THE INVITATION THAT NEVER CAME



I grew up in a tiny community surrounding Phillips Petroleum Company. All of our fathers were company men. We knew each other reasonably well, although on a superficial level. Most of the 70 or so of us went through all twelve grades together.

There were 3 social clubs for girls and one for boys.  Membership was by invitation only.  Invitations to join were mailed the summer between the eighth and ninth grades.

I had few friends in school, as I was more of a loner.  It didn't help my feelings of isolation, sadness, and shame when I would go to PE, don the required shorts, and hope that no one saw the bruises all over my legs.  Those bruises were far more profound than they appeared on the surface.  I was happiest reading books and living in an imaginary world.  It wasn't until adulthood that I realized I was chronically and clinically depressed as a child. I felt unloved, ugly, and fat.
But mostly, I felt invisible.  It's a feeling that will still creep in when I'm in situations reminiscent of early times.

Despite constantly feeling like an outsider, I was delusional enough to hope that I would be invited to join a club.  There's something tragic about running to the mailbox every day and hoping against hope that an envelope would be addressed to me on the inside.

Alas, it never came.

Only a handful of us was not invited to any of the clubs.  I recently visited with one of the other girls in my class who didn't receive an invitation.  She shared that she also waited for the invitation that never came and how hurtful that had been.

It's hard to imagine why the adults in our small town allowed this type of exclusivity, but I'm confident the thrill of inclusion was greater than the thought that a child might be devastated. For me, not being accepted by my peers just compounded the pain I already felt from my home life. The lesson I learned was to always be as inclusive as possible, whether it was parties I was hosting or meetings I conducted.  I never wanted anyone to feel that they didn't matter.

Oh, and that young girl who felt like a loser as a child? For a long time, I thought putting myself through college, collecting three degrees, and having a successful career was the best revenge. Who was I kidding, though? The adults in that small town had no clue that their actions caused any pain to the children not chosen, and they certainly never gave a thought to what became of me.  I finally understood that I'm responsible for my own happiness. Revenge can't survive when your goal is to be happy, to love, and to be loved.

I rarely feel isolated and hurt any longer due mainly to the support and love I've received through the years, for which I'm forever grateful. The love of friends, family, and an incredible therapist opened the door to caring about myself.

My adult life has been an extraordinary and priceless journey that I wouldn't trade for anything, including the rough times.

And I'm still a work in progress.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

DR MCELROY AND TEXAS A&M

Image
  I’ve lived my life with integrity, compassion, and honesty.  I don’t back down from a controversial subject and will always speak out against injustice and prejudice.  I received many benefits from being White, although I was still short-shafted regarding equal pay as a woman.   Case in point: I was replaced by two men when I retired from overseeing a 36-bed rehabilitation hospital and 6 outpatient clinics serving children through adults. The man who replaced me had great difficulty managing the inpatient rehabilitation services. Hence, the Healthcare System overseeing the services promoted a male physical therapist to manage the outpatient facilities.  Each of the men was paid more than I.  It’s probably not a stretch to guess that had I been a person of color with the same credentials, I would not have been hired, and doubly so if I had been a woman of color with the same credentials.   A tenured UT journalism professor was recently recruited to Texas A&M to kick-start their jo
Read more

MY LIFE WITH TERI FLANAGAN

Image
  (Teri authored a story about me entitled "My Life with Dana Rushing" in the local newspaper after I moved from Horseshoe Bay to Austin. It was a total surprise and touched me beyond words. She is now in hospice at a facility in Marble Falls. Teri's husband has given me permission to publish this story. It will be in The Beacon this week.) I’m incredibly fortunate to have a friend I could call to assist me with the various projects I began or coordinated while living in Horseshoe Bay for five years. Other friends also answered my call to action, but Teri was always the first one I contacted because I was confident she would agree to help. Teri once said when she saw my name on her caller ID, she knew I wasn’t calling to chat and that she was being recruited for another project. Still, Teri answered my call. Teri is a talented artist and an avid reader. Her beautiful painting of a colorful donkey hangs in my home. A burnt orange wooden walking stick David made helps k
Read more

ROSA PARKS AND THE DREAM

Image
I dreamed of Rosa Parks last night.  She was sitting in a seat in the middle of a bus with Black men sitting on both sides of her.  I figured they were bodyguards and had joined her after news got out that this 'uppity Black woman' had dared to take her place amongst the Whites. The days of sitting in the back of the bus were over for her.  She worked long, hard days at low wages for a white family and had to take a bus every...damn...day.  Her great-grandparents had been slaves.  Enough was enough.   She felt she earned something more than a seat at the back of the bus.   She didn't know that this small act would set up a firestorm of millions of people being emboldened by her.  More and more people began speaking out, demonstrating, and even rioting to bring civil rights to the forefront.  The battle continued until, at last, civil rights passed.  Racism became somewhat more subtle over 50 years. But the Rosa Parks I saw in my dreams is still in that seat.
Read more