Blogher07 Recap, Part Two: The One Where I Talk About...Ewww...Feelings and Shit

When I found out I was going to this conference, I was horribly nervous. You see, meeting new people is not my forte. Especially when those new people have boobs and claws and cell phone bling. I was terrified.

People who have read my stuff think that when they meet me, I will be funny and charming and witty and all the things I'm not - at least not right away. I get quiet and I watch you for a bit to see what lines not to cross, what barriers there may be, what interests you have, what makes you tick. I'm also painfully shy when it comes to girls and, although I hate to be one of those people who blames her current personality on past wrongs, in this particular instance, I can't not.

I grew up nomadically, as some of you might know. I vividly remember my first day of school. My mom spent money we didn't have to buy me a new dress and some earrings and when I walked in, I was automatically labeled as a scapegoat. I was seen as being weak because I never stood up for myself or spoke or did anything much more than look at people, wide-eyed and timid. I remained that way for over two decades, through various middle schools and lots of high schools, through one horribly abusive relationship and more moves than I can count.

It wasn't necessarily the taunting and ridicule that bothered me as much as seeing how it affected my parents. My mother had to quit school in the sixth grade to go home and take care of her fifteen brothers and sisters and while she was in school, she was just like me. She wanted more for me. My dad is very sensitive and I've always been like him, so seeing me hurt was torture.

Girls are cruel. I learned that at an early age. When I was a freshman in one particular high school, I used to sit outside on the front steps rather than face the lunchroom and sit alone in front of everyone. I would dream about graduating and going to college where there would be so many people that I could be anonymous and not get singled out for the latest prank. As I was sitting there and daydreaming, a cheerleader approached me.

"Hey, Crystal. Wanna go to lunch with us?" She gestured to the girls behind her. All A-list. All popular, all the fucking time. I was stunned.

"Sure," I quietly answered. As I stood and walked down the steps with them, I looked around to see who all was seeing this. Me, going to lunch with the in crowd. Me.

I look back at that lonely, naive girl and my heart hurts.

As this was a rural town, everything was five miles down the road. When we stopped at a 7-11, everyone piled out and invited me to go in with them. I went in, and while I was in the back of the store, they left me. Rather than walk the five miles back and face what I knew would be a day just packed full of laughter at my expense, I used the payphone to call my parents to come pick me up.

When they arrived, I laid in the backseat and cried as quietly as I could while my dad sat up front, smoking and wiping his cheeks occasionally and my mother ranted about how awful, how horrible those girls were and how she was going to report them to the principal. I'll never forget how that felt. I had this burning desire to make them proud of me, to be someone. I wanted that so very much.

In between the years ahead, various things would happen. I became somewhat more able to contain my feelings in front of other people, but I went home every single day and wailed in my room, a failure, an outcast. My health class started a suicide betting pool that revolved around what month I would kill myself and in what manner.

I have let most of that go. I try, as much as I can, to remember that those girls were just that - girls. I attempt to keep an open mind about the people I meet and give everyone a chance.

But, my heart is right here. Right...there. See it? I wear it as big as the boobs on my chest and you can crush me with your indifference. You frighten me. I am scared of you and I will freely admit that.

You can hurt me and it's so easy. I won't fight you. I will cry, but you probably won't see it.

I walked into that conference with my best friend at my side. He was wearing a huge grin and crocs with socks. I am so proud to call him my husband. At his incessant urging, I approached a writer that I recognized. I stammered something to her and she kindly dismissed me. I returned to his side, a tiny bit shrunken. Later on, at the cocktail party, I had it happen to me a few more times. I got snubbed. I floundered. I made a fool of myself. I offered people my cards only to find a few of them blowing across the ground later on. I noticed. I took it personally and I admitted defeat for a moment. I went inside and fought to keep from falling apart as tears spilled down my cheeks and my husband urged me to keep plugging along. I wiped my face, went outside and tried again. I met one really terrific woman who talked to me and helped me to feel not so alone and different. And then I walked and tried to meet new people and continued to feel like I was interrupting people's conversations (which I was) and very much on the outside looking in.

During this time, my mother called. She didn't really understand what this trip was about, what it meant to me and she thinks a blog is some kind of fungal infection. But, she was so proud of me and I couldn't figure out why. I didn't really do anything, did I?

"Hi, Mom."

"Hey! How's it going?"

"Oh, good. Chris is trying to find a place to pee. All the men's rooms are designated for women. How are the kids?"

"Good, good! Did you get your award, yet?"

"What award, Mom?" This is not the first time she has misunderstood me and given me more credit than what I deserve.

"The award? They're having this thing for you and the other winners, right?" I could hear my father in the background, asking for updates and what was going on and I fought to keep my voice steady.

"No, Mom. It's not for me. It's...hard to explain."

"Oh. I thought - I just-"

"It's okay, Mom. I probably didn't make myself clear. I love you. I have to go, now."

There will always be parties I'm not invited to. There will always be groups of people that don't need or want another member. There will always be popular kids.

I didn't go to this thing to learn how to increase my traffic or what ads to choose or how to keep from vomiting on a reporter when he interviews you (yeah, right). I hope and I dream that someday, somehow, I'll be able to look at my daughter and say, "Yes, I can take you to the park and not work!" And that's it. I don't need to be rich or famous or any of that. I just need to be with the ones who love me just the way I am, fucked up and broken. I need that. I went because I thought maybe in some infinitesimal way, I could make enough of an impact on someone to somehow make that a possibility for me. I don't know what I was expecting and I don't know what I'm trying to say, except this:

If you go to Blogher next year, and you do nothing else, find her. See her. She looks lost, frightened, alone. Maybe you could approach her and ask her who she is and is this her first time at Blogher? You have no idea how much that small gesture may change her life. If she somehow screws up the courage to come and talk to you, please, don't dismiss her. A kind word, an exchange of pleasantries and maybe cards and then she'll move on. Please acknowledge her...she just wants to feel visible.

And on that note, I would like to sincerely thank:

Liz (where'd she go?)

Yvonne (kindest eyes and the sweetest smile that I've ever seen. I instantly felt at ease with her)

Stacy (oh my God, how beautiful is this woman. EAT A CHEESEBURGER AND GET SOME LOVE HANDLES OR SOMETHING, FOR FUCKS SAKE. YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO BE FUNNY AND BEAUTIFUL AND SMART. FUCK YOU)

Kris (she humped my leg. Rowwrrr)

She's squirrely. And hollow. But never at the same time. (she also made me feel at ease and for that I am so grateful)

Isabel (she perty)

Alex from Scrapblog (simply the nicest man and probably felt just as out of place as I did being that he's a penis person and all)

SJ (she wore bright pink hair to the conference and all my husband could ask her about was how she got it that pink and what product she uses. He's so gay)

Connie! I can't find your card and that makes me very sad.

Angela of CPAMom (whenever I needed a friendly face, I could look up and there you were)

Dana (even though I didn't get to meet you, and that sucks a big dick, I still thank you for trying. That means a lot to me)

Lotta (I thought what you said was right on. And I really enjoyed talking to you)

And you! The girl! Pregnant! From Missourri and says, "Yesterdee". Where are you? Where's your card? WHY AM I SO LAME?