Wednesday, January 3, 2018 // The Statement
6C
My stream of conciousness saved me
I
found
myself
completely
alone,
lacking a soul to call
my friend.
It sounds melodramatic, but
that was my reality. I didn’t
choose it, nor—in my view at
the time—was there much of an
opportunity to escape it.
Essentially, the group of
guys I had become friends
with through association in
elementary school and the
beginning of middle school
started to see me as something
different
than
a
friend.
I
became a punching bag — the
recipient of every joke. That’s
how it started and it quickly
spiraled into an incredible
social exclusion that pushed
me into near isolation.
I vividly remember wearing
a brand new pair of loafers
to school thinking I was the
coolest kid in the halls that day.
I strolled up to the group of guys
I hung out with at school and
before I could open my mouth,
I was called a “faggot” for the
shoes I had on. To my mom’s
dismay, I never wore them again.
I can’t lie — even after the
bullying started in seventh
grade, I kept hanging out with
these guys and didn’t stop
associating with them until
high school. Every person who
has heard some rendition of
my middle school days always
asks why I didn’t just find a
new group of people. Here’s
the thing: No middle schooler
really wants to admit they’re
being bullied and have no
friends. To me then, conceding
that reality was worse than
putting an end to the mental,
physical and emotional abuses
I was subject to.
I had my family, but how
much does a seventh-grade
boy want to hang out with just
his family?
I started feeling depressed
and anxious before I even
knew what that meant. The
summer after seventh grade,
no one called asking to hang
out with me. That memory is
burnt into my mind and still
stings as I think back on it.
But that’s the first time I
put a pen to paper for the first
time something other than an
assignment. I can’t remember
what exactly pushed me to do
that — it seemed insignificant
at the time — but what matters
is that I did.
I poured myself into my
writing because at that point,
that was all I had. I couldn’t
bring myself to talk about
anything to anyone, but writing
oddly seemed to be some sort
of less than, but still sufficient,
alternative to a friend I could
ooze my reality into.
I
wrote
and
wrote
on
Friday nights, Saturday nights
and all the other nights my
“friends” were together, all
of
which
was
extensively
documented on Facebook. I
had the pleasure of having all
my anxieties confirmed when
I went on social media, finding
they were, in fact, hanging out
without me.
To ease the pain of constant
exclusion, I wrote about it.
I
wrote
anything
that
came to mind, whether it was
fiction or poetry or just an
account of my day. Writing
not only gave me an outlet
for what I was dealing with
but also the opportunity to
put my thoughts into a single
stream, silencing the anxiety
that sends my mind off in
what seems to be hundreds of
different directions.
My
emotion-filled
spiral
notebooks
are
scattered
throughout
my
room,
purposely. I haven’t reopened
most of them since I filled
in the final lines. I already
relive so many of those painful
memories through flashbacks;
the last thing I need is to
remind myself about how I was
exactly feeling between the
lingering memories.
Writing has been the most
constant thing in my life since I
started over eight years ago and
is now how I want to support
myself once I’m on my own.
It’s grown into somewhat of an
obsession and the most sustained
emotional outlet I have.
The bullying didn’t end
until the end of my freshman
year of high school, when I
found actual friends. Instead
of being in the midst of the
trauma, I had to then deal
with
post-traumatic
stress
disorder. And even though
I
now
had
friends,
the
depression and PTSD were so
isolating that I often didn’t
feel like I had people around
me that cared.
It
wasn’t
long
after
I
first
self-harmed
that
I
found myself in the chair
of a therapist and then a
psychiatrist.
From
then
to now, I made my rounds
through the offices of about
10
therapists
and
three
psychiatrists (I lost exact
count over the years).
But the writing remained
constant as I continued to fill
journals with sometimes my
lack of will to live and other
times a brief recollection of a
happy moment.
Writing, luck, friends and
family kept me alive through
most of high school. And I mean
that in the most literal sense.
I give writing the most
credit in helping me grow from
a high school sophomore who
tried to overdose to a college
student three semesters away
from
graduating.
Darkness
was all I knew for an untold
number of years, but through
it, my passions and reality
today have been shaped.
Sometimes, even now, it
feels like my journal is the
only given in my life that
understands, especially as the
PTSD has transformed itself
into
bipolar
disorder.
But
even with the shift in how my
trauma manifests itself, why I
write hasn’t changed.
BY COLIN BERESFORD, DEPUTY STATEMENT EDITOR
ILLUSTRATION BY MICHELLE PHILLIPS