I Remember Her

I remember the moment clearly in a hazy kinda way. I was with a large group of girls lingering in a small gas station bathroom. Or was it just Margo Grutzmacker, Karen Bergman and me? The floor was made of concrete. Or was it dark vinyl tile. The track meet was over. Or were we on our way there? Karen was anxiously opening and closing the door, watching in case our Coach showed up. Or was that Linda Labee?

I remember the feeling of being trapped. Peer pressure pushing down, crushing my fragile sense of Self. There was a voice in my head screaming “NO!” but no sound came out. A deer in headlights had more ability to walk out that door than I did. No matter what I thought or felt, I was paralyzed.

I remember glancing at my watch. I looked down at its flat face and it stared back at me blankly. In that moment, I knew I was in this alone. Then the hand moved and I was startled and closed my eyes but I could not get away.

I even remember the name of the town: Wahoo, Nebraska. I knew my name and who I was before that day. She felt as though she was someone I might have known a long time ago. She was seventeen. Or was she sixty? Or sixteen?

I remember her as someone I would recognize in a 1968 high school yearbook. The black and white marbled background gives her a sense of place. Her hair is teased and curled up at the ends and the white crisp collar on her blouse is freshly starched and ironed. The irony between how she looks and how she actually feels is imperceptible at first viewing. But her eyes. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the sadness in her eyes. The grief of growing up wounded stares back at me with hollow emptiness.

I remember the rage behind those eyes. Childhood split in two by adults simultaneously too overly protective and too lax. I was extraordinarily immature and ill equipped for adulthood, which was just around the next unknown corner. I had no skills to deal with Vietnam War protests, street drugs, sexless faces found the next morning in dorm beds and across the room unprotected feelings breaking the heart of whoever I was becoming.

Oh, yes! I remember that girl. She was the one who broke into a run in front of the high school boy’s track team. They were all sitting in the bleachers listening to their coach’s instructions and watching me run. I took one extra lap after I’d put on my sweat pants and all the other girls had gone back to the school. For some reason I was craving attention and feeling powerful. My new leather cleats securely gripped the cinder track and I felt long lean legs under me pounding the ground rhythmically with self-confident strength. Suddenly I was flying. I was suspended, senses heightened yet too far away, as in all accidents when time stops. Feet groundless—accelerating forward movement, unstoppable as my right foot caught the edge of my grey sweat pants and pain seared my hands and pride.

I remember it took my dad a long time to pick the cinders out of my chin, knees and hands when I got home. I don’t remember much other than his annoyance and obligatory irritation with the task, really. Pain had a way, even then to lift me up above the room and stop the tears from flowing.

I distinctly remember Karen saying it would be okay. But, there was nothing in me that believed her. A quick click of a Bic, the tip lit...  I inhaled, and the rancid, repulsive heat filled my mouth. My throat closed quickly in self-defense trying to block the putrid, pungent explosion. I choked—then gagged—then felt shame and was embarrassed in front of the girls who were all older than me.

I remember each year after that trying to stop. Trying to quit. Trying to fight off the nicotine creature that ruled my life.  She lay silently lurking, watching my every move. She was cunning and crafty, a calculating, sly master of illusion. She embodied the trickster and seemed to have no feelings at all—just dangerously corrupt, sneaky deception. She loved to exaggerate and contort every feeling I had with insidious lies and a mischievous smile. She had her devious ways to easily convince me I could not live without another and another and another cigarette to cope and simply to be okay.

It hurts to remember how unconscious I was as a smoker. I didn’t care that I was hurting myself. I didn’t care that I was separating myself from the people I loved most. I painfully and desperately yearned to connect with them. But smoking was more important, more urgent. I did not notice when I threw my butts on the ground or when non-smokers were around me when I smoked. Secondhand smoke was no concern to me. No. I didn’t care about anything... except smoking. I always kept track to make sure I had enough cigarettes. I knew where my lighter was at all times. I lived for and could not wait until I could light up and feel that warm calming sensation being sucked into my lungs—even standing outside in weather 17 degrees below zero. Smoking was always at the back my mind. I knew when I would have my next cigarette. I did whatever I needed to smoke because I loved smoking more that I loved anything or anyone. I loved smoking more than myself.

I remember the last cigarette I smoked. Actually I had many last cigarettes...and honestly, the absolute last one is as vague and obscure in my mind as the first. But five, maybe six years ago, smoking stopped. One day her grip on me loosened and slipped completely away taking the addictive behaviors along with her.

I remember feeling lost without her at first. I had lots of extra time to think. Struggle. Feel. I shouted out for her to come back. I didn’t think I could live without her emotionally abusive, toxic companionship. But when she didn’t show up that day or the next I began to live my life.

I remember one day a year or so after I stopped smoking realizing I was relating to my life as an adult for what seemed like the first time. No longer a scared teenager hiding in a gas station restroom—I had real opinions, thoughts that were my own and lots of ways to express my feelings. I had a voice. I knew myself pretty well or at least I was open to learning.

I remember the struggle that young woman endured because I stayed away, crippled without the skills or support to make the leap from adolescence to adulthood. Her life lost it’s light and was clouded with overshadowing anguish. She masqueraded for years as an adult. Shrouded by hurt, as eclipsed as she was, she fought for survival with anyone or anything she could grasp onto. I am grateful to that tenacious teen for her willingness to persevere and triumph, even when life seemed insurmountable and overwhelming. Could I have made it without her sassy attitude, her tenacious drive, and her will to live? I think not.

Every day now I remember the courage in her reckless abandon, her lousy judgment, and her catastrophic mistakes. I remember the agony that weighed her down, the burdens she shouldered. I remember her potential that would never come to be. I remember how severe she was on herself and the choice she made over and over and over every day to live.

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Now I am aware of longing for the essence of her boundless energy, her enthralling imagination and the endless joy she felt when she turned everything in her life into a work of creation. At times, I remember that even though I abandoned her then, now I celebrate us both. And, that makes all the difference.