Sunday, June 16, 2024. My first tower fell thirty years ago, in a parking lot, by a river, in a rural Wisconsin town. I was sixteen years old.
I grew up as the youngest of two, in a family that lacked emotional attunement and did not show unconditional love. My sister had been disowned and kicked out of the house many times. I watched this pattern for years. Sister did something they did not approve of, so Parents disowned her. Something got them back together until Sister did another disapproving thing, and Parents disowned her again.
I knew I would be disowned too if I didn't act how my parents wanted. So I divided myself into different Lories. Good Lorie was who my parents wanted me to be, and Fun Lorie was who my friends wanted me to be. My friends were the most important thing in the whole wide world to me. But anytime I showed them parts of my authentic self - like how much I loved tarot cards and magic, and spells and poetry - I was teased and called a witch. I was shamed for being sensitive and mystical. I learned that Authentic Lorie didn't belong. And if I didn't belong, I wouldn't have anywhere to go if I were disowned by my parents. And being disowned by my parents wasn't a matter of if - it was a matter of when.
My friendships were therefore vital, but they were mostly surface level. I feared going any deeper than that. I needed the safety net friends could provide, so I told them just enough about me to connect and left out my most vulnerable parts. People knew I liked to exercise, enjoyed watching scary movies, and was often teased by the boys. But no one knew I was motivated to exercise because my mom said I was "getting a little chunky," after adolescence. No one knew the adrenaline rush I felt during scary movies was actually a source of comfort because I had a damaged nervous system. No one knew I preferred the attention I got from the boys because it made me feel special.
Living this way was hard, but I wore a sort of imaginary Teflon suit, a learned resilience by dissociation.
At the end of my freshman year of high school, I caught the eye of the most romantic boy in school. He was popular, smart, athletic, sensitive, and two years older than me. He loved The Phantom of the Opera, and wrestling. A true Romeo, out for my heart! We were a couple for an entire year - an eternity for a teenager. The haze of young love was stunning and I began forgetting to wear my Teflon suit.
The summer before my junior year, my boyfriend broke up with me. He was leaving for college in the fall and didn't want to be held back by a high schooler. I was devastated. I had never learned the language of attunement, so I trusted no one with my grief. I suffered silently and alone. But I did my best to move on. I spent the first half of summer going to parties and dating other boys. My friends were still my friends, until they got wind of a rumor that I had been flirting with one of their boyfriends. Memories get fuzzy with time, but I knew in my bones I was only guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe when I was there, I was less guarded with my words. Maybe I was too chatty. But I know I never intentionally flirted with someone else's boyfriend.
Truth or rumor, a line had been crossed, and my friends were out for blood. Two nights later, I was summoned to "The Base" - our local hangout in a parking lot behind the Municipal Building, adjacent to the river. Kids would arrive in their cars to chill and gossip until someone could figure out which party to crash next. If there was nowhere else to go, The Base was our place. The local police didn't mind our loitering there because they could keep an eye on us. It was mostly harmless, until tonight.
My entire life was about to change that summer night in 1994.
I pulled up in my parents mini-van and was immediately blocked in on three sides, so I couldn't drive any further. This was odd, but maybe it was just weird timing. I had been summoned to return a ring I had borrowed from someone in our friend group. Back then we shared everything - clothes, shoes, jewelry. This friend had called an hour ago insisting her parents found out she had lent me her ring and needed it back immediately. It was a strange request at 9:00 PM, but we were night owls, so I thought I'd run it over, see what the latest talk of the town was, and head home.
But as soon as I got out of the vehicle, I sensed something was wrong. No one was talking. I walked over to return the ring, and was not greeted or thanked. She took it back, emotionless. Suddenly, a different friend, one of the leaders of the group, started threatening me about the boyfriend rumor. A circle formed around us, and a fight ensued. I was berated, my hair pulled, my face slapped. Two girls were the instigators, while everyone else watched and smirked. Terrified, I tried to get back into the mini-van. I opened the front door and was pushed further inside, as Friend No. 1 crawled into the driver's seat. Friend No. 2 plopped into the passenger's seat. I was forced to sit in the middle rear bench seat, facing them.
They didn't want me in the van. They wanted me to step outside so we could handle this with a spar. They wouldn't both come at me together, they would take turns so it would be fair. At first, I was reactive. I tried to hold my ground and defend myself. But when I looked around and saw all the other kids just standing there, watching and laughing, I realized no one was coming to my defense. So I tried a different tactic. I began agreeing with them. "Yes, I am a stupid bitch. Yes, I am a terrible person and I should not be alive. Yes, you made a mistake by being my friends." I said the words as a ploy, but my brain heard something different. My brain heard me defining my authentic self. The assault continued with name calling and finger pointing to the extent of actually poking me in the face. I heard words no one should ever have to hear. Words that pierced deeper than my eardrums, coming at me from all angles.
Eventually, they grew bored of my apathy. Somewhere during the confrontation, I slid my hand to lock the side door, assuring no one else could attack from that side. When the timing was right, I would attempt my escape. Suddenly, a boy opened the driver's side door and pulled out Friend No. 1. "You don't both need to be in there," is what he said, as she struggled against his grip, eventually allowing him to remove her. The door closed and I was alone with Friend No. 2. I waited a little longer until she gave up and exited, disgusted by my lack of combat. I raced to lock the front doors, got in the driver's seat, started the car, and sped away, running over the curb in my haste.
I drove to my sister's boyfriend's house. Why that made sense to me, I have no idea. In panicked, choking sobs, I explained what had just happened. His mom thought we should call the police and I agreed. A nice officer arrived and listened to my story. He explained I had rights and I could press charges by making a formal statement, but he warned me this could make things much worse for me. Kids can be cruel, and when one of them presses charges against another, things can get nasty, especially in a small town. I was young and dumb. I couldn't imagine things getting any worse than what I had just experienced, so I went to the police station and wrote a formal statement. My sister's boyfriend accompanied me so I wasn't alone.
After that, I was outcasted by my peers. I became the black sheep of my school. I kept my head down and ate lunch alone. The guidance counselors arranged my schedule so I wouldn't have any classes with the perpetrators. I was also allowed to go to the guidance office whenever I felt unsafe. I began showing signs of PTSD and depression, so my parents sent me to a counselor who recommended Prozac. I didn't want to take medicine, so I did a couple months of therapy to appease everyone.
At last, I began to regain my strength, quite literally. I started weightlifting with the guys. I felt they were more trustworthy than the girls. I remember the freshman boys watching me in awe when I bench pressed 110 pounds. I felt powerful and in control. I was determined to look physically fit, with well defined muscles, so that no one would ever try to hurt me again. I also build some new friendships, with the free-spirited students - people who were not affiliated with the friend group that had injured me so badly. We were a small graduating class, and everyone knew everyone. But we didn't all hang out together outside of school. I decided the free-spirits were safe to be around. I was brave enough to have a small social life my senior year.
The tower of my sweet sixteenth year punched a hole deep into the foundation of my life.
My brain was not fully formed yet. I had not learned secure attachment from my parents, so instead I tried to learn it from my friends. And when my friends turned on me in my most vulnerable state, when I was grieving my first real heartbreak, deep fractures formed in my neuropathways, sending me into a spiral of fear, shame, and isolation that would haunt me for decades and keep me in therapy for the rest of my life.
I can't leave this post in total despair, so I won't end it there. I have wanted to write about The Fight for a very long time but I didn't feel ready until now, when the Tower card came up for production. I have also resisted sharing my story out of fear of judgement.
Yes, it did shape the course of my life and yes, it did form my insecure attachment style. Yes, it may have been a contributing factor to my developing cancer in my early forties because a hypervigilant body lacks disease fighting cells. But back then I was a victim, and today I am a survivor.
I am choosing to talk about my trauma so that anyone else who may relate can learn something from what I went through. I like to think of my blog as a public diary. I know that very few people will find it and even fewer people will actually read it, so this story is mostly for me. It feels good to write it down, for when I am gone and no longer able to tell it. Maybe my story will help people understand me a little better.
And as for Friends No. 1 and No. 2 and their gang - they ended up living in our same home town. They had babies and divorces and probably still hang out together. I don't know what happened to the one boy who came to my rescue, but he will always be a hero in my book.
Nowadays I stay away from that town. Not because I harbor resentments, but because I built a life elsewhere. I don't blame those girls for what they did to me. I actually forgive them. I know that as kids we were capable of atrocious things, because our brains were still developing while we were learning how to navigate conflict. That is the key to healing. Even after we are grown and our neuropathways have been formed, there is always an opportunity to change - as long as we are willing to try. This is the whole point of The Tower. It isn't so much about the fall and the devastation. It's about crawling through the rubble, combing through the pieces, and gluing them back together in a way that makes them stronger. And if the pieces are too broken, then it's about finding construction paper and writing a whole new story.
End of 23 - The Fight