Why You Should Live By The Sea

Slander; an ongoing story

Lately I have found myself trying really hard not to remember my days as a student, from middle school through high school. I didn't mind my teachers, but I can't remember I, at any given time, was given extra attention, either. I did well in school, and the extra exercises just kept coming my way. I remember both my teachers and the extra work very well.

I thought I had friends, not many, but I thought at least a few liked me. Now that I am an adult I fully understand how mean the other kids were. Never in an obvious or physical manner,
even though I did get into a fist fight with a boy I thought was my best friend.

I remember being tough and calling him a silly name trying to punch him in his stomach, but when he couldn't see me anymore I cried.

Somehow I think the teachers knew, they just didn't know what to do. I never got into any 
trouble for standing up for myself, even in desperate ways.

One time we had a party at school for 5th and 6th grade. We were 18 students in total. Only two of us were an audience when the other 16 gave a performance miming with playback, to one BoneyM hit after another.

I remember middle school being confusing, and hard. My life was challenging to begin with, the talking behind my back, their planning parties in secret and then let me know in detail after, the grown ups' indiscressions... it was all more convenient to ignore.

Some time in my late teens I tried to go see the worst rumormonger as much as possible, hoping it would limit her. It didn't. It got worse. On New Years Eve, she invited a lot of friends for dinner, and I was supposed to show up after they had finished eating. Unfortunately dinner wasn't finished on time, and I arrived in the middle of their dessert.I remember being blamed for ruining their meal. I just didn't know I wasn't really invited for the party.

There was this understanding between them to operate on the fine line between friendship and excluding me from the special events.

One time the conductor for the tensing choir introduced a new song. He played the song "Love of another kind" by Amy Grant, then asked who was brave enough to be lead singer. I was pushed forward, and I heard them giggle. So I decided not to make a scene, but to prove them wrong. And I did.

I have recordings, and know I am right when I say I did a good job.

Every day I am grateful we moved away and let our children grow up surrounded by nontoxic people. Even though it was work situation which caused the move, it was a blessing. I was so nervous thinking about my oldest son maybe should go to the same school I did, I often felt trapped, just like I did when growing up.

I can't remember anybody ever asking me if I was ok, if I felt sad, or if I needed anything. They never encouraged me... they weren't up front and told me not to bother them again, either. Guess they needed me to blame, perhaps. Or for conversation material.

As we all grew older and called ourselves adults, one should think the story would end. It didn't.

I was chairman of the board in a kindergarden, and had to tell one of the staff (who happened to own the facility) she could not arrange a party in the kindergarden serving alcohol, but she could arrange a party in her private basement (yes, same location) after working hours.

I felt like such an idiot after, when I was told I was petty and jealous, just because I was the only woman between 20 and 30 in the village not invited.

Eventually I stopped trying and just accepted they didn't want me there. I did both them and myself a huge favour getting out of there. Moving to a place with true people, who accept you are what you are, and you do what you do, and you are still worth getting to know.

I have a lot of issues, but I realize more and more how I am not the only one.

My friend (yes, I have a friend I trust) says it is funny we became such good friends, because during the first three years of our friendship I never shared anything personal with her. She didn't know anything significant about me, and that is what she took to in me, because that is what she is like too.

We both have issues from decades back.
So, getting older, mature and work for years and years in your field of profession as teacher, nurse, AD, secretary or.... or.... whatever profession you may think of, one should think the story ends, right?

It doesn't.

When I go to see my parents in the village where I grew up, nobody greets me or stop to chat or catch up. It's like the notion of exaggerated rumors and talking behind my back hovers over me like a dark cloud of guilty silence.

A couple of months ago, my husband received a message on messenger. The message was (translated): "Could you tell her we are having a reunion? 30 years since we completed secondary school. (The name of a different classmate) is arranging the event."

I thought I had forgiven and forgotten. But getting this message from my husband made it all come back to me. I have forgiven. Nobody asked my forgiveness, but to me it was important not to let hurt feelings run my life... and yet they do. The insecurity and hurt I remember from back then, rushed over me before he had even read the message through.

I can't say I felt invited. I felt as if he was told to inform me they were having a reunion.

He replied by sending her a message giving my contact information.

A few weeks ago, my husband received another message saying: "The reunion will be September 24. Enlist ASAP."

No information on to whom or how to give notice.

I still don't feel invited... perhaps even less now that I know they have my contact information.

There is no attempt to get in touch with me. There is no hint I will be welcome if I go.

If anything, it feels worse now, because this time they know what they do. This time there is no question about the deliberate thought behind their way of conduct: They chose to not contact me or really invite me, in spite they have no clue who I am, how I am or what I am today.

I will never know the extent of the stories and characteristics given of me. I can only speculate, but I know some, and that some is more than enough.

It's like a snowball impossible to slow down or crush, because it feeds off how words and stories catch the next even more scandalous one.


Then again: remember this is my side to the story. This is how my memory brings back thoughts on my past.

Maybe I was the terrible one, the one impossible to talk to or go on trips with.

Regardless my flaws: feelings can not be argued, because they are real. Your hurt and misery can not be disputed.

The nights I stayed awake, or cried myself to sleep, they happened.

And some day, maybe, I will be as strong about this as I am about everything else in life. I will do what I today do on behalf of others and confront them. Ask them what I did wrong.

But not this reunion.

This time I was caught off guard. I forgive, but won't forget. And I will be prepared and ready.

Maybe it turns out silence is the best defence and payback after all.
Or maybe I should just write about it.