Page 7 of Who's Playing You
So once again I shook my head at my own ridiculousness while I scanned my surroundings. And just as suspected: no one. Nothing out of the ordinary.No one cares to look in your direction, Scottie, there’s nothing to see here!
With that, I took a quick look at myself.
I literally cringed. No wonder no one was looking. No wonder no one noticed me.Ever.
I was wearing a tank top with an oversized flannel shirt over it and cut off jean shorts with a pair of once-white Adidas Sambas. I was going to turn thirty here at any second. Perhaps it was time to have my wardrobe age more respectfully along with me? Or look more like the professor that I was, rather than just another student-artist.
At the same time, I felt I should acknowledge the “win” over the fact that the only piece of clothing I was wearing that had paint splatters on them were my shoes. That’s a pretty big win for me. So even though I looked like some grunge hobo artist, perhaps I should practice some grace and be kind to myself. No-paint-on-the-clothing after all!
Perhaps I should reward myself with an iced latte or something for the feat? It wasn’t a hard sell, to be honest, I had quite the coffee addiction. And as I turned towards the coffee shop on this side of campus, I halted and scanned my surrounding area once more for good measure.
Again, nothing.
By the time I walked out of the coffee shop, iced brown sugar shaken espresso in hand, the feeling was back. I stepped away from the door and scanned the walkway and courtyard, but honestly nothing looked out of the ordinary. People were milling about like they usually would towards the end of the second summer semester; eager to get the hell out of here.
I didn’t blame them.
I felt the same way sometimes. But for the majority of the other time… I took a big sigh at the thought of that. The reality was, I had nowhere else to go. I had nowhere else I was welcomed. I wasn’t missed anywhere.
Not really.
This was my home now, unless of course I flipped my thinking to the other side of the coin which was that I was free to go wherever I wanted. I had nothing tying me down - or holding me back. I had no obligations to anyone but myself. I was, technically, free as a bird and could relocate anywhere I wanted to - in the world.
At certain times that felt freeing. But other times it brought on a crushing loneliness and felt completely stifling.
I had no emergency contact. I had… no one.
Not really.
Sure, I had a group of really good friends here in town and at the school. I had a few friends from college, like my best friend Nat, but due to distance and life, we’d drifted apart. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, it was just life.
Nat and I had met our freshman year during undergrad. My first impression of her was that she was someone truly unhappy and angry. I kept mostly to myself and was all about being in my positive aura, but Nat’s aura was so off. Even though we were in different departments, we lived on the same floor in the dorms and somehow we were always getting thrust together.
One day I found her crying in the dorm showers. She thought she was alone. I realized she needed someone and offered her a shoulder to cry on. Before long she’d shared with me her whole life story, letting me in a little at a time. Come to find out, she was beyond furious with her father. He was basically a deadbeat dad and she resented him so much. Meanwhile she said that her mom and her new family were just “perfect” and the quintessential American family, which she loved, but at the same time resented it because she just felt she didn’t fully belong anywhere. She felt like an unwanted outcast, and frankly, I couldn’t fault her for feeling that way because that was the story of my life.
She shared with me that she couldn’t help herself but to take out the hurt and anger that she felt towards her father on her mother and her family, because her dad was just not there. She’d never see him because he was too busy chasing his own tail. When she’d call him, it usually went to voicemail, and when she’d text him, she said it was like a 70/30 chance he’d text her back.
The 70% being he wouldn’t.
Meanwhile she said her mom would text her multiple times a day as well as call at least once. She said her stepdad wouldcheck in with her multiple times a week, while her two younger siblings would text their sibling group chat to keep her up to speed about what was happening at home or in their lives, or just send memes. She said it meant so much to her.
So then why treat them like shit?
I asked her that at least once a week. And she said she just couldn’t help herself. She tried, but it all felt like a constant reminder that her own father rejected her. And he kept rejecting her, making her continue to lash out, because she couldn’t handle the rejection and didn’t have the tools to process or cope with any of it. Due to his absence, she couldn’t take out her hurt on him. And as messed up as it was, her mother and her family were there - constants - and so they had to bear the brunt of Nat’s hurt.
Before our freshman year ended, I helped her find a therapist who after some sessions began making headway with her. Her mom had desperately tried for years to have her see someone, but she would just fight her harder and harder, so her mom ultimately gave up on it.
Understandably then, she didn’t tell anyone that she was in therapy, and I respected her wanting to keep that private. But as a result, her communications with her family while she was at college began to improve. She still struggled when she went home though.
Halfway through our undergrad, she started talking me into coming home with her. It’s not like it was a hardship on my part. Her family was amazing! I loved her mom so much and I envied Nat for having this incredible mother. Her stepdad was a pretty awesome guy too. He was kind and thoughtful and so funny.
As for her siblings, I got to know her sister Nadine a little but she was super busy with her friends and cheerleading every time we went to visit. Her brother Nicholas seemed like a really interesting kid with all he had going on. Apparently he was somehot shot football player who Nat proudly told me was going to go far.
I didn’t know anything about sports really, so I took her word for it. We’d see him every so often during those two years I went home with her, even catching a game or two, where I learned he’s the one who throws the ball.
I was told that’s kind of a big deal.
But I haven’t seen any of the Sobas in years now. Once Nat moved to Philly and I came here, we sadly drifted apart, except for a random “hey” text here or there. Which reminds me…
