The Pre-Teen Moment That’s Haunted My Adult Life

Hello, Brookside Junior High School, 1985.

Remember me? I was in 7th grade and obsessed with all things entertainment. My bedroom walls were adorned with movie posters. I wrote letters to actors and mailed them directly to the Broadway theaters they were appearing in. I styled my hair like Elisabeth Shue and cut my sweatshirts like Jennifer Beals. I wasn’t allowed to watch TV on weeknights, so I would religiously set my parents’ VCR to record my favorite shows throughout the week and binge them early on weekend mornings before my parents would wake up and drag me from the family room to participate in real life.

They couldn’t understand why I was so obsessed with television. But being a 12-year-old girl is hard. And TV isn’t.

I wanted more than anything to be an actress and live out the types of storylines I so closely followed. Plus, everyone on TV always had blemish-free skin and every dilemma eventually got resolved. What could be more appealing to a tween with a burgeoning propensity toward self-loathing?

When I heard about auditions for the school play, I was beyond excited. Here was my chance to take that first step toward my dream. I prepared for the audition with a particularly hilarious monologue I had seen on SNL and went in guns blazing.

The audition and callback couldn’t have gone better and the next day the cast list revealed my name as the lead in a one-act play as a middle-aged swindler who was determined to defraud a new widow out of her husband’s fortune.

It was very sophisticated material, which had been translated from Russian into English. The dialogue was dense and the whole play (which was part of a one-act series of three) only had two characters, so we each really had to pull our weight.

I had trouble with my lines from the beginning. I’ve never been good at memorizing. The director tried to ease my struggles by coaching me to improvise in case I forgot my lines during the show. I mistakenly took it as permission to not get bogged down in the written words.

On opening night, I was excited to get out there and officially kick off my acting career. But after about three minutes onstage, I forgot a line and my still-developing improv skills were overcome by my newly discovered stage fright. I muddled through the hiccup and was able to forge ahead, only to forget another line a few beats later. And then another. Then I panicked.

The rest is a blur. I remember calling out “line” for the stage manager to save me more times than I can bring myself to admit. I don’t recall how the other actress dealt with my ineptness, but my guess is with a similar contempt I had for myself. Our play was 20 minutes long. I stayed onstage for the entire 20 minutes, but my mind blacked out. I have no other memories from that performance. I know I retreated to the bathroom once I was able to escape the stage, where I stayed until the house cleared. I did not take a bow during the curtain call. Instead, I hid in a stall, frozen and humiliated.

My parents were in the audience that night. They waited for me in the parking lot. We never spoke about what happened. Not that night. Not after. Which in my head confirmed my belief that this was a disgrace so deep, so sad, it should not see the light of day. I did not think this was a shame that could be dealt with. There was no overcoming it. I can’t even say how I went on. I have no idea. There are no memories from that experience beyond what I have written. But there are emotional scars. And they’ve gotten in my way.

But I’m ready to talk about you, infamous night in 1985.

When I reflect back, I realize you taught me something so valuable—you taught me that no one moment can destroy me. It’s a powerful lesson that I have carried with me all these years without knowing it.

Yes, I have scars, but who doesn’t? And after all, that moment taught me compassion for others, so maybe it’s time to extend some of that compassion to myself. This wasn’t something that happened to me. I did this. I’m not a victim. But don’t perpetrators deserve mercy, too? It’s time to let the shame go. No one is perfect. I was young. I didn’t hurt anyone (except my poor co-star, who I hope at least came away from the experience with a compelling story to tell).

It’s time to set myself free.

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