I had not been responsible for the misplaced bolts of cloth, for I'd not seen those particular patterns that day; a customer could easily have decided against the material and stashed it in the nearest rack.

As I thought about the excess cash, I recalled that, in past experiences of making change, I cla.s.sically over-paid, not under-paid the customer, which would have resulted in a loss for the store. While I may have been responsible for some error, I believed that all complaints could not lead to me.

For the sake of my nerves, I decided to quit the job. I dried my tears, drove out of the parking lot and headed home, where I then called the store and told the manager I was through. I felt better than I had felt in two weeks.

My job at the shopping mall was a vast improvement. Not only did I work for an amiable manager, but I did not have to ring up sales at all. A cashier was in charge of that responsibility. Moreover, when I eventually learned to act as a replacement cashier, I had no qualms toward making change since the machine instructed me "how much" was owed or received; I had only to count the currency.

Again, my favorite part of the job dealt with the stock itself, rather than the customers. I enjoyed helping people when they desired a.s.sistance, yet revolted internally against the thought of administering high key sales pitches to the public. This was the only objectionable aspect of my employment at the store, for occasionally the manager would encourage me to be more aggressive toward customers and try to sell merchandise to those who had no intention of buying anything. Admittedly, I would have preferred to hide behind racks of sweaters, sizing and straightening, than to approach a stranger and ask, "Could I interest you in a dress today?" followed by a persuasive cascade of sweetness and sales talk. Such tactics never worked for me and I found I sold more through helpful suggestions than flamboyant appeals. Nevertheless, when sales dropped after Christmas at an alarming rate, reflecting the fact that everyone's closets were full and their wallets empty, only the best sales people were given enough hours to add up to a worthwhile pay check. During this decline, I spent most of my working hours in the storeroom, unloading and hanging new merchandise. This suited me perfectly, despite the few hours and accompanying meager pay; if only I could have found a part-time job dealing exclusively with stock work, I would have been in a state of bliss, able to simultaneously work and think. . . and be paid for my time.

As the working hours decreased and I found that I had spare time beyond that which was required to accomplish my homework, I sought excuses to obtain one of the cars and escape my self-imposed prison at home. With friends or alone, I would shop, run errands, or simply drive around the city streets. The car became a symbol of freedom and attainable destinations, an inanimate capsule devoid of judgemental constraints.

In the car I could whoop and holler, cry or laugh; I could vent my exasperation to the music on the radio, or wallow in a pool of depression without spreading the effect upon anyone else.

I was essentially adrift on a sea of emotions, constantly hurled from happiness to depression and back again. As contradictory as it may sound, I believe the instability of my emotions was the element which permitted me to maintain overall sanity; instability was one thing on which I could depend, for no emotion seethed within me long enough to create duress of itself.

I asked myself, "Why am I depressed?" I had no right to be depressed, in my opinion, yet I felt I had no control over my radical ups and downs. "I'm healthy for the most part, my hair has returned, thicker than it was previously, I'm doing well in school and have a few people to call 'friends' . . . so what is wrong?" Through that year the question remained hidden in the back of my mind, unanswered yet unshakeable. I continued to pursue happiness through a confused sense of individualism and an uncharacteristic flurry of activity. I was befuddled by my own ambivalence and, to further hara.s.s my state of being, allowed the fluctuating emotions of others to work upon my mind, thereby creating disturbances beyond all reason.

To this end, I fancied myself to be in love with a young guy with whom I had become acquainted through "in-the-hall" pleasantries and smiles.

After two "dates" we discovered we could converse remarkably; I was delighted by the apparent honesty that we shared and became confident that our's would prove to be the romantic friendship of the decade.

Having been subjected to hurtful and unreasonable endings of relationships, however, I had no intention of placing my pride in jeopardy through a display of groveling affection or stifling promises.

I told myself to subdue my feelings and expect nothing, yet hoped desperately that the dominoes I had erected would fall in the orderly fashion that my forethought deserved.

As it happened, my "dominoes" fell in a manner which had no sense of order. I learned quickly that "good deserts" had nothing to do with the final outcome of a situation, and even one's offering of platonic friendship could be dealt a cruel blow or be considered unacceptable.

Despite these unwarranted actions against my cautious and understated affection, I could not entirely cancel the heartfelt wishes my mind contained because he continued, at very sporadic intervals, to encourage a romance. In no time at all I was thoroughly confused as to the part I played and my significance in his life. On certain days he spoke to me at school,and other days I was ignored or avoided. The same was true pertaining to encounters outside of school, which often resulted through chance rather than a specific plan. Whether he would a.s.sume a romantic stance or pursue a totally platonic guise became a valid mystery. This infernal uncertainty did nothing to promote self-confidence, for within me I continually questioned the purpose of his unpredictable snubs; was I too tall? Did I embarra.s.s him? Was I not in the "right" crowd? Questions, unanswered, riddled my mind and shook my heart. As the school year coasted along, I began to realize I couldn't necessarily take all of his cold shouldered greetings or lack of acknowledgement as personal digs against my presence. He had problems of his own and moods of his own; this revelation on my behalf only gave me more reasons to worry and dwell on him, however. No longer did I cope only with my own burdens, but attempted to share the p.r.o.nounced emotions displayed by my "flame." When he looked melancholic, I too, soon adopted the feeling for myself; if he was happy, I could be happy. I quickly became aware of the fact that my technique was indeed a lousy one and the potential for happiness was quite slim. With my friends having only mouths, their ears plugged with their own concerns, I resorted to the written expression of my personal pressures. Though the paper could not respond, it similarly could neither judge or reveal my emotional sieges of ink, for the hurried scrawls were carefully concealed. In this fashion, many troubles were rationally resolved; my thoughts were considerably less hideous when viewed as written words, set apart from the mental clutter composed of both reasonable and emotional meanderings. I could objectively scan the bold sweeps crossing page after page and discern the real from the imagined... My deep felt depression carried through to today. . . as well as my bad luck! I saw D as I was coming and wasn't extremely thrilled, which is a shocker in itself; and to top it off, he barely squeaked out a "Hi" to me. That wasn't too much of a surprise, because he has been known to ignore a person. . . me, for example. I must admit I'm really not all here today. I just don't understand what is going on with him. One day he is my friend and the next, he is a stranger. . . Oh, well, I can get so depressed sometimes, it's not even funny! The weird thing is that I'm not especially depressed today, I'm just in a weird mood. . . When I got home, Dad got mad because I forgot to tell them about the PSAT test. He asked about five different times why I didn't let them know. I was so shocked that I went outside and climbed the big pine tree. I'm upset when I do that... especially when there are no branches on the lower half of the tree, and I had to jump to the lowest branch! I got in a better mood after awhile, but it took a bit of psyching on my part!

Spring 1979

Walking down the wide highway of life....

Happy, but confused.

I've noticed you walking that highway too, And I've often wondered if you felt the same way I do...

And then one day you came to me, Smiling, and holding out your hand in friendship.

Was it two weeks? Four?

The time seemed to fly past Whenever I was by your side.

With you, I had no fear to reveal myself...

I felt comfortable and secure When you were near, And thought of you constantly Whenever you were away.

In addition to hurried prose and diary entries, I also began pinning down my feelings in the form of poetry. Within the poems I could lament my confusion and aloneness, and the self-dependency which had become threatened by my offering of friendship and its subsequent futility.

Love Rollercoaster

Days robed in silence...depressed for awhile, Then turn around with a flash of a smile.

Happy, contented, with work and with play, Don't get excited, it's only one day!

Tapping my shoulder, "HI, there!" he said, One hour later, I wish I was dead!

So much confusion, so little I know, Oh! To run and hide...to get up and go!

Age seventeen and still the same goal.

Filling my mind, my body, my soul.

My love is something I just can't ignore, But I'm so tired...Can I take any more?

Depression sets in like a cold, dark stare, And spurs my asking "Why do I care?"

That question comes again and again...

Face it kid...this is the battle that you'll never win!

Lauren Isaacson Spring of 1979

Love's Confusion

Words...

Interpreted, exaggerated...

Glances...

Real and imagined...

Actions performed to hurt, To confuse, to make happier Some stranger's day.

I am that stranger, Jack of many trades.

A translator, Psychologist, Handyman, all in one.

Like a stranger, I am trying to know you.

Like a translator, I am trying to understand.

Lauren Isaacson Spring of 1979

A Heart Untaken

I gave my heart away, That's not easy, No, not at all.

I am...dependent...

On none other than myself.

So why then, am I Still falling head-first Into a bottomless cavern?

Yes, I gave my heart away.

But it was left untaken, Blowing in the wind.

How can I describe The way I feel?

There are no words To relate the emptiness And darkness Which has prevailed Upon my soul...

My entire being.

I need to be reconstructed, Rejuvenated...accepted By those I love.

Is that asking too much?

How is one expected to live If no one will accept his love?

He cannot live...

Merely exist.