I was 21.

In the fall I moved back into Dudley Dorm as the second floor RA. It was my favorite job I’ve ever had. Being an RA was part disciplinarian, part confidant, part mediator, part counselor, and part sister to mostly freshman and sophomore girls. It was a hard job for someone who was falling apart on the inside.

That fall I met another redhead in Walmart while buying things for my room. She knew me, was excited to meet me, and I thought she may just be a crazy person. She wasn’t. She was Darla and we would become great friends. She worked in the Housing Office and would later be an RA, a Hall Director, and one of my bridesmaids.

I would also meet a country girl from Mississippi who would be one of the most incredible women I’m privileged to call a best friend. Kim Covington had an accent that said “come sit by me and we’ll talk about people.” Obviously we would be fast friends.

Fall quarter was ok. Scott and I would break up and get back together before he graduated that November. He got a job in Shreveport and I was relieved he was close by. Within a few months he knew it was not the job for him and flew to Houston to interview with KBR of Halliburton. They hired and moved him to Zachary. It would be the first of many moves.

I was struggling that year, but had great residents who became friends. Jennifer K and Kristi T, Becky and Elizabeth, Deborah, Tory and Amy, Cheryl, and others. The girl who lived next door to me was obsessed with Selena and had some sort of shrine to her in her room.

There was Transformer Girl (TG), who always wore a cape and carried a Transformer around. Once I was on duty at the desk when the whole 3rd floor came to tell me there were screams coming from her room. I went to her room, armed only with my master key and knocked. She apologized and said she was simply jumping up and down on her Halloween doormat that made screams when stepped on. You know, like you do. She was the most peculiar person I’ve ever met. Still. TG got a boyfriend who was confined to a wheelchair. Everyone talked about it, but of course, not to her. One week I had to enter her room to drop off something and I snooped without picking up or moving anything. She didn’t have a roommate (crazy tends to run off roommates). There was a mini casket atop the extra bed and a caldron. I was spooked. Then I saw it. The framed prom photo of her with her Optimus Prime action figure in a tiny tuxedo she had made for him. Shortly after that, a few friends and I were on the hall that bridged our dorm with Adams. The bridge was all windows and looked out onto the Adams courtyard, where on that particular day, TG was having sexual relations with her boyfriend on his wheelchair. A person cannot unsee that. And now I put that in your head. You’re welcome, readers!

Spring quarter ended. I decided to go summer quarter to try and get my credits up. Summer school would prove to be the worst decision I could make.

I moved into Kidd, the dorm from Hell. My parents came to help me move. I should have known it would be a bad summer from Kidd’s greeting of the light being out in the elevator when I moved in. I was assigned to the 3rd floor, which was all athletes. Not my usual crowd. I didn’t made friends with any of my residents that summer.

Scott and I had broken up again. He was moved to Macon, GA. The summer was not starting out well, but my dad had come to move my pink loveseat to my suite in Kidd. The only good thing about that dorm was having an entire suite to myself and my own bathtub, where I would spend a great many of my evenings.

In the spring, I’d hung out a little with one of my resident’s cousins. His name was Greg and we would go to downtown Ruston to have coffee. He was nice. His hair was a little shaggy, he wore off-brand Timberlands, and had extremely intense eyes. One afternoon he asked me to go on a drive with him to look at an abandoned farmhouse. I was into that from the word “abandoned.” He drove an old pick-up truck and after driving for 20 minutes it became obvious to me that there was no farmhouse; there was nothing we were going to see. I became very still and reached into my purse for my keys with the attached pepper spray in a pretty cover. I sat on my hands and said I had to be getting back to meet a friend for dinner. He said he wanted to drive just a little longer. I didn’t speak. He didn’t speak, but looked at me. His intense eyes became frightening. I insisted he bring me back to my dorm. Just back to campus or to my friend Carole’s apartment. Anywhere but alone with him. After a few minutes, he snickered and made fun of me for being a city girl and tried to act as if I was a prudish bitch. He turned around and drove me back to campus. I thought that would be the end of that. I was wrong.

I spent a lot of time with my friend Carole. She was the sweetest friend ever. She had an apartment not far from campus and we would get snowcones or ice cream from Baskin Robbins and watch movies. She became my safehouse from Greg.

At first, Greg was just a little off and called me everyday. I didn’t pay much attention to it. He would ask how I was, flatter me, tell me he wanted to take me out for coffee. I would give excuses for not getting getting together and to get off the phone. The air conditioning went out in my suite and it took a week to get fixed. I spent those days in the Housing Office hanging out (and hiding out from Greg) until they closed in the afternoon, then I would return to my 90 degree room. I dropped one of my classes.

We had a “man check” at 2am one night. Men were not allowed in the dorms between 12am and 12pm. Every so often RAs and the Hall Director (with a campus police officer standing by) would conduct a man check, knocking on doors, saying “man check” and opening rooms with our masters keys and flashlights. Most often there was nothing to report. Once in the same night, there was a naked couple on the first floor, man yelling “lemme get my pants!” over and over from the bathroom. On my wonderful floor we walked in on not one, but two female couples in the act. This was not against any rules and I didn’t know what to do besides apologize profusely while backing out of the room with my eyes closed.

At 3am, once the man check was over, I walked half-asleep to my room. My answering machine was blinking. I pressed play. There were nine messages from Greg. He made it obvious he wasn’t giving up. The next day he called an said he’d like to see me and I told him I was heading out to class. He said he was downstairs at the front door of my dorm. This became a regular thing and I couldn’t leave my room. I was afraid. Tech police said there was nothing they could do. He would show up at the windows downstairs while I was on RA duty. Those nights I would make constant rounds and hang out with whoever was around. I stopped going to classes. One day I got suspicious when my stalker was outside my dorm. I called a friend in Admissions and found out Greg wasn’t even enrolled that quarter. Finally campus police escorted him off campus.

But it was too late for me. I had become agoraphobic. I got a letter from Dana, she had become engaged. I was thrilled for her. Housing announced I would be placed in Pearce (formerly a boy’s dorm) as Senior RA  and Kim would be on the 3rd floor. I was happy and finally had something to look forward to, but I still stayed in my room. The summer from Hell was over.

I was 22.

My friend and fellow RA, Perry, helped me move into Pearce. I painted my very brown room a bright white. Kim and I would say we were taking Pearce back. I painted flowers on the office bulletin board. We were having a blast. The only wet blanket in early fall was the second floor RA. She was the worst, meanest girl. Just mean for the sake of being mean. I did what had to be done and subscribed her to Cat Fancy and Bird Talk magazines. This would prove to make her enraged, but not knowing who subscribed her, I was safe from any repercussions. No one was going to ruin my fall.

One day Kim and I came back from the Student Center together and there was a long note on my door dry erase board. It took up the entire board. It made no sense and was from Greg. He had gotten into Pearce. He would return and leave notes when I wasn’t there, saying he wanted to return my Fleetwood Mac CD. A guy Hall Director friend said something had to be done because of what had happened all summer. I don’t know what was said or done, but Greg never bothered me again.

Scott started calling from Georgia. He wanted to come in for Homecoming and I said that would be a great idea. We got back together and things were good. Things were great with Scott. Life was good. Well, it was on the outside. Things were not good on the inside. I barely left my room. I only went to one of two classes. “It’s raining, Kerry’s not going to class” became something my friends would say as a joke and it was funny, but it was true. Raining, hot, windy, cold – any excuse to stay in.

Kim, Darla, and Becky were able to get me out of the dorm and to the Student Center for mint chocolate chip shakes and Chick Fil A. They made me go to the Intramural Center to workout. I would ride the stationery bike and listen to the Pet Shop Boys Disco tape, an album of long remixes – still fantastic to bike to. The three girls were great friends. They had no idea what I was going through, but they loved me and tried to do what they could to get me out and doing things. We all watched ER and Friends in my room, where I kept the temperature a brisk 63 degrees. I had pink patterned carpet. Becky would talk about the Catholic Student Center, Darla would tell us about the going ons at her dorm and Student Government (she met a boy there). Kim would blow up the microwave in my floor’s kitchen making Rotel dip in a metal pot. How does someone get to be 21 and not know metal doesn’t go in the microwave? One night I smelled something funny on my hall, so we called another good friend, Laurel to come over to sniff for marijuana. I’m not sure why Laurel would be the authority on this, but she was better than a drug dog. Hillary and I would take an epic speech class together taught by the BEST Ricki Lake lookalike you’ve ever seen. I don’t remember our speeches (at all), but our two desks were next to the door and faced the rest of the class. It was super odd, like we were observing the class, but not really in it. We still talk about how strange that was. And how amazing the Ricki Lake-alike was.

Between fall and winter quarters I visited Scott in Georgia. My friends were convinced he would propose. A group of them drove me to the tiny Funroe airport. I was on time. I was early. The girl at the counter told me the plane had left without me. My heart started racing. A friend spoke up, “how could the plane have already left? It should still be boarding!” Clerk girl said “sometimes this happens.” No. Just no. I am the only person this happens to. The next plane to Atlanta was a few hours off. We went to the mall, then back to the airport.

I boarded the plane with two other people. I turned on my walkman and pretended to sleep the entire flight. Scott was there to greet me, not having known why I missed my original flight (remember, this was before everyone had cellphones). I cried the entire way to Macon because the whole thing was traumatic for me. I missed my flight. My boyfriend was supposed to propose. My makeup was all over my face. We pulled up to Scott’s apartment and once inside, he proposed. I said “yes.”

We decided to get married on Memorial Day Weekend, but switched it to July 5th after Scott called his friend Mike to ask him to be a groomsman, only to find out Mike had just proposed and they picked Memorial Day too. We talked and talked and talked. He had been saying all quarter that I wouldn’t graduate on time. I knew I wouldn’t. I couldn’t even leave my room to go to class. I was racking up debt and had done my classroom observations and knew I wasn’t teacher material. I cursed too much and couldn’t deal with asinine people, much less teenagers. Then there was the English curriculum. Teachers couldn’t just teach what they wanted. It wasn’t what I thought it would be. I had no direction. None. I wanted to write. I needed to write. I decided to drop out of Tech at the end of winter quarter. It was not a difficult decision.

But I was still in Ruston. Aimless.

 

Part 2.3 will be up later.

 

 

 

 

This is one of the many empty picture frames I own. I painted this one a cheerful yellow a year ago and haven’t come across the right photo for it. 

  

I really can’t think of many things better than: 

  

  
So, The Second 40 and I are doing this photo challenge for the week. Today is distraction. I am distracted all the time, but the game Disco Bees keeps me distracted between distractions. 

  
I love this game. And one of the members of one of my favorite bands, OK Go is one of the creators. 

I was 19.

I remember moving into my dorm room at Louisiana Tech. I remember bringing my Macintosh, stereo, CDs, clothes, and personal stuff, but I cannot recall how I got there. This is very strange because I have the best memory of anyone I know, so I must have blocked it out. I didn’t have a car (I didn’t even have a driver’s license). My parents must have brought me. I met my roommates; they were nice enough. They were best friends from a small town outside of Shreveport and were sophomores. They went home almost every weekend. I would catch a ride with the frenemy once we were speaking again. She conveniently lived next door to me: a constant reminder of the person I wanted to leave behind in Shreveport, the Depressed Kerry. I wanted to go to college and start over, but I couldn’t. Depression isn’t like that.

My classes were ok. I made friends. I would hang out with my dorm neighbors and their friend Hillary, who was quirky and I could never decide if she liked me or not. We would end up being lifelong friends (and birthday twins). She got my brand of quirky. On the other side, the frenemy continued to be a basketcase.

On December 9th, my neighbor friend asked me to walk to the Student Center with her so she wouldn’t have to walk alone to the Christian group The Fellowship. I called ahead and ordered a pizza to take back to the dorm. For some reason I wasn’t worried about walking back alone. I was standing under a neon sign the said Pick Up. A tall guy in a green hoodie came up to me and said “hi, I’m Scott Faler” and I half expected him to hand me a business card. I said “I’m Kerry Branton” and he asked where I lived, where I was from, basically my life story in ten minutes or less. My pizza was ready and I said goodbye to this guy from New Orleans and walked back to my dorm (because pizza is always there for you).

The next night the guy in the green hoodie called. He remembered my name and dialed the Tech operator for my number. He called when I was Christmas shopping with friends in Funroe (Monroe), spending money I didn’t have on credit cards that I applied for in the Tech Student Center just to get a free tshirt. After all, what kind of company gives a credit card to a college student who accurately lists their income as ZERO DOLLARS? Once back in Ruston (the town with only a JC Penney and a Super Walmart), the roommates told me Scott called.

A couple of days later, he would come to my dorm room with a video tape and play for me his segment on the 700 Club. I knew of the 700 Club with that TV preacher who looked like the Keebler Elf and prayed for people through the TV. I was skeptical. My relationship with God at this time was strained at best. Before the depression, I had been a Christian for what seemed like forever. I grew up in Shreveport’s First Church of God, going mostly with my grandparents and my mom. I would go to a few different Vacation Bible Schools each summer. When I was 11 I accepted Christ as my personal savior. After that, I would help with crafts at VBS for a few years before the depression sank in. Depression makes it hard to see God, to imagine that there can be a time when the depression will not be there, that God really does care for you. That ANYONE really cares for you.

So, it turned out that Scott had been in a car accident that left him in a coma and he had to relearn to live all over again. I couldn’t imagine it and wouldn’t have believed him if he hadn’t shown me the tape. Was this guy for real? Who tells a girl all this heavy stuff the first time he comes over? He was nice and smart. A few days later I would see him in front of the Housing Office and he said he’d call me after winter break. I had absolutely zero faith in this.

My grades were not good. I had somehow failed remedial math fall quarter. How stupid do you have to be to fail remedial math. I remember telling Will and him just saying “how?” in disbelief. I went home for the winter break and told my family I was fine. Sure I was fine, I was retaking remedial math and barely leaving my dorm room and had gained enough weight to bump up to a size 18. I told my aunt that I met someone and she said “you never know, you might marry him.” Marry him? Kids and all that? It was kind of funny, I guess, but I never really saw myself as a married-with-kids kind of woman. I’d only majored in English Education because friends and family said there would always be a need for teachers and that breaking into journalism would be extremely hard. But I was going to be a writer. I was going to write for Vanity Fair or Rolling Stone, then write the Great American Novel. I was depressed. I was suffering. All great writers had suffered for their art. This was me. This was what I believed.

I went back to Tech after winter break and was back before my roommates. Scott called and asked if I wanted to go to Wendy’s to get something to eat since the student center was closed (and I didn’t have a car and would surely starve to death). I said sure. We met on the sidewalk between our dorms. He lived in Pearce, the smart guy dorm. He drove an Maxima. He now had a full beard and wore a red plaid flannel shirt. Great, a lumberjack. We went to Wendy’s and talked and laughed for three hours. It was the best cheeseburger I had ever had. We started dating. I started going to Campus Crusade for Christ with him and met more people. I was leaving my dorm room more. I met Dana Frusha. We immediately clicked. She was a bright spot that winter and spring. We were in the same major and would have classes together. We would make fun of our advisor and write haikus in class instead of paying attention. But Dana actually passed her classes. And she kind of dressed like a lumber jack. It was the 90s.

I was taking a new load of classes in the spring. I was out of my element. I was taking college algebra and physics. My high school friend Brandy was in this class with me. We sat next to each other on the first day when Brandy said “but you didn’t take high school physics!” after the teacher of the “easy” physics course said “this will be a continuation of your high school physics class.” Oh, hell no.  I immediately went to Keeny hall and dropped that class. So, I was down to taking maybe 9 hours. Pathetic. To make matters a whole helluva lot worse, I had moved in with the frenemy because she talked me into rooming with her because her roommate had moved out and she didn’t want a stranger to be moved in with her. Plus, during winter quarter, one of my roommates AND her boyfriend walked in on me in front of the mirror giving myself a self breast exam. Topless. You just don’t pretend your roommate’s boyfriend saw you naked. So, I moved in with the frenemy. I was a glutton for punishment. Seriously. I didn’t know how to say no. I had never learned that skill. It goes without saying that she was the worst roommate ever. I spent most of my time in Scott’s dorm. Sleeping.

One day while in Scott’s dorm room I was sleeping when three guys came to the door saying Scott was getting a roommate. One of the guys with them, helping carry the roommates belongings, was a guy from high school who was good friends with Will. He saw me half asleep, probably without pants. I can’t sleep in pants, it’s a long story – they’re constricting. Scott was studying. He was always studying because he was in engineering. I was never studying because I didn’t care about my grades. I failed algebra. It was summer. Later, Scott told me he had asked the guy who helped his roommate move in about me, since we had gone to high school together. I was sure he told him I was crazy.

Summer came and went. I worked at Talbot’s in the mall until the manager waved to get my attention when an African American couple walked in and she mouthed “watch their hands” and did jazz hands. You know, because only black people shoplift. It made me sick. I quit.

I was 20.

Fall quarter started and I was retaking college algebra. I had a new roommate, Casey, who was a delightful firecracker who loved The Lion King. We had another roommate who snored and drove us nuts. I also took an education class with Dana. It was fun.

One day I found myself in the Student Center with some people. I was eating a taco salad. Guys were playing dominoes rather loudly. Snoop Dogg was singing “Gin and Juice” on the video jukebox that was newly installed. People were talking loudly. The music was loud. The dominoes were loud. My heart started racing. I started to cry. I couldn’t move for a minute, then I got up from my taco salad and ran toward the doors to get outside. I don’t run. Let me repeat that: I don’t run. Once outside, I walked very quickly to my dorm room to have the heart attack I thought I was having. I was shaking. I somehow managed to unlock both the door to the dorm and my dorm room. A few minutes later I was ok. I didn’t tell anyone about it. Big rooms started to bother me and I spent even more time in my room. Then I lost interest in everything.

I went on a retreat with Campus Crusade that I didn’t have the money to attend. My Resident Assistant, Kim May, loaned me the $40 so I could go. We went to some camp place in the woods. I did not like it. I am a fan of the great indoors. There was canoeing. Scott talked me into getting into the canoe. Almost immediately I started to freak out. I was stuck in the tiny boat on open water with my boyfriend. I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t move. I told Scott we had to go back, that I would drown, that I was having a heart attack. I was crying hard. Each tear burned. Scott kept telling me I was ok and there was no reason to be afraid. But I wasn’t afraid. I was shaking. I was convinced I was going to die. I was going to die in a canoe in the woods where they were having a bonfire that night. I would die and they would be singing and making s’mores. But I didn’t die. I got out of the canoe and went to the bonfire with a tear-stained face and made s’mores for the first time in the woods and I tried to act like I was ok. I wasn’t.

Scott broke up with me over nothing. I went to counseling at the counseling center and talked about that. My counselor was getting her masters. She didn’t ask the right questions. I didn’t say the right things. It was pointless. Right before the end of my second session she said she wanted to explore my relationship with my father as being the root of my issues. My father was the hardest working man I had ever known. We didn’t have this adorable daddy/daughter relationship, but I loved my dad and I knew he was only the root of any sense of being grounded I had. I told the counselor to fuck off and left.

I knew something was wrong with me sophomore year. I never felt awake or energized or remotely human. I went to a doctor who we will just call Dr. Quack McQuackterson. I opened up about how I was feeling and the depression, racing heart rate, and all. He kept me in his office for 3 hours, ran tests, talked to me about the importance of taking care of oneself in college and stds. His office called a few days later and brought me back in. He said I had low iron, then showed me HIS OWN brand of vitamins he suggested I buy (in bulk). I left. He didn’t help me. No one could help me. I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

Scott and I got back together. I was on edge most of the time. I didn’t have any money. I didn’t have a car. I was failing algebra again. At some point that quarter my Resident Assistant, Kim, told me to apply to be an RA because I needed a job. She tried to help. I’m pretty sure she knew I was going through something. I got the job for fall quarter. Summer came. I worked as a sitter for a family that was going through divorce. They had four boys. I would babysit when the mother went to therapy and to see her psychiatrist. She told the boys she was going to the doctor. The five year old said his mommy went to the doctor a lot. It was almost time to go back for fall quarter.

I was 21.

I’ve received lots of questions via email, comments, and Facebook messages, so I thought I’d tackle a few this weekend before we start The College Years on Monday.  Yay! New characters and a change of scenery!

 

Are you using your friends’ real names? 

Yes. If I’ve used an aka it will be obvious because most likely I’ll reference something about them. And the akas are akas usually because they were horrible people I’d prefer not take up space in my mind or my blog. 
Are your friends going to have any quotes in your piece?

If they would like to comment, I would love it. I’m not asking them to because I respect their privacy and that they have their own lives and stories to tell, should they have a forum. Also, this is my story to tell. It’s from my perspective. 

Were the “frenemies” real or your imagination?

Definitely real (I’ve never had a hallucination) and definitely two of the worst people I’ve ever known. 

Were you diagnosed with depression as a teen?

No, but it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to know I was depressed. 

Who is that with you in the prom pic?

That would be Jason. 

What was the event that triggered it all?

I’ve decided to keep that part to myself. 

Why not give boyfriends’ names?

They know who they were and some of my friends knew them as well. Mostly, they weren’t the best guys and I didn’t have a long term high school boyfriend. A few months was enough for me. And probably for them as well. 

Did you have any fun in high school?

Yes, as I said, depression is always there after you’ve had your fun. 

I would go to McDonald’s and to Jennifer’s house practically everyday for a year to hang out and watch Days of Our Lives. We had a blast hanging out in Bossier on weekend nights. We sang along to Wilson Phillips in her car. She was great. 

We were often with the other Jennifer watching John Hughes classics back when we had to go to Blockbuster. My friends were fun; they wouldn’t have been my friends if they weren’t. 

Of course, I had other friends – Jodi, Amanda, Maq, Brandy, and many more. I wasn’t a clique person and was friends with everyone. 

Which psych hospital were you in?

Hey, we’re not there yet. 

Are you publishing everyday? What is the schedule?

I’m sticking with two main posts on Mondays and Thursdays, then posts like this thrown in if I get more questions. 

Friends (and I think of all my readers as friends),

The warm responses I’ve received  from my recent posts have made me very thankful to have each of you. Your comments, texts, and Facebook messages have been amazing. Your words of encouragement have made me absolutely positive that telling my story is not just for me. I thank you for that. And I made y’all a little picture to say “thanks.”