Courage: Overcoming Fear and Igniting Self-Confidence (3 page)

From as far back as I can remember, they used to call me Scaredy Cat. I was known as little scrawny Debbie Ford who hid beneath her mother’s dress, ran from anyone who wanted to say hello, and could never fall asleep without the lights on. Always in fear that somebody was going to leap out of the shadows and hurt me, I learned to hide in corners and sneak peeks at what was going on around me. I wasn’t more than two years old before I became the neighborhood child who got teased, taunted, and made the brunt of too many stupid pranks. I was vulnerable and scared. I was the youngest of three children and found out early on that no one was going to protect me. The intimidation was happening right in my house, starting with my older sister, whom I idolized, and my brother, whom I believed to be my savior. It was clear by my third birthday that they were bored with my Scaredy Cat act and wished I would grow up and be normal like them.

My father, who believed teasing me was a cute way of interacting with me, would come home after a long day of work, pick up our white Persian cat (who was named Whitey Ford, after the famous baseball player), get comfortable in his La-Z-Boy chair, and then in a sweet voice say, “Come here, my little Scaredy Cat. Come see Daddy.” At the time, I loved the attention, but the cozy feeling didn’t last. What he believed were terms of endearment got meaner as he moved on from Scaredy Cat to Pigsnose and Bucky Baboon. Even though I knew how much he loved me, the teasing hurt, and I became increasingly frightened of the people around me and the world at large.

As I got older, I learned that scaredy cats weren’t widely accepted. Just like with my brother and sister, I could see that my guarded and anxious persona wasn’t very appealing out in the world. I wanted to be strong and confident, but instead I was suspicious and fearful. Everything about who I was embarrassed me. I was awkward and yet wanted nothing more than to fit in and have the confidence of my older sister, Arielle. With her long, dark hair, she was the shining star who never seemed to be bothered by anything. I began a search to discover how I could feel that way, too.

Food seemed to change the way I felt inside. By chance, we happened to live across from a 7-Eleven store on 46th Avenue in Hollywood, Florida. It was a boring little town to me, and my entertainment became sneaking into my mother’s and father’s wallets, grabbing a few dollars, and then racing across the street to score my fix of Sara Lee brownies and Coca-Cola. This always seemed to do the trick. The sugar high gave me enough of a buzz to quell the constant anxiety that swirled around in my young belly, putting me in a calmer and more peaceful state. After just a few bites of a brownie and a swig of Coke, I felt lovable—and almost invincible. It never took more than five minutes for me to be lifted out of my fear and into a state where I felt stronger and more confident.

My ultimate moment of humiliation happened in seventh grade. I had mustered the courage to go to my first school dance. I still was embarrassed by my scrawny body, my buckteeth (which were now covered in ugly metal braces), and my general lack of popularity. I felt like I had a stamp across my forehead that read: “Loser. Stay away.” I hated how I looked, and I worked hard to find ways to camouflage my imperfections. Like so many, I longed to be like all the popular girls. I was so scared of showing up at the dance and being left in a corner that I decided I needed the coolest dress possible. Since we couldn’t afford even a semi-cool one, I asked my Aunt Laura to make me a dress. We designed it together. It was burgundy velvet, with a low enough neckline that I could wear a beautiful white ruffled blouse beneath it that would fill in the neckline and give a small trim ruffle around the cuff of the dress sleeve. My hair was long, thick, and beautiful. Now if I could just keep my mouth closed, maybe I could avoid someone calling me Metal Mouth.

Arriving at the dance, I checked out all the other girls and then headed straight to the corner where the “safe” girls were hanging out. They weren’t cool or popular, and, without any special status to maintain and protect, they were pretty welcoming. So I found my spot and stayed in the corner, praying that some cute boy would ask me to dance. The music was loud, and the band knew all the latest hits. Things were looking pretty promising.

In a matter of seconds, boys began surrounding me. I was excited. Maybe I had won a prize or was being picked as the best-dressed girl. They were all looking at me with giant smiles, and I felt like I had entered a dream. I didn’t have any idea what was going on as they picked me up and started carrying me toward the high stage. Then my heart dropped as I heard the words of Joe Tex’s “Skinny Legs and All.”

Say man, don’t walk ahead of that woman

Like she don’t belong to you

Just ’cause hers got them little skinny legs.

You know, that ain’t no way to do.

You didn’t act like that when you had it home

behind closed doors, alright.

Now you act like you’re ashamed at a woman

Or you don’t want nobody to know she’s yours

But that’s alright, just walk on baby.

And don’t you worry about a doggone thing at all

Because there’s some man, somewhere,

Who’ll take you baby, skinny legs and all.

As I fought back the tears, they were holding me half in the air, walking through the crowded dance floor. All I could think of were all the people who could see up my dress. Then, without hesitation, they marched up the stairs to where the band was blaring, “Who’s that girl with the skinny legs?” and placed me in the middle of the stage. I heard the entire crowd laughing hysterically at me. The band seemed to love all the laughing and clapping and sang out louder, wanting to capture their glory. Meanwhile, I stood in a pool of tears that I couldn’t keep from pouring out of me.

Now, who’ll take the woman with the skinny legs?

C’mon somebody please take the lady with the skinny legs.

Now, you all know the lady with the skinny legs

Got to have somebody too, now

Will somebody please take the lady

With the skinny legs, please?

“Hey Joe” “Yeah Bobby?”

“Why don’t you take her?” “You-a-fool?

“I don’t want no woman with no skinny legs.”

On and on it went as I stood in front of my entire school class, shamed and humiliated. I was frozen in fear. All the feelings of worthlessness, not being good enough, and not fitting in filled me. I did everything in my power to fight back the tears and get hold of myself. Even though I wanted to scream and run off the stage, I just stood there, unable to move. Instead of walking away with some confidence and swagger, I stood like a coward, letting myself once again be the brunt of a joke that was anything but funny. Who would want to be my friend? How would I ever find a boyfriend who would want to be with a skinny-legged loser like me? My big night to finally be someone special turned into a nightmare over the course of just one song. It was the worst moment of my youth. I felt branded for life.

I replayed this incident in my head afterward, hoping it would come out with a better ending. But I knew no one would come to save me; no one ever had before. If I was going to survive in this world, I would have to save myself.

My insecurities grew deeper as I devised a plan to just get through the end of my school year. I feared the teasing more than anything else. I remember trying to do anything to be invisible and stay away from the mean kids. Sometimes I even became the teaser so that I wouldn’t get teased myself. Every day on my walk home from McNicol Junior High, I cried from a broken heart. All I ever wanted was to fit in and belong. I didn’t need to be the most popular girl. I just wanted to be liked and feel safe. But there didn’t seem to be any hope of that happening, and without hope my sadness turned into a depression that led me to try to change everything about myself.

Controlled by my fear and my now deeply ingrained insecurities, I made a dramatic decision to turn into the girl that I thought others wanted me to be, not the girl that I was. I began to cover up my authentic, kind nature with a new “I don’t give a crap” attitude. And my warm and loving heart quickly grew cold, turning away from feelings of playfulness, affection, and compassion and toward cynicism and belligerence. The pain, humiliation, and fear drove me to become someone other than who I was. I created an outer shell that would protect me and yet separate me from my inner truth. But it was a price I was willing to pay. I no longer would have access to the real me as I became a self-hater who lost the courage to feel her emotions or be seen as she was.

By thirteen, I had started hanging out with the “wrong crowd.” Drugs were becoming popular, and I quickly discovered that they gave me the confidence I was looking for. I had finally found a quick solution for how bad I felt inside. Drugs changed everything, because they gave me a boldness and a bravery that were beyond anything I had ever wished for. I started to learn that being a badass with a nasty mouth kept people from walking all over me. My family couldn’t stand the new me, but it was working for the most part, and I even had some friends who liked me. The great cover-up was convincing, and after some time I forgot that this was just a mask I was hiding behind. I worked diligently to find new and better tricks to hide my insecurities—wearing the right clothes (even if they were the cheaper-version knock-offs) and hanging out with the tough girls (even if they were considered bad). It made sense to me: if I could hang with the tough girls, they would protect me from the even meaner girls. But I knew I could never expose my real feelings to them or I would be shunned once again. The petrified little Scaredy Cat still lay beneath the surface of my new, puffed-up persona. I developed a real Tough Cookie act, quickly adding boyfriends and anything else that might make me look cool and hide my pain. I worked on this self-image day and night. But when I was alone, without a belly full of drugs or a boy I believed loved me, I was still filled with a fear that never subsided. But at least it didn’t strangle me anymore.

As I grew into a young adult, my awkwardness disappeared. I began taking even greater risks with the help of a few pills, some stylish clothes, and whatever else I could find to give me the courage to go after my dreams. Money became an important commodity, because it allowed me to buy nicer things. I went to work in a clothing store, where I thrived and found that I had a talent for fashion and merchandising, and I loved it. When I was picking out clothes and styling a customer, I felt authentically confident, proud, and strong—three feelings I hardly recognized. Each day was exciting, and I couldn’t wait to go home and tell whoever would listen about the great sales I had made and the cool outfits I had put together. I even developed a close friendship via telephone with one of the male store managers. Although we hadn’t met in person, I somehow felt like we were destined to be together. When we finally did meet, for our first date, it was love at first sight. For months we were together every moment we weren’t working. I loved him, my family loved him, and he seemed to be the kindest guy any of us had ever met.

Then at eighteen, with my confidence stronger than it had ever been in my life, I found out that my first love had cheated on me. Shocked and brokenhearted again, I now felt ashamed and wounded instead of strong and secure. All of the confidence I had built up seemed to evaporate. In seconds, my new self-image was shattered, and all of the feelings of humiliation and embarrassment from my past returned with a vengeance. Only this time the painful feelings hit even harder, because I believed that I really had turned a corner and found a new course in life. Not surprisingly, I used drugs to get through this tough time. And even though my boyfriend wanted us to stay together and said it didn’t mean anything, my shame and anger wouldn’t allow it. I wasn’t going to let him get away with this, even if it meant losing the one I had loved the most.

So I went back to the drawing board, trying to figure out who I would have to be in order to become lovable and find a man who would be loyal forever. I refined my mask, working to become smarter and more successful. But no matter what I did, there was always something that brought me to my knees and made me confront the hurt young girl who didn’t have the courage or confidence to be herself. There was always a bad relationship, a disappointing outcome, a snub, or a failure that would lead me to feeling weak and small, even as I was becoming more and more successful in the outer world. Other people’s opinions of me continued to be my monitor for success. I spent more time and money trying to look good rather than caring about how I felt inside. The outer world was all that mattered to me. I picked my friends by their level of popularity and importance, and I worked hard to be a woman who exuded confidence.

By my early twenties, I had successfully created an image that would trick even the best investigator. The facade worked well for a few years, until it cracked open once again when I lost control of my drug use and officially became a pretty girl with a bad problem—otherwise known as a drug addict. That’s when I knew I would have to get help or die. I checked into my first drug-treatment center. And when that didn’t work, I went to another and then another. When I knew I had finally reached my last chance, I let go, and then, as life would have it, I found peace—on the bathroom floor of the West Palm Beach Treatment Center, where I connected with a power greater than myself. For the first time, I went from scared, insecure, lonely, and weak to peaceful, present, and confident.

This connection happened in just a few moments. Without drugs, sugar, a man, or money, I found the courage to fight my disease (meaning the dis-ease in my mind, body, and spirit) and win the internal war that was raging within. On the dirty bathroom floor of my fourth drug-treatment center, I found my power and inner strength, and for the first time in my life I felt free and knew that I had discovered—even though I didn’t understand it—the golden key to confidence and courage. When I finally got up off the floor, I knew that all along I had been missing something inside me and that the key was this inner connection that I knew nothing about. This power within me was trying to deliver a message that would change my life forever. I soon realized that fear was the culprit.