Building Blocks

have."

  "Annie?"

  I nodded. "Annie."

  Of all the topics we've discussed during my time in therapy, Annie is probably the subject we've covered the most. She was my first and only "girlfriend," although I've since realized that she and I had quite different definitions of the word. I know I haven't mentioned her much in this journal. I wouldn't know where to really begin. I had thought I'd finally found someone who loved me. It put me on top of the world for a few precious months. Had I known, of course, that the whole thing was a scam, I probably would've felt a bit differently about it.

  I'm not making any sense. I guess we'd better start at the beginning. Tomorrow, then.

  Tonight, there was still one thing left for Doc to see. At the end of the night, when the members of the youth group split up and headed home, Herbie foolishly left without his gloves. He returned to the room just as Pastor Eric dropped Erin's notebook into the trash can.

  All of her hard work was tossed into the trash by a man who called himself "Pastor."

  He stared at Herbie expectantly until Herbie pulled his gaze from the trash and made eye contact. "S-Sorry," he stammered. "I forgot my gloves."

  Eric didn't move. His glare was almost daring Herbie to comment on what he'd witnessed. "Have a good night, Herbert."

  Needless to say, I didn't comment.

  And I never returned.

  Tuesday – Day 7

  Doc seemed concerned when I arrived at his office today. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? You don't have to, you know. I won't force you if you're not comfortable."

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "I know. But if we're going to honestly explore the events that made me the person I am today, then we don't have a choice. The fallout from my relationship with Annie had a lasting impact on how I view society."

  He led me to the storage room. "What if seeing her again increases your feelings of anger and resentment?"

  "I suppose that's a risk," I said, taking my seat in the Chronopod, "but the possibility for a better future is at stake." After a moment, I shrugged and added, "Besides, this whole time-traveling thing was your idea."

  Sitting here writing this, I'm starting to think that Doc wasn't really concerned about the effect today's travels might have had on me. I think he wanted to know how committed I was. Not just to this particular session, but the journey to improve myself in general. Actually, knowing Doc, it's more likely that he wanted me to know how committed I was. After all, if I wanted to continue despite the possible consequences, then I must have had hope somewhere deep inside that I could be fixed. That I could break free from this life of anxiety and depression and learn to be the man that God created me to be.

  Maybe that's why he smiled as he said, "Well then, let's see what sixteen-year-old Herbie is up to."

  Much of my junior year of high school played out like a bad chick flick. It started out like any other year—new classes, same bullies, same jokes. However, when I began my high school career, I had finally accepted that no one was going to befriend me. I was no longer looking for friendship, acceptance, or love. School kids weren't trustworthy; they were bloodthirsty monsters. Nothing I did or didn't do would lead me to find that sense of belonging that I so desperately desired. And while I spent a good portion of ninth grade experimenting with the church and its youth group, I made no similar attempts to interact with my classmates. They had made it quite clear that I was destined to be a loner, so I decided to embrace that role.

  Rather than sitting near the front of my classes, I headed straight for the back. Instead of trying to talk to people, I kept to myself. When others picked on me, I acted like I didn't hear them instead of trying to defend myself. My occasional class participation dropped to zero. In the halls, I walked with my head down and my eyes forward, sparing no time for anything or anyone. I sat alone at lunch. I sat alone on the aerobus. And I took pride in the reputation I developed as a result of my behavior, as embarrassed as I am to admit that now.

  There's one in every class. It's that crazy kid you see in the back of the room. Not the usual breed of "crazy" that wanders the halls of most schools in packs. Those are the ones that typically dress in all black. They'll wear army boots and shirts with skulls or assorted names of death metal bands. All that will be topped off with jet black hair and sometimes makeup, piercings, tattoos, or all three. Oftentimes, they'll be into drugs and drinking. These kids think they're tough. They try to convince the "normal" people around them that they're tough.

  They're not.

  No, the kind of crazy kid in the back of the room that I'm talking about is the one who doesn't need to change his appearance or interests for his classmates to be uneasy around him. His strange behavior and separation from the rest of society are enough to make people wonder about the stability of his mental disposition. He stares into space for long periods of time. When he does look at you, his glare cuts through you. He doesn't have to change anything about himself to convince anyone because he's not trying to evoke a reaction from people. It's not an act to get people's attention, he's just plain disturbed.

  But me? I wasn't crazy. It was the façade that I used to protect myself. In my case, it was an act. That's not to say I sat down and planned it all out. "Okay, here's how I'm going to convince everyone that I'm a serial killer." No, it wasn't like that at all. But once I started keeping to myself and sitting in the back of my classes, people started whispering. I could hear it even if they thought I couldn't.

  "Damn, he looks like a psycho."

  "The guy freaks me out."

  "Look at the guy in the back. Doesn't he look like one of those guys who just goes crazy and shoots everyone?"

  Yes, those were the comments being made around me. About me. And after all those years of having fear instilled in me by others, a part of me was very excited about the idea of turning those tables. So I used it to my advantage. When I caught someone looking at me, I'd stare right back with cold narrow eyes. If I was called on in class—many teachers have the habit of calling on kids who aren't participating—I would look like I didn't care if I knew the answer rather than allowing myself to appear either happy or embarrassed. My expression said I always had something else on my mind, and whatever it was wasn't pleasant. I didn't need to alter my appearance. I just played off of what everyone else was saying.

  Don't get me wrong, I still got picked on by some of the other students. But it didn't happen nearly as often. When it did, I didn't run away. I didn't show fear. I was not going to allow pain—emotional or otherwise—to control my life anymore. When I was threatened, I faced it head on. If someone punched me, I spat out the blood and told them I wanted more. I had to toughen up. I had to. There was no other choice if I wanted to survive long enough to escape those miserable halls.

  That was just my way of dealing with school. Outside, I figured I could return to my normal self. And since I still wanted to make a difference in the world for God, I volunteered to work at a local soup kitchen three days a week after school. It was difficult putting myself into that sort of a situation because of my fear of people, but I really felt that it was something I needed to do. So I worked there for four years while looking for a paying job. I suppose a part of me hoped for a chance to make some friends there, but most of the other volunteers were far older than me. I felt intimidated, so I didn't really talk to them or try to build relationships. I just did what they asked and went home at six every day.

  Other than withdrawing from social situations, I don't think I display any of those characteristics nowadays. Still, I know I shouldn't have been doing any of it. God wants us to interact with the world. He wants us to love the people in the world. He wants us to share His love with the people of the world. I can't do that if I'm isolating myself.

  During my freshman year of high school, I closed most people out of my life. In sophomore year, I closed every
one out. But when junior year came around, my intentions to do the same were undermined by a seemingly angelic girl named Annie. She was a red-headed girl that shared my Social Sciences class. I didn't know much about her when we met; she had attended different elementary and middle schools. But she managed to grab my attention relatively quickly, and for a while, I thought my life was finally going to move in a better direction.

  I would finally have the love and acceptance I'd been pursuing for so long.

  My first encounter with her occurred about a month into the school year. Doc and I entered the classroom as our teacher, Mr. Boboco, assigned a research project about the biggest social problems in our country. Herbie was sitting in the last seat of the second row, hair dangling in his eyes as he scribbled doodles in his notebook. Having never seen myself from another's perspective before, I was a bit surprised at just how angry he looked. His skin was pale, his eyes were dark, and an ever-so-slight frown seemed permanently etched into his face.

  I hated group projects. So when this assignment was announced, I could almost see Herbie's heart drop to his feet. Mr. Boboco said that he had already divided everyone into teams, so at least no one would need to worry about finding a group to join. The students were instructed to arrange their desks