Let’s come back to part II of this chat about the human condition. There are trigger warnings in place for this part in some sections so please be safe and take care of yourself.

A New Level of Hurt 

TW: Self-Harm

Seventh grade. Not three weeks after that first incident of anxiety along that two lane road in the middle of Arizona did I notice myself succumb to a sadness that I could not put a name to. I remember shakily walking into my seventh grade counselors office and dropping the pen to the sign up sheet on the floor before scribbling my name and walking out of the room hunched over my armful of books. Two days later I was called out of my first period social studies class and sat across from a strange woman in the most uncomfortable chair and cringed at the silence she had left. After minutes of that deafening silence she asks What’s wrong? I say that I do not know, that I wish I had the language that I do now to say that this sadness is unblinking, that it is something I cannot understand no matter how hard I try. After that I went home, my parents got a call, I got a therapist, and her name was Carol.

Carol was…confusing. The first time I walked into her office she smiled softly, like I was a broken record that she was so sure she could fix with some scotch tape and tissues. Boy did she try. I remember walking into the waiting room of her practice that smelled of elementary school classrooms and bleach. I sat next to my mom as I watched a child not more than seven play with cubes on a string. She welcomed me into her room. It was dark, devoid of natural light with candles and lamps casting nightmarish shadows on the walls. I sat on the middle of the couch in front of her office chair, unable to pick a side, like sexuality or gender.

By eighth grade I was beginning to unravel. I drew blood on my arms more often than I didn’t. My room became a graveyard of my own feelings. There are many ways to know pain, but when a 12 year old can only remember their last year of middle school by bandaging their arms, there’s a new level of hurt unlocked. That year was the first time I knew what a panic attack was, the first time someone ran into the bathroom after me and refused to leave once the stall door closed. I was put into a “Reaching Higher” program where basically a bunch of fucked up kids got to learn how to handle it when shit gets bad. I went once every week, and it got me out of math and science, so I guess it was something.

A Tunnel and a Metaphor 

TW: Self-Harm

It’s September of my sophomore year of highschool and I’m walking into the homecoming dance with four of my best friends. We party, dance, and take off our heels and complain of the pain of being born a girl. It was the following monday when one of those friends chose to spread false information about my closeted sexuality. You see, before the start of the school year she had confided in me and I was supportive. She did not return the favor. I find out through one of the people who today I still consider to be my best friend that she spread the rumor of me being a lesbian twice. When I called her out, she ran. She denied it and refused to take responsibility for her actions. That was when things went downhill. 

I began to limp to walgreens and clear the bandages, medical tape, butterfly strips, and painkillers from the shelves. I am not proud of this. Night after night I sat while blood dripped into the carpet of my childhood room while my family watched home movies downstairs. Blood is similar to sadness: it stains and seeps into everything it touches. 

The thing no one will tell you about their darkest days is this: it’s not that there is no light at the end of the tunnel, it’s that you can’t believe in the possibility of anything other than a train existing in that very tunnel. One of the only things I could think about during that year was the fact that I didn’t want to be this person. The one with long sleeves, bracelets, and puffy eyes. That person who walks through the hallways with headphones and a backpack too heavy. A backpack that was so heavy to the point that it seems to be a metaphor for the emotional baggage I carried.

Welcome to my high school… 

TW: passing mentions of self-harm, and various types of mental health programs.

Bulletin boards filled with positivity and inspiration, quotes and excerpts from favorite books, pictures and maps of the places I dreamed of being. I dreamed of being anywhere other than here. Here is the place I grew up. A suburb of Detroit with a downtown known for sex-trafficing only by teenage girls if you went too far from the center. A city with a high school we all called “royal joke” while our teachers called it a blessing in the eyes of the educating community. We had turf wars between football teams, a girls basketball team that broke records, a flute choir that received the highest ratings at festivals year after year, and a series of rooms dedicated to when kids have panic attacks. 

The day that I decided to turn my life around was the day a girl died. I won’t dwell on how, mostly to protect her and her family. I remember sitting on the floor of an empty counselor’s office with my best friend as we cried so hard that the Earth could have caved under the weight of our tears. The worst part was that we weren’t even crying for the girl that had just died. We were crying for ourselves. We didn’t want the hero’s arc that had been thrown upon us like a blanket we couldn’t figure out how to get off. We couldn’t breathe. We felt like the world was testing us, and that’s some grade A bullshit.

I remember the day that I bonded with my best friend. She was hiding the same secret I was, and we found the truth within our bond of friendship. We helped each other through panic attacks at the school plays, the unbearable sadness during the worst nights, and the fact that we both wanted to die. But neither of us could stand to live without the other. So I got help, I kicked and screamed and bled my way through that year. I went through therapists, psychiatrists, an E.R. visit, and an outpatient program until it stuck. I got to see my best friend graduate, and I got to go to her prom with her. I don’t remember when it happened, but I fell in love with her sometime after that and she later became my fiancé. I don’t know how else to describe it, but a weight was lifted off my shoulders as if I was the old Greek titan by the name of Atlas who held the sky on my shoulders; I was suddenly unburdened from the endless sky I had been carrying. I am no longer responsible for anyone else’s happiness. Just mine. That fiancé I mentioned is the one who gave me hope and love and something to believe in when I needed it most. She taught me how to love myself, accept love, and love someone else. Deciding to text her “How are you?” At the end of every day was the best thing I have ever done. The second best was when she cut the strings of my old life. She literally cut my ponytail and buzzed my hair, leaving a beautifully blue eyed person who loved who they were becoming.

Until we meet again,

Stan (they/them/theirs)