Today I cried. I cried the way I cried in 6th grade. The same problems, the same feeling welling up inside me, the same bottles of emotion shattering from light pings and pangs from the hammers of everyday life.
But unlike 6th grade, I was surrounded by people who were mature enough to care. And instead of getting angry at me only replied, "It's not you. Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault." And the tears melted from shame to relief. For the first time in my life, it wasn't my fault. Or at least someone told me it wasn't.
It was October 2004. While most teens in the 6th grade were finding their place in the newly-formed social ladder, a product of combining three elementary schools to one, I had bigger issues to face. For years I had been fighting with my mom and I was in between two episodes of running way. My sister that week had threatened to kill me before going to bed and the voices were getting louder. There also was a strange man who I did not like getting unusually close to my little brother. And also, I was starting puberty. So basically a normal day in the life of Karen.
My friends were... Shallow. Kind, stable students from perfect, wealthy homes. They were the antithesis of my life and that is the way I wanted it. The greater the difference between us, the better I could live my double life-- normal straight A student at school, lifetime sentence to a mad house at home. Not a single soul of them knew anything about my home life. For how talkative I was and open about everything, expressing ideas of something outside these shallow girls' experience would just be a pain to all of us. However, I had no idea just how much pain it could cause.
After one particularly rough night at home, I came to school with tears still fresh in my eyes. I had cried so much the night before, that even upon waking I cried that I woke up. (I hated that even though I laid out a book of ways to kill myself-- engineered 13 ways actually-- I never had the courage to do any of them.)
But like everyday of my life, I pep talked myself to dry my tears, don't let anyone see, don't let anyone know. Just be the Karen everyone knows for her shining smile.
This day, I couldn't. My tear ducts no longer had any strength in them. Any contortion in my face broke a tear through. I knew it would be a rough day, but I had no idea how rough.
I was standing in the entry way to Mrs. Urban's classroom where the instruments were kept. It was a white-walled, strange bump out from the hallway to the classroom. The bus dropped us off rather early to school every morning and I would hangout sometimes in this little alcove before class would begin. When Sarah, Elizabeth (and probably Claire and Alicia I don't remember) came, we began to talk about whatever it was we talked about. I apparently was not as chipper as I normally was, and Sarah asked what was wrong. I got dismissive, and told her even if I could tell her, she couldn't possibly understand. Naïvely, she began to try to comfortingly coax it out me, saying she would understand but that I needed to share with her. I told her no. She began to get upset with me. That we were friends and if I was upset I needed to share. I told her no. She pressured me more saying that it was MY fault that she couldn't help because I was the one who wouldn't tell me what was wrong. I told her I didn't want her to comfort me, and that it will pass, and to just let me be. Through all this, I broke down. All the glass started to shatter and the floodgates opened. The girls stood, shocked as I slid to the floor in an uncontrollable outburst of the ugliest cry one could imagine. They left me.
Next thing I know after class, as all the students leave, Sarah stands and waits in the class. Mrs. Urban tells me to stay behind for a moment, and I am scared. I am so fragile at this moment, anything out of routine is like a rake clawing me from the inside. But here I sit in a circle with my just recent aggressors with Sarah playing the role of victim. Band class-- my musical escape-- is beginning at this moment and each tick of the clock fills me with dread. Mrs. Urban first has the "victim" explain why we are all here. Sarah says this tragic story of how I am just a mean, angry person who takes out my frustration on them (as of that day) and I refuse to tell them why, even though if I only trusted them, I could be happy and our friendship would be fixed.
I am appalled. I remember questioning my entire judgement at ever being friends with such self-centered people. Mrs. Urban turns to me and asks why am I so upset. I reassure her and everyone in the room it has nothing to do with them until they started to press me. Banter continues on using the logic, "Well if it has nothing to do with us, then why can't you tell us." I remember being shocked that Mrs. Urban still sides with them for the most part. I beg for us the drop this and just to let me go to band class. Mrs. Urban says we can resolve when both sides... compromise. (What a shitty ass idea.) Sarah says she will only be satisfied when she is able to help me.
I don't remember all that happened, or everything said. I remembered I wanted to die. I hoped my emotions would make me pass out and I would hit my head. My eyes were stinging and the room was in a haze. I was fading in and out when Sarah talked. I felt like I was drowning after I was not allowed to leave. I remember screaming. I think I said "LEAVE ME ALONE!! leave me alone...." And crying. I remember Mrs. Urban taking me swiftly with a hand on my upper back to the drinking fountain. Looking back, she had no idea what to do. She put me in the hallway between counselor office rooms hoping one would come out but they were all busy. She brought me back to the drinking fountain and asked the secretary which one was free first and what to do with me. Sarah and the other girls stood sheepishly by the classroom door peering out until I glared at them, crying from being frightened like at a scary movie. I was actually very glad at this moment. They would stop and now a little bit of truth could be shed on who really was the victim here. Mrs. Urban ordered them to go to class and to not talk about this.
So tonight in my living room, I cried. My walls broke down. Instead of being bullied in to sharing why, I freely shared the reason for my pain. "It's not you." It's been over 12 years since that day. I still hurt. I still have rope in my room, and I s have poison in my room. And yet, I still stand on two feet when I wake in the morning.
(Sidenote, I confronted Sarah years later-- in high school or just a year after high school about this exact event since it did greatly effect us all of my middle school and high school, and though she didn't really think she did anything wrong, she apologized and said she had no idea. And I said I know, I didn't want her to. She had the audacity to say I should have confronted her sooner so that maybe we could have been on better terms sooner, and I told her that was not a possibility, and things in life must run their course.)
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