Dear Mom,

If you were alive, you’d say I was a troubled teenager, which I was, but I also know my troubles began long before. I can trace it all back to my childhood. When I close my eyes and imagine those years, there are pockets of happiness. Small moments interspersed where I can remember feeling joy. But then there are so many moments in between when I have the clear memory of loneliness. Of feeling left out. Feeling like I didn’t belong. 

We moved out of the city and to the burbs when I was three. Our first house, the yellow one on Heatherdown Way, provided some really good memories for me. When all the neighborhood kids would play together, no matter their age or gender or likes or dislikes. Remember my best friend Michael? He lived down the street, and we often ran around together, trying our best to not piss off the old grouchy man who lived next to him. He had those sparkly white stones in front of his house, and we were often tempted to grab a few as we ran by, but the old man always seemed to walk outside just as we were about to reach for one. One time we got a ball or frisbee stuck in his backyard and were terrified to knock on the front door. Later, when we moved, I barely ever spoke to Michael again despite still being at the same school. 

I have these clear memories of me in and out of a handful of houses as I searched for people to play with. The older girl with cats who lived on the cul-de-sac and allowed me to annoy her with all my questions. The family who lived next door to us with the dirty magazines. The house on the corner with a handful of kids and the older sisters who always welcomed me inside when I’d knock on the door. 

Most of my memories must be during the spring and summer. When people were around. When we were outside. Watching our pussy willow tree in the front yard bloom, which the older boys would snicker at whenever we’d mention its name and I couldn’t understand why it was so funny. Our magical backyard with your epic garden and the play set with the slide and swings and the houses that backed up to our property, providing me with a seemingly endless number of doors to knock on as I searched for more kids to ride bikes with up and down our super steep street, which in reality was likely not steep at all. I have fond memories from those warm days on Heatherdown Way.

The winter felt different. Inside I had no doors to knock on. No kids to ask for playdates. I was alone. Playing in the basement with its flying ants and creepy corners. Falling down the stairs so often I’d made a game out of it, but no one ever seemed to notice, or believe me later. My bedroom was home to my recurring nightmares and the spiders who crawled out of the vent in my ceiling each night, which again no one believed was real.

We moved to Lockwood Drive at the end of first grade. Things were different there. Despite the large park behind our house with its soccer field, basketball court, tennis court, two playgrounds, volleyball net, baseball diamond and lake full of buckets of catfish plus a few turtles and Dad’s fishing rod, I was happier inside.

Don’t get me wrong, I had good times rollerblading on the bike path with the neighborhood kids during the summer and sledding off the ditches during the winter, even if one time led to me landing flat on my back on icy concrete. Still, I began to feel like I wasn’t wanted outside. I tried. I knocked on doors. I asked for playdates. I put myself out there. And I got plenty of yeses. Plenty of friends who wanted to keep me company and invited me in. But still, something was different. Something was changing for me. I began to feel as if I wasn’t truly wanted.

My closest neighborhood friends back then had sisters who were their BFF’s as well as parents who wanted to play with them. And when my allotted playtime was over, I’d find my way back home, often feeling a little sad and envious, as the neighborhood kids went back to their houses to spend time with their families. I’d go home to watch TV. Or play Nintendo. Or play with my barbies. Or read my books. Or make bracelets. Or listen to music. Alone. Too often alone.

By the time I was in middle school, I stopped knocking on doors. I stopped asking for playdates. I stopped trying so hard to fit in. I started opting to stay home on the weekend. To read magazines like YM and Seventeen. To read your diet books. To count my calories. And during the summers, I left. Eight weeks at sleepaway camp where I could escape into a new world where there were more doors to knock on and I was never alone. 

I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I had privilege. I had opportunity. I had friends who did care about me. But for some reason, I felt out of place. As if I was supposed be somewhere else. As if I was trying too hard to fit into an image never meant to be mine. Sadly, I don’t think I ever found my place in the world back then. I don’t remember ever feeling like I belonged in Buffalo Grove. And it only got worse when my body kept changing. When my thighs got thicker. When my jeans got tighter. While all the other girls stayed petite.

I hated my body. I had this deep need to be liked by my peers as if finding a sense of belonging on the outside would dampen my need for it within. I thought being skinny and being more fun was the answer. Smaller and more outgoing would fix all my problems.

My therapist mentioned recently that when kids feel lonely, they often search for control and sometimes control can present itself as eating disorders and addiction. This is my story. 

You know what happened next. Not all of it. But you know enough to know I wasn’t in a good place for a long time. I really believe all my issues. All my trauma. All the moments I wish I could forget as well as the ones I wish I could remember. It all leads back to those moments as a child when I felt alone. When I felt like I didn’t belong. When I felt like no one wanted me around.

I know there is something missing from my narrative. Something I’m not remembering right. One piece of my puzzle has vanished. It’s you, Mom. When I close my eyes and think about those years? I don’t see you. I know you were there. I know you read with me. I know we watched movies together. I know you put a blanket on me when I was sick. The problem is the memories without you outweigh the ones with you. And I know memories aren’t always fair and maybe I’m remembering the bad more than the good because those were heightened experiences, and they stick out more. Still. I can’t help but remember being alone. 

It eats me up inside that I can’t ask you about those moments. I can’t validate or verify or cross reference any of my childhood. But even if you were here. Even if your memory showed another side to my story. I know, without a doubt in my mind, there were many moments when you weren’t around. When no one was. And all I have to reference are my own memories. The memories of a child who spent so much of her time playing make believe alone in her room. Imagining other worlds. Escaping into books. Talking to herself. How will I ever know what was real and what was imagined?  

All I can say with complete certainty is, even if I’m misremembering moments from those years, my feelings of loneliness are real. I know this because I still feel this way at times. I still feel as if I haven’t yet found my place in the world. As if I’m knocking on the wrong doors. The difference now is I have a world of doors to knock on. I’m not limited to the street where I live. And every time a door doesn’t open or closes in my face, I have the freedom to try another.

I want to recognize that my loneliness as a child, though it may have not been noticed by anyone around me and no one made me feel like this on purpose, still became my foundation. And I grew from a place of instability, and it manifested as so many destructive qualities for so many years. My loneliness was real. Valid. It truly affected who I was.

But it doesn’t have to anymore. I do have the self-awareness now to know I can successfully shed this damaged skin and grow into someone new. In many ways it feels like this is an opportunity to start fresh and put myself out there in an improved way. I only wish you could do it with me. Because when I close my eyes and think about all the times I felt alone? Well, you were in the house too. In a room by yourself. In your own head. Feeling your own loneliness. And maybe you had doors to knock on, but you didn’t have the strength to knock. You were too tired. Too drained. Too emotionally spent to even consider new human connection. It’s sad to think two lonely girls lived under one roof and never knew it. If only we had shared our feelings. If only we knew how to put words to it at the time. 

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel