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The Cocoon

The Story of a Young Girl Left Alone with Her Thoughts

By Elizabeth OlsonPublished 6 years ago 4 min read
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Photo by Caleb Woods on Unsplash

The most vivid memories I have from grade school all have two things in common: shame, and the desperate, seizing feeling of not belonging. At this point in my life, those memories are all stills. All of the characters’ voices are mine; faces are only a flash of color. But the accompanying emotions, and how I internalized them, have not left my side.

The earliest memory I have of this feeling is from first grade. My teacher is standing at the front of the classroom, helping us through a reading activity. The desks are that ugly, beige color, smooth with rounded edges. Mrs. Wilson asks us to read a paragraph to ourselves and tell her what is wrong with it. I spot an error in the first sentence and proudly raise my hand, the first one in the class to do so.

“Yes, Lizzie?”

“There’s no period!” I giggled. What a silly mistake.

She looks at me as if I had spoiled someone’s surprise party.

“To yourself, Lizzie.”

The whole class laughed at me. Or maybe they didn’t. My face turned hot and I lowered my head in shame. Or maybe I didn’t. This is the only memory I have from first grade.

Here’s another. I don’t know how old I am for this one. It must have been at least third grade but no later than fifth grade. We still lived in my childhood home on Laura Lane. I am at the beach on Saratoga Lake. The water is dark blue and kind of choppy. The sand is too hot for my tender feet, and there are remains of dead fish and the woody, brown pieces my dad called “beach nuts” mixed in. I’m still not sure if he was saying beech or beach, but I’ve never cared to ask. I am standing next to the brick wall we would jump off of for fun, the wind blowing my short hair into my face. Kyle Callahan looks at me in my orange one-piece bathing suit and snickers.

“Are you having a baby?”

I stutter. I want to drown in the lake or hide behind a towel where no one could see me. I don’t remember what happened before or after he said that. He probably doesn’t remember saying it at all. The thing that stuck was that a boy taunted me and used by body as the butt of his joke.

Another one. I’m in fifth grade, standing by the sink in the back of my classroom. Nick Perez and Natalie McCarrick are in front of me. Natalie leans over to drink from the water fountain when Nick asks her:

“Natalie, will you go out with me?”

She stands back up, swallows, and says, “Sure.”

It was as easy as that, and it would never happen to me. All of the girls in my grade were going out with boys and kissing in secret on the playground. I’d never been asked out, and the year was almost over.

They glare at me. My presence was unwelcome. This was a club I could never be part of. I look away and hurry off.

These are the memories that defined me as a child. These are the ones I’ve built my understanding of myself on. They are memories of moments so fleeting, events that happened so long ago, that by now only the emotions remain, amplified and exaggerated to fill up the space the missing details left behind.

I want to reach out to that little girl and shake her by the shoulders and tell her not to forget about the time she won the school spelling bee, and how pretty she felt when she wore that emerald, satin dress to the Renaissance Party, and how excited she was to be nominated prosecutor when the wolf went on trial for blowing down the three little pigs’ houses. I want her to remember the moments that made her proud to be herself. But she won’t. Instead, she will build a cocoon out of the voices that tell her she’s worthless, with walls so thick she can’t hear what her loved ones are saying. No one can see it, and so no one will shake her by the shoulders and help her see outside the walls. No one will rip the cocoon away and let the light warm her skin. Eventually, it becomes part of her and she can’t tell her own voice from the echos.

It will take ten years for her to realize the cocoon is superficial. By that time, she will remember she built it herself, and that she’s the only person with the power to tear it down. But until then, she will sit alone in her cocoon, waiting for someone to breach its barrier with validation that will never come.

Note: Names have been changed.

coping
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About the Creator

Elizabeth Olson

Writer and crafty person. Writes personal essays and op-eds on issues ranging from thrift stores and consumer culture to sustainable fashion to feminism and eating disorders. https://elizabethfolson.wixsite.com/portfolio

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