Solitude

From Becoming To Being

Let's face it: everyone has a sob story. Their all the same yet-different-with the tears, the insomnia and the constant self doubt. I'm no different.

So sit back.

Relax.

Reflect.

Maybe you'll learn a few things from my narrative and you'll be able to apply them to your own life.

I'll start at the beginning.

I suppose all my problems started in 2012. I was attending SWC (and had been for the last twelve years) when I decided to move schools. I was already living outside the immediate area that the school accepted students, which no one knew about, and I hated lying to everyone. So when the following September began, I was an official seventh grade student at Gordon Graydon Senior Public School.

It was a bigger school than SWC with a lot of more students. They had more resources too and I was hoping to expand my knowledge onto a bigger horizon. But that wasn't the only reason why I was excited. I had been fascinating all summer about how it would be a new start; no one would know me or where I came from and it was a chance to start over.

My ideals didn't go exactly as planned.

I fell into the wrong crowd and no I don't mean those into drugs or alcohol (though I did know a few of their names who did them). Just the kind of people that you would walk past in the hallway and not give them a single glance. People who you would assume would mount to nothing in life.

It wasn't long into the school year when the whispers started to reach my ears. I was already starting to not care what these people were thinking of me, I was only going to be at the school for two years. How bad could it possibly get? I didn't mind the girls that I hung around with, they were nothing like the people I used to hang out with but I mean hey, it was better than nothing.

That's when things start to escalate. It was simple amateur bullying tactics: stealing my pencil case, my books or sending me rude notes in math class. They annoyed me at first but they began to irritate me as time wore on. As I tried to pinpoint who it was or if it was different people who were doing these tactics, it really started to weigh on me.

Why did they hate me so much? Why did they pick on me? Was I just the newest victim? Were their countless others before me? Why was I starting to let this get to me? I had been bullied when I was younger and I had gotten through that; so why did this time around seem harder?

I didn't have answers to any of these questions. My friends around me didn't seem to notice the inward struggle I was having, but then again they didn't exactly help me out when they did see me get bullied. They just stood by and watched as if they hoped to camouflage into the brick walls of the building. Sometimes they'd even join in on the teasing.

With no one to turn to I let my mind become my worst enemy. I let my tormentors words and actions wash over me in waves, pulling me down in to the deepest darkest depths of the ocean. I believed what they said; that I was ugly, fat, worthless.

I'd wake up in the morning, dreading to go to school. I'd lay in bed until I couldn't prolong it anymore unless I wanted to be late.
I'd think of excuses that I could use to stay home but never used them. I had an enormous fear that my parents would find out I was lying somehow, so I kept myself quiet.

I made myself small, invisible, just someone who was trying to get through her day with no trouble. I spent my lunches listening to sad music on full blast, not helping the situation one bit.

I'd go home and then go right up to my room, aching to be alone. I spent hours staring at my bedroom walls and writing in my journal. I wrote about nothing and everything depending on the day, aching for some type of humanity. When night time came, I'd cry myself to sleep and I'd wake up with a pounding headache in the morning.

I'd get up, repeat the process; give a fake smile or two before crying myself to sleep again. My eating patterns had started to change, either non existent or sporadic. It was enough for my parents to become concerned.

They'd asked me how school was, which of course I'd say was fine. They'd ask me if there was anything bothering me and I always said no.

By this time I couldn't even remember what it felt like to be happy. When was the last time I felt happy that the sun was shining on my face? Or that I was happy to have air moving in and out of my lungs?

I couldn't remember.

My old friends had promised to stay in touch but they never did. Of course, I still had them all on social media and it pained me even more to see them going on happily. I'd like their newest profile pictures or comment on things they shared on Facebook but that's as far as the relationship ever went.

This was my lowest point. What do you do when you're at your lowest point? You try anything to stop the pain.

Any time I tried to do it, I was interrupted. Whether it was my parents coming home, my phone ringing or just pure cowardice.  I had letters written out to all the people who loved me, my mom, dad, best friend, a couple of teachers too. I had a little box made out of dark wood with the words "In Case," written on top of it in sharpie. Inside it was full of sad, depressing notes of all the days where I felt like giving up.

But there was a small glimmer of hope in the distance: summer.

The summer between seventh and eighth grade I spent alone. I listened to music, tanned, ate good food and for the first time in what felt like forever, I was content. I was away from my bullies and none of followed me on social media or knew where I lived, so I was safe. Safe for two whole months. Two whole months that went far too quickly.

Before I knew it I was back in my own man made prison.

For some unknown reason, I was saved that year. My bullies weren't in my class and I became friends with new people in school. I was able to enjoy all the stuff I had wanted to enjoy the year before but never got the chance to do so. I read books, I took notes in class, did all my tests and quizzes. But I never once put up my hand or was excited to do presentations as I once was.

Eighth grade was way better than seventh. I laughed, learned and lived that year. Before I knew it, middle school was over and I was onto high school.

Of course, high school on its own was an adventure. I had my first 'almost' within the first two years and it took me almost a year and a half to get over it. I told my parents the truth about what happened in middle school and that I wanted to get help because of it all. That led into many tearful nights, arguments and misunderstandings but they finally agreed.

I was diagnosed with moderate, borderline severe depression two days after my sixteenth birthday. It was a relief to know that there was a diagnosis and that there was many different forms of treatment. I went for the majority of tenth grade with a few check ups in eleventh for it was standard procedure. Now I only go when I feel like I have to.

So what's my moral of my sob story?

You're the only one who can save you. You can go to as many therapists as you need to or talk to as many of your friends as you can to help you. But what they say, or do, will only help you for a little while, before you're straining for straws to grasp to pull you back up from the darkness.

Their words may not always work also. What if your best friend isn't answering the phone? Or you can't get a therapist appointment until a few months or weeks later? You can't possibly wait that long.

I still don't know why in eighth grade, I was saved from all the torment. I don't know the reason behind saving me or why I was saved at all. If you could go back and ask the seventh grade me about being saved, I would've teared up and told you that I wanted it all to end.

I've stopped questioning it now. I've gotten my second chance. I'm happy with my body now, as I've started to work out and eat healthy and it shows. I'm surrounded with positive people all with their own aspirations, goals and dreams. I no longer care what other people think of me and I'm friendly to everyone but I keep my group small. I've come a long way from the girl who wanted to die in seventh grade to the confident, beautiful, intelligent woman I am now.

So my dearies, save yourselves. You're the only person who can do it. Not your friends, family, or therapists. If you ultimately want to live and see what life has in store for yourself, you'll save yourself. You'll fall in love with new people, read new books, join some clubs and maybe, maybe, you'll get the courage to raise your hand in class like I have.