Laughing Outloud

Wandering Aimlessly
Bound for nowhere
Slipping from your grip
Falling further away
You are gone
I am lost.

Gazing at the blue sky through a dusty public school window, enthralled by the illusion of heaven and hell, space and time, an English lecture on Sylvia Plath hummed in the distance. Her work inspired my writing, but this day my own loneliness and emptiness plagued me. Unlike the other moments when loss of consciousness occurred, reality seemed too great a journey for my young mind to conquer. Dreaming of a future not destined besieged my thoughts. The poppy field which gave opium life, Sylvia’s drug of choice, wasn’t enough to entice class participation. Sadness swallowed my being and left a human shell to occupy my life. Pen in hand, expressions exploded from my essence. Page after page of my lecture notebook filled with words. Somehow the phrases turned into poems. Hiding emotions from the world no longer an option, my heart had begun the healing process through writing. In the midst of September 1983, the verse above flowed into written form. It became my first submission to the high school newspaper after a lengthy explanation.
My sweet sixteenth birthday occurred over Labor Day weekend without fanfare and I found myself a junior in high school. Summer vacation ended as distorted as it had begun. Three months spent in a depression induced trance. During the fog, I registered for the upcoming school year. The realization of randomly selected elective classes became obvious the first day. I wandered the halls searching for unfamiliar classrooms. It appeared, I volunteered one period of my day to the school newspaper. It was an apparent mistake. Perhaps even an oversight by faculty to allow me free press. Whatever, the reason, I found myself venturing into foreign territory. Trepidation gave way to an eagerness to explore publishing my written words. The power to voice disdain for fashion victims and a venue to vent anguish of my teenage heart sparked an interest. Clothing stores, wardrobe necessities, hairstyles and the music icon Madonna were subjects of expertise in my repertoire. The eighties, notoriously famous for “Flashdance” mania and “Like a Virgin” attire, inspired the outlandish outfits I sported. A wife beater under a ripped sweatshirt and big hair granted me fashionable status. Opinions on everything readily flowed from my lips encouraging trend followers. Outsiders both family and friends, assumed the fashion happy portrayal genuine. The misleading persona only became visible when printed. My notebooks filled with sorrow. My soul, deeply depressed and disguised to the rest of the world, hidden behind hot pink bangs and fingerless lace gloves, revealed through sonnets.
The Editor and Teacher, protested vigorously against my first submission. Calmly stating I needed a grade and we, the paper staff, had dead space to fill. The “paper” she explained, needed uplifting and encouraging messages. Publishing for the youth of our school required topics of enlightenment, not depressing lyrics. Undeterred to have my voice printed, I stood before her unwilling to compromise. Before agreeing, she hesitantly inquired about my well-being. The look of a stable youth, stood before her. My words spoke a different story. How could I possibly know such despair she inquired? A detailed account of what appeared to be a joyful sixteen year-old girl with a bright future and the sad truth of my existence followed.
Over Memorial Day weekend, three months before, my boyfriend was tragically killed in an automobile crash. He fell asleep while driving home from a church picnic. His best friend, ejected from the passenger side window and into a ditch, survived. Living without wanting to die, came many years later. Danny’s body catapulted onto the road, as the small truck he drove rolled over him. He died at the scene. Filled with unbearable loss, a part of me died that day as well.
An unlikely pair, he 6’1, blonde hair and endless blue eyes and me 4’10 brown hair and brown eyes, we were inseparable. The Mutt and Jeff show unknown to our generation, prompted frequent silly outbursts from Danny’s father. Amused by our size difference, he enjoyed poking fun. Everyone did. We appeared an odd couple. The views of others were trivial to us. Hand in hand, rain or shine we consistently made time for each other.
Watching the Philadelphia 76’s every weekend during basketball season a given. His professional name already decided, Dr. Daniel Dunkinstein. He loved Dr. J and practiced non-stop to emulate his style of play. Best of friends, we confided in each other, and felt a bond that could never be broken. Futuristic dreams of our pro-basketball life style always ended the same; together.
Supposedly, we belonged to the popular crowd. However, the females in our circle tormented me daily. Each morning prior to class, the “it” girls selected a classmate for a day of mental destruction. I did not arrive in time to participate in the selection process. More times than not, I ended up the victim. My voice carried, but my size was small. The target appeared easy. Preserving my integrity and reputation became Danny’s mission. Teenage girls are beyond vicious. Episodes of verbal harassment, rumors spread, hate notes, my locker vandalized, dirty worms shoved down the back of my shirt, or everyone invited to a party but me occurred frequently during freshman year. Sophomore year circumstances improved. Random character assassination from jealous less trendy females was way easier to deal with. Despite the difficulties, Danny defended his girl and never left my side until he died.
Without my companion, the remaining weeks of school were spent slipping out of sight. Facing the scrutiny of jealous teenagers alone cast darkness on each wakening day. The haters pitied me, which increased the rage inside. Few actually made small attempts to console and grief openly with me. Disgusted with such outrageous behavior, I disconnected from all but one friend and my parents. Summer arrived; absence from school and the haters was greeted eagerly. Gymnastics the sport I breathed brought hope. The intense workouts forced mental clarity. Camps scheduled for June and July were the only outlets I anticipated with enthusiasm.
At the first camp, I destroyed my right knee. Somehow, I caught strep throat and became extremely ill. A guest in a sponsor’s home, in another town, I chose to stay. Missing 2 ½ days of intense instruction pissed me off. Groggy from the prescription drugs productive participation was worthless, so I slept. Friday, the final day, I decided to salvage my last chance to learn new tumbling techniques. Obviously, a poor choice, I could not be convinced. A fever and blistering sore throat were not strong enough adversaries to keep me down. Filled with determination, I came to learn lay out fulls. Warm-ups concluded and event rotations began. Lucky me I thought, tumbling first, while my energy level was still decent. First run, simple handsprings to get the blood flowing. Second run, handsprings and back tucks. Adrenaline pumping for the third run, I came out of my round off crooked. I should have stopped. I kept going, first the handspring and then as my body became airborne, an electric “pop” shot through my right leg. The trick halted in mid-air as I crashed to the mat in agony. My knee immediately grew to the size of a melon. The rest of summer spent recovering from surgery. A metal brace specifically designed for my knee, prohibited full range of motion and was clearly unattractive on a short girl in a leotard. I had torn my ACL completely. Heavy, awkward and ugly, the brace held my patella and lower leg in place. Forced to quit competing in the two events I excelled at, the floor and vault, due to the damage, gave another reason to pray for a sleep-induced death each evening. Danny was dead, and I wanted to be dead too. An innocent pure love, full of promises and dreams for a future not intended.
Ms. Driscoll’s small sturdy frame slumped. Her face wrinkled in bewilderment. Clearly disturbed by my honestly, she was speechless. The truth, no one really wants to hear tragedy and sadness. The reply “I’m fine” always anticipated and expected. Maybe that is why we never “really” discussed my submissions beyond that day. She would glance and give me the okay nod. As long as I followed two guidelines, no profanity or suicide speeches allowed. We needed articles and I had an abundance of useless information.
The few non-haters I considered friends, all but abandoned me junior year. They read my poems and odd collection of short stories and interviews with various eclectic students and deemed me a freak. Assumptions made of drug use ran rampant through the school. A lack of interest in petty conversations and weekend parties concluded I was definitely doing some kind of mind-altering substance. Thankfully, my parents knew the truth, I was with them. Saturday nights spent watching The Love Boat and eating popcorn. They knew I was depressed, but were at a loss of what to do. They kept me close and hoped for the best. I visited Danny’s grave often. I felt his presence and knew he felt mine. Even twenty some years later, I still see him in my dreams. My personal angel never left my side. Always protecting and reminding me I am loved. A distant dreamy smile and laugh refreshed in my memory over and over through the years.
This thread of love and humor, learned from Danny and his death presented itself during the most unfortunate events in my life. Laughter the simple pure joy of laughter has kept me alive. When the dark clouds loomed close to my head, it was then I simply smiled at the sky and laughed inside. I knew I had an angel to share a private laugh anytime I needed one.
One such memorable experience occurred in my early twenties. Humiliating and embarrassing situations take place every day, usually right where I am. On an insufferably hot and humid August Atlanta afternoon, I left an under stocked grocery with an excruciating migraine. Pissed I had to settle for less than what I wanted. Cramps were beginning the monthly invasion of my body, traffic permitting I would be home in 30 minutes. Walking briskly, my bed and the bottle of red wine I held were all I wanted. Alcohol and sleep would heal my predicament. My head was about to explode any minute. I knew the end was near. Suddenly, I felt my thigh highs sliding down my legs, below the short skirt I wore. The overcast sky turning black, almost instantly the rain began to slam down to the earth in sheets. Sopping wet and pathetically in pain, I began to laugh, quietly at first. The harder it rained the louder I roared. Succumbing to tears was not the answer. Crying only made my head hurt more. Realizing I was standing in the rain in a parking lot with thigh highs at my ankles, desperately clinging to wet plastic bags, laughing aloud I even got a little nervous. Looking around for spectators, I spotted a middle-aged balding man with round glasses sitting in an old blue mustang staring at me. He appeared engrossed with the peculiar entertainment. I caught his eyes and he quickly lowered his head and pretended to look for something. The rain slowed to a drizzle and he continued to sit behind the steering wheel. I gathered my senses and resumed walking to my car. Fumbling with wet keys in one hand and bags in the other, I glanced up, he was still watching. I dropped everything except the bag with the wine. Looking at him directly, I motioned to come join the fun. He locked the door, started the engine and left never diverting his attention from the road ahead. I waved goodbye. Admission to the spectacle was free; good manners would have suggested he at least wave.
Self-pity and pain consumed me until I turned into a parking lot freak show. A series of events like this require only the kind of luck I possess. Laughing instead of crying always results in self-empowerment. Besides with as many extreme situations I encountered, laughter has always been the best medicine. Life lessons sent from an angel during periods of reckless abandon, kept my blurred vision somewhat perceptive.
Through loss and love, I have always stayed true to my mantra of saying and expressing what is on my mind. Good manners, etiquette, and proper responses are expected, however, the truth whether painful or not must be voiced. Perhaps, this outspoken mannerism prompted the failed attempts by the haters in high school to destroy my spirit. I believe it is better to ask, than to simply stare and pretend disfiguring scars and apparent disabilities do not exist. While others look away with shame and guilt, quietly thanking a higher power for their health and visible appearance. I tell it like it is. People, in general, do not like hearing or seeing the truth. Complaining about personal issues that are changeable somehow validates mediocrity. Blaming society, the boss, the job, traffic or even lack of sleep is undeniably the refusal to take responsibility for life’s situations. Life is too short to waste breath bitching about temporary circumstances. If blood is not flowing from a torn limb and death around the corner, it is temporary. Extreme as that may seem it is true. Life is full of obstacles and opportunities necessary to strengthen or weaken character. I choose to believe each moment is given to learn, to give, to feel, to share, to love. This lesson revealed when I allowed myself to heal after Danny’s death. It has helped prepare me for the emotional voyage my life has ventured through. I no longer believe in accidents or mistakes.
Life’s path has proven a worthy ally. Grateful, God did not listen to my prayers for death as a teen; I have lived extraordinarily well. While I will say an inter-racial marriage, a son with Down syndrome, a daughter who shares my genetic history, the death of my mother and best friend to Lou Gehrig’s disease and finally my own diagnosis’ with the same illness, has been a whirlwind of highs and extreme lows. I thank my God each evening for restoring my life another day. I have had the pleasure of receiving and expressing pure love over and over. It is good to be alive.
Life is what you make of it. It can be the most precious gift or the worst nightmare. I have experienced both. Now, however, I only see the gift. The gift of life taken for granted until earth shattering moments rocked my world. Change the things you can, accept the things you cannot, and always find humor in both.