Back When I Was 81

The number 81 is etched into my memory, not as a random integer, but as a silent, lifelong companion. It was my designated laundry number when I moved off to boarding school, a small, practical label that quickly became an unexpected symbol of something much larger.

In those first years, the women who managed the dormitory laundry system needed a way to keep track of our clothes. So, every item of my clothing…every sock, shirt, and towel, etc., bore the sharpie mark: #81. Believe it or not, I still have an item or two from that era, the faint, indelible number a physical memento of a time when my belongings—and perhaps my very self—were sorted, categorized, and contained.

The Feeling of Being an "Experiment"

That number, 81, often felt less like a laundry marker and more like an assigned label in a lifelong experiment. It’s a strange, profound feeling, one that resonates deeply with characters like Eleven from the show Stranger Things—a human test subject with special abilities who eventually breaks free to find a home with the Chief of Police and a more authentic life.

Like her, I’ve often felt like I was being studied, tested, and shaped by external forces. This feeling of being a "guinea pig" started at home. As the daughter of a pastor and later, missionaries in Asia, my life was lived on a sort of public stage. There was an unspoken, yet powerfully enforced, expectation of how I should act and behave. My parents' vocations meant that my siblings and I were, by extension, also expected to be "missionaries," to embody a specific, approved image.

I adapted masterfully. I became outgoing, charismatic, and relentlessly extroverted—the person everyone was impressed by, the one people were drawn to. I was constructing a false self, a carefully curated image designed to earn the pride of my parents and the admiration of others. The cost of this performance, however, was a deep sense of disconnection from who I truly was.

The Original Guinea Pig

The concept of being an experiment was even validated by my mother once. "You were our guinea pig," she admitted. "You were our first child so we had to learn from having you." While it wasn't exactly the kind of tender affirmation a child wants to hear, it was the truth.

I was a trailblazer by necessity:

• The first child born.

• The first kid sent off to boarding school.

• The first to be shipped off to college while my family still lived overseas.

• The first to get married, and the first to bring a grandchild into the family.

Because I was the eldest, my house eventually became the family homebase—the default gathering spot for holidays and the place where my parents stayed when they returned stateside. I was the anchor, the reference point, the one everything else was measured against.

Finding My Authentic Self

It wasn't until much later in adulthood, through therapy and intentional self-work, that the true revelation occurred. The person I had been performing as—the dynamic, constantly "on" extrovert—was a brilliant facade.

My authentic self is an introvert with excellent social skills. I am genuinely good at leading people, teaching, and engaging in high-energy social situations, but I need significant time to recover from them. I am a highly functioning introvert who is very skilled at appearing extroverted.

The moment I realized I craved, and actually needed, the quiet rest from outside noise—that I profoundly enjoyed being alone—was a moment of profound liberation. It was the moment I finally started to dismantle the false identity that had been labeled, sorted, and cataloged.

The number 81, is still a part of my story, a quiet reminder of the labels, expectations, and experiments that tried to define me. But today, it’s just a number. The true identity—the person who chose her own path, found her own quiet strength, and finally escaped the lab—is all mine.

©Lisa King, MS, LPC, NCC