For years after that, I did everything I could not to be attractive. I made no effort to exercise. I ate whatever I wanted, for comfort, to calm down, for reasons that had nothing to do with actual hunger, because I knew that same wrong person didn't like fat girls. After someone made a positive comment about my long hair, I had it cut short. When I went past a C cup in high school, I started wearing a minimizer bra so boys wouldn't notice my growing chest. I wore so little makeup that my mom started to tease me gently: "Young lady, you march right back in this house and put some mascara on!" I sat in the back, or to one side, of every classroom, never front and center. When I was called on in class, I couldn't get half a dozen quiet words out before someone yelled, "SPEAK UP!" and so I stopped raising my hand.
I wanted to be invisible, a non-entity, to all but my immediate family and the very few people I had come to trust. My formative experiences had led me to believe that the world was filled with Wrong People who would take advantage of me and then tell me it was my fault, unless I kept my head down and actively worked at being unnoticeable.
Fortunately, this way of thinking didn't last forever. As I got further into high school and college (and, not coincidentally, away from the creeper), I cautiously started participating more: on the swim team, in drama class, in poetry competitions, read-a-thons, essay writing and Spanish language studies. My life became less and less about who or what I was to others, and more and more about what I could make or do or try. And as I tried things that interested me, I also started meeting people with those same interests, and getting to know them. (This process was, for instance, how I met two of my very best friends, Carrie and Fen -- Carrie through participating in college drama productions, Fen through calling up and leaving messages on local BBSes.)
At some point -- I'm not sure exactly when -- I decided I was done trying to be invisible. As I got to know more and more people, I had realized that some 90 percent of the folks I met were worth talking to; a smaller but still generous portion of those were actively delightful to be around. It didn't make statistical sense to keep camouflaging myself for fear of unwanted attention, just because the remaining 10 percent were potential creepers. It was like huddling under a huge black umbrella all day because there was a 10 percent chance of rain.
"You're irresistible," the phrase that had haunted me for so long, just wasn't true. It had never been true. It was only a flimsy attempt to excuse inexcusable behavior, by an adult who certainly knew better but who still decided to let a child bear the burden of a lie.
I suspect that many people who grow up dealing with addicts, abusers, narcissists and the like -- the 10 percent of society you really don't want to know -- develop an overinflated sense of risk aversion. They already know there are creeps and bullies in the world, so they stay quiet and keep their heads down because the person sitting next to them, or the person who came over to talk to them at lunch, or the person who tries to start a conversation at work, Might Be One Of Them. And while it's true that anyone might be part of that dreaded 10 percent, chances are much, MUCH greater that any one person with whom you come in contact is part of the harmless majority. Some will be fun to talk to. A few will be wonderful. One in particular might be perfectly simpático. But you'll never know unless you remove the camouflage, reveal a bit of your true self, and take a chance on another person.
(Oh yeah, and if you don't know what I'm talking about, but you notice someone at school or work who keeps to herself a lot? Go over and say hi. Be patient. Don't tease in a mean way or push too hard. Find the things you have in common. It takes a while for people who have been hurt to open up, but trust me: you'll want to be there when she finally blooms.)
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