I was unattractive during a time when looks are prized the most. I was fifteen and my most remarkable feature was my braces. I tried to cover my flaws but only so much can be accomplished with a curling iron and Sea Breeze. It was all very unfortunate.
I worked for the dress shop downtown. Mrs. Derrick employed Washington and Lee boys for manning the mens side of the store and local girls to handle the ladies.
My world had become small and dark that year. My parents impending divorce left my family anxious and surly. I withdrew from friends and spent a lot of time roaming the woods with my dog. I think that is why parents asked Mrs. Derrick if I could work for her.
I was a small town girl, homely and lonely. Peyton was handsome and worldly. He drove a fast car and wore Ray Bans. His chestnut hair was always slightly disheveled but his clothes were impeccable. He was friendly and funny.
Within an instant I had developed a crush. I bragged to friends in high school about my cool older W&L friends and before long I had fabricated a relationship between me and Peyton. I wanted so badly for it to be true that I honestly think I fell for my own stories. Of course, Lexington being the size that it is, word circulated fast and a friend's boyfriend, who knew Peyton, heard the rumor. He knew of course that it was a lie but rather than addressing the issue with me, he took the news to Peyton.
Singlehandedly, I had cast myself from lonely wallflower to social pariah.
It was not long thereafter that I ended up on my mother's bedroom floor next to an empty Tylenol bottle.
It wasn't love or shame that put me into that place. Of course I was humiliated and worse, I felt terrible for Peyton as I had besmirched his reputation. I wasn't just simply a spurned girl suffering from heartache, nor was I just a liar caught by her own web... I was sick. But how could a fifteen year old explain that to the 21 year old she had just lied about? I didn't have the knowledge; I didn't know that the beginnings of my manic depression had manifested. I didn't have the arsenal to begin the fight.
Years later, when I was 22, a friend and I crashed a bachelor party in a hotel room in Roanoke, VA. I heard his voice before I saw him. I could feel the flush creeping up my face, the perspiration gathering at my hairline. Christ, I thought, just don't let this be Peyton. I thought briefly, hopelessly, that maybe he wouldn't remember me. My friend grabbed my arm and propelled me through the room. I could feel the bore of his eyes before I looked up to see him. I watched as a slick sneer drew across his mouth. Someone handed me a cold beer and I brought it up to my fevered forehead. Just please, please don't let him say anything, not now, not while I am standing here, I thought. My friend introduced us. I hesitated, withholding my sweaty palm, waiting to see if he could bear to touch me. "I think we've met", he mumbled and walked away. We left shortly thereafter. There was raucous laughter as we departed the room, and I wept quick hot tears of shame, wiping them away quickly before my friend could see me.
You forget while you are balming your wounds, or fighting the throes of depression, you forget that you are not the only one who suffers. It feels like it is you against the world... only it isn't the world. It isn't the unrequited love or the umpteenth traffic ticket or the high tax bill. It isn't the crummy job or the sordid home life or the wretched grades. You want a culprit, you want a foe with a face but the closest you get is staring into the mirror.
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