that I wasn’t their target

anymore. I learned to keep my mouth shut, becoming friends with most

girls in my bunk. It felt so good that I got carried away, bullying that

girl too, in hopes they wouldn’t then turn to me. It was so easy to just point fingers and be mean to protect myself, but the bunk drama got so bad that the girl left camp early to go home. I worried that I was going

to be the next easy target, but it never happened. Maybe it’s because

I did stupid things to embarrass myself so they couldn’t embarrass

me first, maybe because I had a broken collarbone and it was all just

pity, or maybe it was because I learned to be less loud, needy, and just

overall annoying. And although deep down I had a twinge of regret for

joining in on the bullying, that was still one of my best summers, and I

left feeling ready for high school.

***

I finally knew how to fit the mold and not call attention to myself,

how to be quieter, how to dress right, wear makeup, and just finally

blend in. I started growing my hair out hoping that as I changed my

appearance, people would forget my past. It might seem unfathomable,

but I’m glad I was bullied. It led to change and I finally liked who I was.

Or so I thought.

About three months into the school year, I tore my meniscus during

a soccer game and needed knee surgery. I was bedridden for a week and

couldn’t do anything by myself, including basic hygiene, which felt so

infantilizing and humbling.

I’m not quite sure if it was the lack of independence from the injury

or something entirely different, but my mental health plummeted. I

wouldn’t go anywhere besides school and my house, and blamed it on

my strict mom. It’s not like I didn’t have friends. They were great, made

me laugh, and outwardly supported me, but they weren’t the kind of

friends you would hug or say “I love you” to when parting.

I was definitely shyer and more reserved at school than I had ever

been, and I certainly didn’t try to embarrass myself to make others

laugh anymore, but I was still loud and outgoing around my friends.

Deep down, I was still a bit weird. I hadn’t quite grasped normal yet,

although I was getting closer. My hair was still growing, and I refused to

cut it, even the discolored, frayed ends.

My hair was a big part of what I thought was making me likable. That

belief was emphasized especially after one of the popular girls made a

comment about how she was jealous of my hair. I started straightening

it too, almost once a week. I had a whole new wardrobe and was

dressing super basic, exactly how I wanted to; I even had to beg my

mom for some plain white Nike socks.

This year was the first year I had a real crush, too, but I was way too

shy to talk to him, especially because I was pretty sure I was still known

for my middle school reputation. This is so insane to reflect back on,

but I would secretly take pictures of him. I was obsessed. I’m not sure if my teacher caught on, or if it was just pure luck, but I was assigned to sit at the same table with him for the second quarter. Once the quarter

was over, I had accepted that that was it, BUT I was seated next to him

AGAIN! For those five weeks we would only really interact if we had to

comment on each other’s work or if I was creepily taking photos of him.

I would sometimes text him “forgetting” when an assignment was due or asking for help, but I would only receive one-word or straight-to-the-point responses from him. One day though, without any prompting, he complimented my painting. That was the highlight of my sad freshman year. I was ecstatic and went around all day telling my friends about

it. In my mind, this meant big things, but after that, our conversations

went back to being nonexistent. I realized how stalkerish the taking

pictures made me seem, so I stopped and eventually just accepted

him as my hallway crush and nothing more. After my heartbreaking

realization, I ultimately entered my “snap hoe” phase.

By the end of ninth grade, things were better. I wasn’t as shy and

hung out with my friends more outside of school. I wasn’t super

confident but definitely had a few regrets, though that’s not saying

much since I didn’t have much to regret. I was content, although the

phrase “wyll” felt genuinely haunting. All was good, except for the

small fact that my mother was majorly ruining my life. Because I had

basically failed eighth grade, she wanted me to switch schools. And of

course, the school she picked was the worst of them all, The Masters

School. I cried and dreaded my transfer all summer.

That year’s camp was strange. The year before had been so perfect,

but it turned out people had been keeping in touch and heavily

planning. I had not, so when I arrived, I found myself alone, but I

wasn’t as mad as I would’ve been in past summers. I had a pleasant

time - except for the occasional cry when I remembered where I would

be going to school in September. The only really memorable piece of

that summer was the fact that I had my first kiss. Well, actually my

first four.

At camp, we had these stupid events called Socials three or

four times a summer with a nearby boys’ camp. They’re basically

planned hookups, and how the camp directors allow it is beyond me.

They usually begin with each camp on opposite sides of the room.

Sometimes you spot early who you want to get with; other times you

get approached. All the while, counselors are acting like bouncers in

front of the bathrooms, letting one “couple” in at a time. We had four

socials that summer, which led me to experience my first kiss in the

lovely scenery of the pitch black Lodge bathroom. At the time, it felt

monumental, like proof I had finally caught up to everyone else. 

***

On the first day of 10th grade, I rode the school bus for the first time

and fought back tears the whole way. I hated that I was going to this

stupid school with all these weird, stupid people. When I stepped into

Masters Hall, I had an enormous ego. I thought I was the only normal

person there, and everyone else was lucky to have me around. I knew

a couple of people from preseason, but I really only had 5 friends,

including one, who, like me, had an ego problem. The only positive

thing about this was that my confidence was at an all time high, I finally

felt secure in myself and my style. I’m not sure why, given that my style

was horrendous and I didn’t know what an eyelash curler was.

That September, I went to my first ever high school party, and,

though it was more like 15 kids in a basement, it was my first time

hanging out with Masters kids outside of school. I sat back on the couch

while my friends danced around and sang aloud. We scarfed down

snacks while simultaneously belting the words to whichever Rihanna

song was playing. Slowly, I realised that maybe the people at my new

school weren’t that strange, but actually somewhat cool. Not all of

them, but this school was definitely much different than what I was

expecting. Around December, my ego had basically melted and I had

expanded my social circle. I considered myself friends with so many

more people. But then I found out what people had actually thought

of me when I first arrived. Now that I was friends with them, they

told me I was actually the strange one. I was too loud and annoying

and somewhat attention seeking. But it was alright since we were now

friends. First impressions have never been my strong suit.

Over Christmas break of that year I cut my hair for the first time

in over two and a half years. I only asked for four inches off, but

when I looked in the mirror afterwards, I immediately regretted it. I

held back tears as I told them how much I loved it, but as soon as I

stepped outside I called my friend. “They gave me a bob!!!” I wailed.

She, although annoyed that I was calling hair that went way past my

shoulders a bob, nonetheless comforted me. After that I refused to cut

my hair for nine months straight.

Winter came, and I realised seasonal depression may actually be a

real thing, but even though I was down, I was nowhere near as lonely

as I had been at that time the prior year. I had developed friendships

more intimate and actually caring than I’d had before. I could confide

in them without judgment knowing they’d be there for me, but, more

importantly I was 10x more comfortable with them. No matter what

odd thing I did, they would say eww to my face or call me names, but

then laugh with me instead of giving each other looks. I didn’t feel like I

had to put up a facade around them. This was new. By spring, I was confident again. I was friends with everyone, my

style was good enough, I was doing well in school, and I was happy. I

went into the summer no longer telling everyone in my wake, “yeah,

I’m only here for this year. I’m switching back to my old school in

September.” I was actually looking forward to junior year. Here, I was

sort of good at sports, I could indulge in my creative interests, and I had

much more freedom. Masters wasn’t so bad. That summer, instead of the summer camp of cliques and counselor-

sponsored hookups, I did a veterinary program, worked at an animal hospital, travelled to the Dominican Republic to see family, and spent time in Maine. It was my first year back at the lake since I was seven

years old. My first time back seeing all my family friends and having

to memorize who was in which family, and awkwardly befriending

them over again. But once I shyly remade my old friends, it felt like

I’d never left, except for the fact that I had more privileges now. I was

friends with the staff, I could go for midnight swims in the lake, I could

lounge on the ski boat all day, and not get kicked off. And I was invited

to Christmas in July, the most epic night of the summer. A party that

our parents had attended when they were our age, a staff party that

only super select guests (five of us) were invited to, the kids whose

families are eagerly expected each year, only the elites. It was my first

“real” adult party, hanging out with these college kids made me feel so

mature, like an equal. But I was only a sophomore and as much as I

tried to show that I was old enough, or cool enough, looking back I’m

positive I was seen as just a little kid tagging along.

Even so, that September, I was ready to enter Junior year with a

newfound sense of self and assertiveness. I knew who I was and who I

wanted to be, and I wasn’t that far off from finally being comfortable in

my body and mind.

***

Right now, I would say that I’ve come pretty far. I found my style,

though I still like to experiment. Through the years, I found out who my

real friends boiled down to. I found a balance of sports, creative outlets,

and work, and I’m quite happy. And as I grew, I started to regret less.

The gaps between my moments of embarrassment and stupidity versus

the amount of time would pass before I realized them shrank until I

could go months without regret or cringing at myself. I consider myself

virtually the same as I was this time last year, and hopefully I’ll be

somewhat the same this time next year. I do expect college to bring

about some changes, and I wish it will, but I can only hope that I’ll

look back in a year, wherever I may be, and not utterly cringe at the me of today. But, if I do, I will know then that it was only a learning

experience that helped me become who I will be. When I look back at myself and every story I just mentioned, my first

reaction is almost always, “OMG why would I ever do that?!” But as I

grow, I try not to judge or resent my past self because every version led

me to where I am now.