I'm Nobody! Who are you?

Week 27: On belonging.

Nobody at the beach, August 2019

Last week I went to an art opening for an artist I share a number of mutual friends with. I was excited to see her work in person and connect with people I hadn’t seen in a while. I spend a lot of time at home alone working, so getting out of the house and spending time with other creative people always feels like a little moment of rejuvenation.

At the end of the opening, I was talking to a writing acquaintance when a woman in a long, flowery dress stepped in to say hi. She worked for the gallery, and I knew she knew the writer I was talking to from a previous event, but she and I had never met. She stepped between us, waved vaguely in my direction, and then asked if this writer was going to the thing. The writer glanced quickly at me, then at the woman, and nodded, smiling. The woman put her hand on the writer’s arm, gave her a warm smile, said, great, see you there! and left without looking in my direction. The famous Emily Dickinson line popped into my head as she walked away— I’m nobody! Who are you? I almost said it to the woman’s back but held it in my mouth instead.

The writer and I chatted for a few more minutes and then parted ways, me to my home, her to this mysterious thing that I assumed was a private after-event. It was only after I got settled in bed and opened my Instagram that I saw photos popping up on my timeline- the writer, the woman in the dress, the artist whose art had been exhibited, the gallery owner, some of the other attendees- all perched on stools in the bar adjacent to the gallery.

I spent a few minutes talking myself down from the twists of hurt pulling at my chest. I didn’t have a right to expect an invitation to go out with them afterward, I knew. They all knew each other, and I only knew the writer I’d been talking to and the artist whose work had been exhibited. They were well within their right not to extend an invitation to me.

Still, it stung, and I fell asleep feeling like an outsider— that familiar haunt of emotion I’ve felt for most of my life. I’ve never fit in, literally, with the people around me. I tower over most of my friends, and I stand out no matter what clothes I wear or what comes out of my mouth.

In high school I wasn’t invited to parties unless my much cooler best friend was, and only if she put in a good word. Once there, I never knew how to act. No one would ever flirt with me or hit on me, no one cared what I thought or what I was doing. Mostly I just got drunk and threw up in a bush.

I’ve heard over and over that peoples’ differences are what make them interesting- that the way people stand out, what sets them apart, is what draws other people to them. But I know that what makes you different can also make you unbearably lonely.

Eight years ago, when Carolyn was in half-day preschool, the moms of her classmates all struck up friendships with one another. After dismissal, they’d lean on their minivans and talk while their kids dug in the flowerbeds outside the school or chased each other up and down the sidewalk. Conversations ranged from how overloaded they felt with after-school activities to home projects their husbands hadn’t yet started on.

I’d watch these moms pull up to the school’s curb in their Honda Odysseys, trunks filled with boxes of snack packs they’d bought at Costco with credit cards in their husbands names. I was always empty handed- I didn’t have a minivan or a husband or money for snacks and after-school activities. Our life was a patchworked mess of family assistance, freelance work, and SNAP benefits. I was living with my mother, walking everywhere, trying to keep us afloat one day at a time.

Living in the suburbs without a car is a logistical nightmare. Jack was in half-day kindergarten and wasn’t allowed to get off the bus without an adult to meet him. If I wasn’t at his stop at drop off, he’d stay on the bus until the route was complete and then be returned to school. With no phone to contact the school and no car to pick him up, I was terrified of missing him. I carried Carolyn home from preschool in a panic each afternoon, speed-walking over a mile until we were within shouting distance of the bus stop.

I hung around after preschool pickup as long as I could, wanting Carolyn to play with the other kids, wanting her to be part of their group, but our time was limited. Still, when the preschool moms suggested getting together, I always hoped it would be somewhere within walking distance, and that they’d all be there long enough for me to make it to Jack’s bus stop by drop off and then turn around with both kids in tow and hike it to wherever they had decided to go.

I told myself that people who wanted me around would meet me where I was, but I felt so out of place in the small town we were living in where single parents were almost non-existent and the median household income cleared six figures. The desire to fit in a world where I felt like an alien was visceral— I wanted so badly to belong. These after-school hangouts had the faint possibility of belonging.

Sometimes the preschool moms went to the beach together. I’d see their photos roll through Instagram and feel a twinge of sadness- for myself, but mostly for Carolyn. Her friends were sharing experiences that she wasn’t a part of, and I felt guilty knowing I was the reason she was excluded. If I were a Honda Odyssey mom with a husband and a Costco membership, she’d be at the beach with her friends. Her being left out was evidence of my failures.

One Saturday morning I logged on to Instagram and my screen filled with group photos- all the moms out to brunch to celebrate one of their birthdays or baby showers or whatever. I skimmed through them all until I got to their group photo. The caption read: Gang’s all here! Love this amazing group of women! I burst into tears. I’m nobody, I thought over and over to myself, nobody, nobody.

It wasn’t that I liked these women- I didn’t, not really. They had completely different challenges from my own, and we didn’t relate on so many levels. But I could feel my exclusion and it stung. After a lifetime of feeling like I was always on the outside of things waiting to be invited in, a Saturday morning preschool moms brunch did me in.

It feels vulnerable to admit I want to be included in things, especially when I’m never sure where I belong. Over the years I’ve conditioned myself to love being alone. If I’m never trying to belong, then I can’t ever be excluded. It’s something I developed as a defense mechanism, but sometimes it slips.

I’ve watched as people slowly closed doors in my face, smiling and apologetic. I’ve stood by while people greeted the person next to me, someone better known, and when their eyes rest on me I can see the gears in their minds turning, wondering who I am. I’m nobody! Who are you? I always want to say, wondering if they’d get the joke.

I’m drawn to shows and books about people who are alone because it’s how I’ve always felt- on the fringes, never quite on the inside of anything. I have LO(V)SER tattooed on the inside of my arm as an ode to the Losers Club in IT, and as a reminder that I will always be a loser. Owning that part of my identity is the only way to keep it from eating me alive.

At one point a few years ago, I became a compulsive includer— when I had plans with friends, I’d invite other people along so as not to exclude anyone. Eventually a friend gently suggested that when people make plans with me, it’s because they’re looking forward to spending time with just me. I was stunned. The thought never crossed my mind.

I’m nobody! Who are you?

There is a freedom in not belonging— I never fit in, so I eventually gave up trying. As a teenager I couldn’t buy the clothes or shoes everyone else was wearing because they didn’t come in my size. I couldn’t dress like everyone else, so I got used to standing out.

But I’m human and not immune to want. I want to belong in spaces I want to be a part of. I ache to be on the invite list for the thing. I want to be asked to the beach, to brunch, to art openings and afterparties.

Sometimes it’s terrifying when I think I’ve found a place for myself— I know that when it’s yanked away, when the curator’s friend rests her hand on another person’s arm, when the show is over and everyone is on their way out to the bar while I’m walking home to bed, it’ll be harder to admit I’m back to zero.

In these moments, I retreat into my imagination. I envision a day when, in a moment I feel myself most on the outside of things, someone catches my hand in theirs, gently pulls me in their direction and says: you come, too.