nesting dolls

In the fall, our youth group took it’s annual beach trip. 48-hours with little supervision and hundreds of new faces. my friends and i scoured the boardwalk for anything with a slight hint of amusement. we met a guy our age playing the guitar. his curly hair and haphazard appearance charmed each of us. he flirted, casually mentioning that we were attractive. one of us, more skilled than the rest at rousing entertainment, asked which girl of  liked best. he pointed to me, “i like her,” he offered as he passed me a wanton smile. my outsides clenched my insides and my skin became hot. i tried to force a smile, but it came out more standoffish than encouraging. 

it wasn’t that i didn’t appreciate the attention, or reciprocate the aesthetic admiration. i did. but i felt like a fraud. like one of those intricately painted matryoshka dolls, standing along side her sisters; that you open disapointedly, because it's hollow and plain. 

boys as friends

during this time, i also developed close friendships with a few guys that consisted mostly of us sharing our deepest hurts and theories of why they existed.  without being conscious of it, my compassion for them and ability to understand them was seducing; and they quickly became obsessed with me. the feeling was always one sided and it tormented them to the point of becoming or revealing a deep depravity.

one of them, Damion, who was four years older than me, literally built a shrine of me in his bedroom. and although i never saw it, he made certain i knew it was there. describing the amount of space that it took up and hinting at the types of things gathered there, a lock of hair, a drawing, a few poems. but each time he mentioned it, he would also hint at something else there, something darker, that i was never allowed to see. still, his confession of it, and the way he shared it was like he thought it was a gift to me. as if, in knowing his devotion, i would feel obligated to him. despite this, i didn’t run away. perhaps i was too lonely. or so young that i didn’t understand the implications of the confession. the fact that it traced the perimeter of a much bigger, and likely clinical issue.

neither of us drove, he didn’t have a car and i didn’t have my license. and he would often walk the 12 miles from his house to mine (or that’s what he said). there were so many things about damion that i was unsure of; and i put a lot of energy into trying to discern where the truth in his accounts was hidden. perceiving my efforts only compelled him more. he began to tell my guy friends, that i had a severe illness that i didn’t want to talk about. or that we were secretly dating, but that my brother would beat him up if he found out. still, it wasn’t right away that i learned of these things. and so our friendship grew.

we would stay up all night, smoking cigarettes on my porch, sharing and trying to understand who we were. admittedly, he had some emotional issues, and spoke vaguely of being hospitalized. but despite this, or maybe because of it, he had a lot of insight into me. he would tell me why he thought i felt a certain way and i would accept his interruption. yet, now and then he crept in a little blow, that even in the moment i knew was intended to wound; even though it was said  in a way that appeared accidental. he would let the comment drift out of him and slowly float it’s way over to me, like a feather. lingering just long enough to make an impact. then, he would sweep it and me up, by sharing a poem or a song that he wrote for me.

one night, he borrowed his moms car and let me drive it around town. as i glided through the residential streets of neighborhoods that seemed endless, we dissected each other’s souls. he shared, as he had in the past, how his father died, but this time he added that he was in the room. the next time, he would say that his sister was there too, and he had to protect her. still, the next time, he would say he tried to wrestle the gun out of his dad’s hands. in the darkness, with my eyes on the road, he would confess that after his father’s suicide the real tragedy began. but he wouldn’t say what it was. he wanted me to want it. to see the agony in his story and beg to fix it; and i would.

as time past, things grew a little more strange. the poems he wrote for me, would be written on his body. the people in his life became owners of islands and heirs to thrones of small nations. and eventually, the manipulation became too much. i could no longer discern what was true and what was a lie, either about his story, or my own. so i cut him out of my life. and although it was clearly a strange and twisted relationship, i was still thankful for all the hours spent in conversation. not because of his insights, but because it was through them that i realized i needed more help than a companion could offer.

the other friendship which dropped in and out of my high school time-line, was with a guy named Laurence, who would continually try to submerge himself with me, to the point that it frightened me. still, we continued to be good friends. he had his license and would drive me anywhere i needed or wanted to go. everyone thought we were dating. at youth group, if he perceived me to be flirting with someone or talking to someone for too long, he would leave me there, to find another way home. one day, he took me to my psychologist, 45 minutes away. we got into an argument on the way, and he deserted me. clearly, he felt used. clearly, he was being used. it’s not didn’t care for him, i did. or that was intentionally taking advantage of him. he was one of my closest friends and i laughed more with him than i did with anyone. but i should have cut him loose. because, as much as i tried, nothing could make me have the feelings he wanted me to. and although i would justify myself because i had told him this, he wasn’t strong enough to end it on his own.

one night, he snuck into my room while i was sleeping. he crawled into my bed, gently put his hands on me and begged me to love him. i threw him off me and yelled at him to get out. he wouldn’t leave. i told him again and again, apologetically that i would never have feelings for him. it was clear he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, but he couldn’t let it go. he tried to wrap  himself around me. “it just feels right,” he said in a voice that strained to sound soothing. “get the fuck off me,” i demanded. he kept urging. “just try it.” his touch was gentle, even delicate. as if he was a mother, trying to get her child to sleep. and yet, there was such desperation in it. a need that made every cell in my body want to disperse to another world.

it was late, but all the pleading and cursing woke my little sisters and they crept downstairs to get my dad. in the meantime, laurence kept trying to cajole me, “ashlee, i need the rejection only you can give.” just then, my dad yelled into my room. the depth and strength of his voice seemed to fill every part of it. he was going to kick laurance’s ass if he didn’t leave, immediately. it was over. for that moment, and for the rest of my life.    

       The Spring was about the only time I was glad to be home schooled. Megan and I would seclude ourselves upstairs in our rooms to do our work. Then we would take our work, with the company of towels and cigarettes onto the roof and sunbathe. we would talk about the boys we liked and the neighbor that Megan was asking God to transform...into someone uglier. we would dissect our parents marriage and come up for solutions for their fights. all the while, the warmth of the sun slowly making it’s way up our bodies as the cigarettes, one by one disappeared and our school books remained untouched. 

     my parents had 10 kids and i suppose it’s pretty needless to say that we were poor. and not just American poor, where you have to buy your shoes from Payless instead of Nordstrom.  i don’t know where the next meal is coming from, poor. still, as my mom would say, “God provided.” people from our church would anonymously drop groceries, new shoes, coats and towels at our door. my mom would be overwhelmed with anxiety about how we were going to pay the mortgage and a check would come in the mail from our aunt and uncle. this happened over and over again, for years. still, there was no air condition, which due to the dark wooded area we lived in, lent itself to mold growing all over the baseboards. we washed it off every day with bleach. and it grew back over night. there were ear infections that lead to ear drum explosions. stitches my parents would remove themselves and abscessed teeth that they would preform home-spun surgeries on. but we never really minded.
one of the ways that we got by was by going to a food drop, on an urban street, in the projects of a near by city. Megan and i would do the pick up. the locals would call us by name, welcoming us into their “hood.” unshaven, toothless black men would insist on taking the boxes of organic, day old food out of our hands and carrying them to our car, which by the end would be packed full. i don’t know that i’ve ever felt so much a part of something. i wanted to move there.

church had just ended and i was trying to find something good to take away from their Halmark style analogies and fluffy ideas of God, when one of my boyfriend’s friends (an interesting one, that i wished would find me worthy enough to befriend) approached me. the popular kids joined him. he asked if he could take me to lunch. confused, but washed over by the pleasure that comes when you have made a grand achievement, i agreed. “yeah, like i could take you to Wendy’s and buy you 10 Bacon sandwiches,” his friends erupted in laughter. i smiled, trying to pretend i was in on the joke... “i sat behind you in church, and i could see every bone in your back. it was gross.” i pushed out a laugh and tried to turn the conversation to something else. i complimented his girlfriend on her shirt. we made small talk. the circle dissolved. i went home for lunch; and although i was disappointed, i also had a sense of fulfillment. it was like getting an A+ on a paper. my bones were showing.
 

        Megan was on a kick. she was inviting everyone that crossed our path to church; most of them disgruntled social rejects. and despite their excuses, she would show up to their houses on Sunday mornings and sweetly persuade them to join us. we would pile in her five-seater 1987 Nissan, me on top of the three boys that lined the back seat, Megan's boyfriend in the front seat, smoking one last cigarette before we reached the church parking lot. we would pull out our concocted recipe of lotion, body wash and perfume and cover ourselves in it before we entered the sanctuary. after church, Megan and i would help our mom make a number of lasagnas, garlic bread and salads, while our friends entertained themselves on our trampoline. my mom's belly was swelling with her 10th child, but for some reason she let us bring more kids into the house. i had just finished pouring the garlic butter mixture over the bread and was putting it in the oven, when one of the guys, Travis, came in to keep us company. he was one of the more sullen kids we solicited to come to church. clearly smart, but definitely trapped by wounds that penetrated so deep and had been there so long that he didn’t even seem to notice them. i began cutting the onions for the salad. he corrected my technique. i was glad for the company, but always felt nervous when criticized. if he paid too much attention, he might see that there wasn’t much to me. the smell of baked bread began to fill the air. when i pulled it out and cut it, i began to take a sample. Megan took over the salad. Travis watched me. “you know, you wouldn’t be so fat if you didn’t eat so much,” his comment heavy with contempt. my throat swelled with embarrassment and panic swept through every part of me. Megan stopped cutting. somehow he had transplanted the wounds he carried into me. hot tears closed like a curtain over my eyes and i ran to my moms room and locked myself in the bathroom. deep humiliation poured over me. i didn’t want to live. he was right., i thought. i was 5”5 and 140 lbs. when i was bored, i ate. when i was nervous i, ate. when i was sad, i ate. still, as a dancer, my over eating didn’t do that much damage. or so i thought.  
       in the bathroom, i thought about killing myself. then i wouldn’t have to face anyone else. and the thought of Travis's regret comforted me. Megan knocked on the door. “Ashlee, come out. he’s an asshole. don’t listen to him. you’re beautiful. you’re perfect.” i sobbed. i wasn’t. i knew i wasn’t. no one would ever take interest in me if i was fat. it was disgusting. i was disgusting. how could i be such a gluttonous pig? it was repulsive. i'm never going to eat again, i thought. i will get so thin i’ll die. slowly.

    

        9th grade was a good year. megan and i made friends with a girl named liz and the three of us were inseparable.  somewhere along the way we met a group of guys that lived in a lower class neighborhood, a city over. they would come over our house and we’d sit on the roof of our family van, wearing over sized coats and under sized shirts. we would smoke cigarettes, make out and try to evangelize them.