diaphanous

year after year

in sixth grade,
i came for refuge. i held high my hopes that the people were better, and i would be too. that came back and slapped me in the face. the people there soon found out that i cried a lot. the first time i cried, it was because we were being forced to play basketball and i was panicking. i didn't know i had anxiety at the time, but it later made sense. the other times i cried were because of my best friend and the people that stood next to her.

sixth grade was like prison. It was the emotional equivalent of running through a cement tunnel and seeing freedom, but never getting the satisfaction of reaching the end.

in seventh grade,
i wasn't taking anyone's shit. social media was the only way i could be heard, and i could nearly force people to listen. i was angry at the world because all it ever did was give me good and then strip me of the happiness it brought me. people came to realize i was not to be messed with because i was angry. one person kept trying to suck up to me after what they did, and i spit in their face. i still don't care. at the end of the day, though, i took off my mask and sat in raw sadness. i still cried, but i learned to do hold it until i got home.

seventh grade was like i was digging a deeper hole that i could've just gotten out of. it was the emotional equivalent of punching a wall, but not breaking it.

in eighth grade,
i could've been okay. it had the potential to be fun, and things were finally looking up; but it was my friend's turn to be angry at the world. she didn't realize how much it affected us, and that we loved her enough to stand by her even when she started it. one day we were sitting in class and she said a rude remark, so another person said one back. i made a stupid mistake and said something too. i sat in my desk for the rest of the class drowning in my anxiety and trying to calm my heart down. my teacher asked me why i was just staring at her, and everyone looked at me. i couldn't calm my heart down.

eighth grade was like the hole I had dug was being filled up by my friend, who was trying to get us out; only to be burying us alive. it was the emotional equivalent of showing someone the way out, only to have them walk the other way and unavoidably having to follow them.

in ninth grade,
i wanted to die. it was the epitome of depression and anxiety. memories of cages float in my mind, but nothing was ever really there. i just felt trapped. my light left, and I felt deserted in my own puddle of blood. i walked to class gripping my books like they were my anchor to reality, and i stared at the birds wishing i could let go, and be alone. i cried a lot, except I wasn't good at hiding it as much anymore. i cried during class, after school, and in the shower. i left people who didn't care how i felt, and held on to who i could. my little sister and her friends hugged me between classes and asked me if i was okay. that was the most i'd ever been asked by anyone. i finally got help, and one who understood.

ninth grade was like having a passion for painting, and losing the motivation as soon as the brush was dipped in paint. it was the emotional equivalent of watching the paint on my canvas dry and waiting...

tenth grade pending.

- java