I hated High School. I don’t tell many people this.
Looking back I can remember the shrill sound of the bell at the end of class. I can see myself packing the torn Science book into my back pack. Sl-ow-ly; an over meticulous surgeon. I’d flip the yellow pages and make sure it sat right, parallel to the maths book. I had it all worked out, you see, the longer I packed, the less time I had outside those classroom doors.
“Nobody will want to sit with you,” – said the voice in my head. It said the same thing every time break came. My fingers traced groves hacked on the desk surface. “You’re a lurker.” I watched the kids push, jostle and file out the room. I was more terrified of a lurker than anything in the world – sharks, rattlesnakes, detention, hairy feet, cold peas, Blairwitch Project…
When I was 14 I moved schools. The move was a shuddering betrayal. I moved from a beautiful all girls school in the misty mountains to a rowdy co-ed government school. At the new school I attended to be called a “lurker” placed you at the bottom of the feeding chain. You were day a old carcass, picked apart by vultures and left to rot.
I soon learned my new school had “rules” my old did not. If you wished to survive you obeyed the rules. There was a social hierarchy which I imagine rivalled a prison gang. The cool kids owned the territory by the tuck shop and traded their popularity for your lunches. If you fed them; they said hi to you and you moved up the ranks. The nerds, hibernating geckos, hunched near the stairs. They spoke about the test on Tuesday, or nuclear physics – who knew? No matter what group you belonged to, if you talked to the nerds you qualified for loss of status or immediate dismissal. Somewhere in-between the two poles of this spectrum were the “we’re-not-sure-if-you-actually-attend-this-school” kids. They hid behind the changing rooms and smoked weed. They called each other dude. They owned skate boards. There were also the boarding school kids. They sat near the big tree in the middle of the quad. They were a hardy, confident and malnourished bunch. I was a boarding school kid.
Boarding school kids stuck together, that was another rule. If you were a boarding school kid you did not taint the reputation of boarding school kids by hanging out with day scholars. At some point I made a feeble attempt to break this rule, suffered the consequences, and quickly resigned myself to my position. I have a tenacious spirit so I tried to make it work as a boarding school kid. Somedays were ok. I did well. I said the right thing. I made people laugh and my inner self soared in a cosy sense of belonging. When this happened I almost forgot the fear of being labeled a lurker. I fell pray to the euphoria of teenage acceptance. On these days I too pointed out lurkers and laughed at nerdy kids.
Most days, unfortunately, I messed up. I was shy and sensitive (this wasn’t admired by boarding school kids). When the boarding school kids ditched me I did the only thing a 14-year-old bent on survival could: I booked myself into the bathroom. Life was comparably good seated on the cold toilet seat staring at the back of the enamel white door. Until the voices came back… “You’re lame,” they told me. “Why did you say that?” “You have no chance with any boys,” “you’re too quiet,” “you’re too small,” “you’re boring,” “nobody likes you.”
“You’re a lurker.”
I inched my way through High School, playing by the “rules”. 18 rolled around and I was made prefect. The looming threat of University made me realise it wasn’t entirely bad to be placed in the A class every year despite minimal effort. In my final year of school, the rules within the boarding school kids shifted and it became cool to have friends outside the group. The change had something to do with places to crash on Friday night, older brothers or cars.
I would love to tell you when maturity embraced me, firm and comforting as a Mother’s hug, that the voices went to play in someone else’s head. That wouldn’t be true.
People often meet me and say, “you’re so confident.” In many ways, I am. In the years since High School, my self-confidence has grown, gentle as an unfurling fern leaf. I’ve learned a quiet depth, wisdom and a kindness of spirit are beautiful things. I appreciate me. That doesn’t mean the voices have left me.
Just the other day I walked into a meeting and heard that familiar voice in my head perk up once more. I know now when to expect it. “You’re not smart enough,” it told me. Or “loud enough”. In that instance I paused and then I said a quick prayer. “That’s not true,” I told it back. “I’m me. I’m smart. I’m confident. I’m capable. Taunt me if you wish, but I’m done listening.”
