If you’ve missed what this is about, check out the introduction and part one. Otherwise, I’ll be continuing where I left off from “Early Childhood” in this article.

The summer preceding sixth grade was rough. I felt displaced. I wasn’t sure that I had any friends, and when I finally felt like I had made one, felt threatened and that another friend and neighbor was taking her away. It had been a common thread through the previous eleven years of my life — I never felt like I was particularly skilled in making friends. And once I had made a couple of close ones, I was very protective of them. This protective feeling only intensified after my dad left. My friendship with this new individual ended that summer with an emotional outburst on my part, complete with probably one of my first analytical pieces of writing in the form of a letter to her, explaining what I was going through and why friendship was so hard for me. I don’t have it anymore, and I had completely forgotten about it until she reminded me several months back.

Sixth grade was a rough year. I don’t remember a lot of it. It was a trying year that I’ve probably repressed for fairly good reason. Dad was not living with us and there was all sorts of family tension, what with my youngest sister being just barely a year old while all this was transpiring. Halfway through the year though, I do recall my mom signing me up for a youth group event with the church we were attending.

To be honest, my life lacked a lot of stability and normality at this point in my life. When that is combined with my personal difficulty with making friends that had been occurring long before my father’s departure, I know with quite a high degree of certainty that I was just looking for a place to belong. Little did I know what a fight that would become. Regardless, I quickly adopted the youth group and was attending church religiously every Sunday and youth group every Sunday night, always going to every youth event possible. I listened to everything I was told. When there was an special lecture from an ex-Mormon on why Mormons were bad, I dropped all my Mormon friends without second thought (something I am deeply ashamed of now). I gobbled everything up.

That year my great uncle died. I went with my mom to the funeral, and there I saw my late grandfather’s brother who was basically his doppelgänger. I lost it. I cried that entire weekend, finally mourning my own grandfather’s death four years after the fact. I returned and requested coffee with my youth pastor, who I had been talking with on a fairly regular basis since I had started attending. I don’t remember if I had approached him, or he had approached me, but in any case, I rapidly came to regard him as a father-figure in my life, and he openly titled me, “like a daughter”, which of course added to the level of pure indoctrination I allowed myself to be open to. (It should be noted that I in no way think that this youth pastor had any ill intentions and do not think any less of him now. He was acting on his values, and I can respect that. What’s more, I don’t know how I would have survived middle school without his emotional support, advice and wisdom.) In fact, thinking about it now, my youth pastor and I might have begun talking after my great uncle’s funeral. I had brought a written piece with me to help get my feelings out. I knew I needed to talk about them, but I could not depend on my own devices to bring it all up without notes. The youth pastor lauded and was generally shocked by my writing skill, I say this not to boast, but to emphasize how important he was in encouraging me to develop my writing, and therefore my analytical skills.

Sixth grade passed, and my father moved home that summer. He slept in the guest room. The transition was awful. I did not respect his authority and did not feel like I needed to follow the orders and rules of a man who had left us. I, of course, said nothing. Instead, my ill feelings toward my father only grew, and so my meetings with my youth pastor only increased where I was encouraged to forgive him. It did not come easily. I plunged myself into the youth group more, struggling to gain acceptance among my peers. I failed miserably. I went unnoticed. But that didn’t stop my trying. I went to everything, I started a bible study group with another friend (not of that church) in our school. I did everything I could and still did not get any response from anyone in the youth group. The harder, I tried, it seemed, the more spectacularly I failed. Depression began to grow and develop. The worst was gym class, where I felt even more marginalized and ignored, what with me not being particularly athletic. To make matters worse, the most “important” members of the youth group were all in my gym class, and none of them really spoke to me. I began to sink further and further into depression. Meanwhile, though, the bible study that I founded organized and executed a youth rally at the middle school that was fairly successful. I took up other moderate leadership positions in the group. I fought to make a mark, and still felt unnoticed.

Also in seventh grade, my paternal grandfather died. I felt incredibly guilty. The last time I had spoken to him was my birthday a year prior, and I hadn’t paid much attention and had been on the computer. He had been suffering from leukemia and went into a coma in August. In November, when we had made plans to go on vacation to Florida, my grandfather died. I seem to remember having walked into the room my grandmother had him in when he started to convulse before dying a few hours later. I could be wrong though. I do know that he was terribly skinny, bald and did not look at all like my grandfather. Unlike my maternal grandpa, I mourned this one almost immediately. I felt guilty for not having paid him enough attention and for not knowing him as well as I would have liked. I held my dad’s hand at his father’s funeral. Which was big considering the family drama still occurring at the time. Although, after my grandfather’s death, things markedly improved between my mother and father and he moved back into the master bedroom.

So, on top of my issues with belonging, there was yet another death to add to everything going on in my life (not to mention the standard issue ridiculous hormones). Things got worse, especially during the summer when a good portion of people at the youth group were gone for the summer and my general interaction with people went down dramatically as I was stuck in my house. I resolved to read my bible every day, which I did. Reading my bible had been a standard for the entire seventh grade year. I studied it intensely. I learned it. I memorized it. I wanted to know as much about it as possible. This summer is the first one that I still have easy access to my journal entries.

It sucks, the one friend that I’m really getting close to is moving next year. Why does this kind of crap always happen?

S, second grade: best friends, someone who I really got close to…I moved.
J: I knew him from just about birth to second grade, we were good friends, I moved.
M: Best friend in third grade, the one friend that put up with all my crap. I moved.
L: 7th grade, finally, a friend that I can relate to sort of, she’s moving.

I hate this. I don’t want her to move. No one does. It’s not fair. She seems to be fine with it though, I don’t understand.

It’s interesting that I did not acknowledge Katie and Aly, my two longest friends and still likely my closest friends even then. It’s interesting because it shows just how much acceptance into this youth group (hitherto referred to as DC) meant to me. Things were also tumultuous that summer because the high school and middle school were splitting into two groups. This was hard because I felt as though the high schoolers were the only ones that had acknowledged me in any way. But, during this transition, I took an active leadership role. I joined the leadership team, I joined and helped shape the middle school worship team. I took my role seriously.

But everything reached its head on a fishing trip with my paternal grandmother that summer. It had been tradition to go on a fishing trip in Canada with my grandfather and that whole side of the family every couple of years. This summer it was just my immediate family and grandma, and it was the first time she had gone without grandpa. Here’s what I wrote in my journal during that trip:

August 9, 2002: 9:50pm
Well last night made up for not having any deep thoughts.
G convinced Mom to let her sleep in the room with me instead of with Grandma. I had told her earlier that I needed her to sleep with Grandma so I could have my alone time and be less of a grump the next day. When she came in, something inside me just snapped and I burst into tears. It was only for like 3 minutes that it was about G coming in. After those three miniutes, it was just a touch of two years or more of pain and depression being released. Five minutes later, Grandma, who has her own apartment and who’s been complaining the whole trip, comes in and says, “I can’t sleep.” (in a whiny tone).
She finds out what’s going on, or at least what she, and everyone else, thinks is going on and comes in and tells me, “Going on trips is about being inconvienanced. You’re being completely unreasonable.” I promptly tell her to shove off. I wanted to shove what she said about being inconvienanced in her face, but I didn’t. After all, she had made the lodge order her iced tea specially, she was getting a masage, and afterall, since trips was about being inconvienanced, wasn’t this just another inconvienance? She stomped over to Mom and Dad’s room, and proceeded to rant on and on about, “how selfish she is,” and “she can’t go to China if she’s going to act like this,” and, “she is so priveleged, so many children don’t have what she has.”
1. I hadn’t asked for anything but time alone the entire trip. How much had Grandma bitched about? Plus, it wasn’t even about that anymore.
2. I don’t want to go to China if I have to go with her now. I have better things to do. In fact, I’d rather raise money to go there on a mission’s trip. And again, it wasn’t even about G coming in at that point.
3. I KNOW that. Which is why I ask for very little and try my very BEST not to complain. Grandma needs to realize that more than I do. She who has everything, and yet complains about not having enough.
So I yell at her, ‘DON’T YOU DARE CALL ME SELFISH.” She storms in and tells me that I’m being very selfish and sarcastically adds, ‘I’m sorry you had a bad day.’ Try a bad three years. Some other words were exchanged and in closing she says, ‘Everything would be much better if you didn’t have a sister, G, right?’ I choughed out a ‘no,’ over my sobs, but she was gone. I went into the bathroom and curled up in the tub, and deeply considered drowning myself.
I’m just so tired of living up to everyone’s expectations. I’m so tired of pretending to be fine. I’m so tired of living. And I don’t even know why I’m depressed anymore, I have to reason to be, really. It’s just a lifestyle, if you want to call it that. If it’s even living anymore.
I just want to go home and talk to [youth pastor].
I want to just end this thing, this endless, vicious, cycle called life. And yet at the same time, I want to keep going. There is so much I have to live for, and I know that. But last night I was just so fed up with everything that I wasn’t even thinking about that. What stopped me was the thought of [youth pastor] and what other people might think of me if I had killed myself after that incident, not knowing the whole story. That, and the fact that there was still a voice inside of me that said, “I know you still want to live.” So I didn’t do it. But at the same time, the faucet seemed to beckon me.
After I was in the tub (no water) for five minutes, Dad came in and offered me “a chance to start over.” I took it eventually. We walked around. He told me I could talk and he would listen. I still don’t feel comfortable talking about this around him or mom. The only person is [youth pastor]. I think he knows that I’m depressed though. All I said was that I was sick of living up to everyone’s expectations and that I was sick of being responsible. After a while we came in. I went to bed and softly cried myself to sleep, disgusted with myself.
I’m my own worst enemy. I’m afraid to be alone. It’s only a matter of time until I attempt suicide. I wasn’t myself last night at all. I’m am so afraid of myself and what I’m capable of. I’m sick and tired of all this shit.
Today, Grammy didn’t say one word to me about any of the events last night. Though probably, Scott heard about i, Dad and Mom heard about it. S and R are going to hear about, P and K, all her friends. She’s probably waiting for my apology, but she is not getting it any time soon.
I want to tell mom and dad I’m depressed and that I considered suiced, but I’m afraid to. I don’t want to have to talk about it all the time. But they’re going to find out sooner or later. I’m going to talk to [youth pastor] when I get back and ask him to help me tell him.

I never considered suicide again. Things got markedly better after that. Things with my dad started to improve. I finally had fought my way into the “in crowd” at DC.

Eighth grade was a much smoother year. I was finally in the in-circle at DC. I had personally taken several individuals under my wing and assimilated them into the group. I continued to run the bible study at my school with my friend. I read my bible every day. I was an active member of my church. Eighth grade went off without many hitches at all.

But, I think it’s also important to note my political awakenings during those years as well, because those best reflect my perception of the outside/real world.

In sixth grade, there had been a mock vote for the presidential election. I remember having a difficult time deciding, but eventually voted for Gore because he opposed the death penalty, which I opposed as well. Another random lesson that stands out from sixth grade is one on economic systems. The teacher drew a line on the board. On the far left was communism, on the far right, capitalism, and in the middle, socialism. He talked about extreme communism versus extreme capitalism and somehow linked them together in a circle. I don’t remember how, but I do remember the discussion about extremes always being closer to each other and ignorant of the similarities. Such a logical argument has always stuck with me.

And I of course remember when the towers fell in seventh grade. I stood behind Bush. I lauded the “courage” it took for him to quote the bible in his address to the nation. I supported the war in Afghanistan. I supported Bush without fail, without question, unequivocally. All the same, I remember discussions in my social studies class about what to do. I remember several rowdy boys proclaiming that we should “bomb all those turbaned Islamic bastards to hell!!” I disagreed with that strongly. I believed firmly that all of our actions should be measured and careful — that doing such a thing would only encourage more Anti-American sentiments.

I supported Bush unequivocally, that is, until the lead up to the Iraq war. Here’s what I wrote in my journal that I can find:

Anyway. This war with Iraq kinda frightens me. I know that really, it’s probably not going to affect ME personally, but I HATE wars. I think wars are stupid and pointless. However, I do firmly believe that Saddam & Sons need to LEAVE, but they won’t. I would say just assassinate, but he has so many friggen doubles, and they have to take out his sons at the same time, and that’s too complicated, I suppose. And what irks me most is that we aren’t even completely finished in Afganistan. Now, I love Bush, you have to understand (I know, I’m like the only person in the US that does), he wants war WAY too much.

Incase you’re curious why I love Bush, it’s because I appreciate, and am still very amazed at him, for standing up in front of the country the night of 9/11, and reading us a Psalm, reciting rather. He kept a very cool head during the attacks, and I was very pleased and happy to find that he was considering God through it all. That’s what I love him for. I just wish he’d keep doing that.

I’m going to go read my bible now.

A lot of this I no longer agree with. But that’s not the point right now. I do remember, though, in my social studies class that year, being increasingly worried about Bush’s behavior to the UN. I didn’t think it was right. I was nervous. I wanted proof before we went in. I was uneasy with his decision. But I had to make sure my belief in Bush was untouched — because how could I be a Christian and oppose Bush?