I was dressed in my concert black and white, waiting in the band room to load the buses for All County Band festival in tenth grade when the secretary came over the intercom. This was the first time in high school that I got called to the principal's office. Of course I got the required "Oooooh, someone's in trouble!" from everyone in class, but I was really confused because I was sure I hadn't done anything wrong. I went to a campus style high school so it took me few minutes to get from the band room to the office, very long minutes spent searching my brain for the possible cause of this meeting, stomach in knots.
When I finally got to the principal's office he looked very serious and asked me to sit down. That's when I noticed that he had one of my English assignments on his desk, my poetry packet. The dreaded 10th grade poetry packet. I don't remember exactly how many we had to write, but we spent the whole unit learning about every kind of poem from acrostic to sonnet and then had to pick several different kinds and write our own. Any topics we wanted, put together how ever we wanted. Writing being one of my strongest skills, this assignment was right in my wheel house and I remember handwriting all my poems and illustrating each page. I was very proud of my work and it was very personal. I had poured my heart and soul into those poems. I couldn't fathom what would have caused my teacher to have given my assignment to the principal.
As he started to talk to me about what I had put together and we went through the poems, the reason for his concern became obvious. He was worried about me. Almost every single poem I had written and even my illustrations were very dark and pretty much all about death and despair and misery. Being lonely and isolated. I even had a pretty stellar sonnet about having no friends, in impeccable iambic pentameter. I guess I hadn't consciously intended for that to be the overwhelming theme of my project, but as I was writing unfiltered, from the heart, what was on my soul, it shouldn't really have been a surprise that this was the result.
The principal knew me pretty well as he had also been my principal in middle school, a rare example of an administrator who truly cared about all the students in his school and knew most, if not all of them, by name. I think the thing that concerned him most was one particular poem that I wrote about a homeless girl living in an alley, contemplating the prospect of death over life. This was a classic red flag to him. That's when I really realized why I was called to the office. He was worried that I was suicidal. That's when I started to cry. Uncontrollably.
I felt scared, and ashamed, and panicked, even betrayed by my teacher. These were my private, honest thoughts, that I had only put down on paper with the intent of writing the best poems I possibly could, and now they were being used against me. They got me in trouble. The principal thought I wanted to kill myself, and that was not the case at all. Looking back now, I don't honestly think I would consider myself to have been suicidal when I was in high school. I had been bullied for the last 5 years, tormented, called names, been punched in the stomach, pushed in the mud, pelted by rocks on the way home from school, was excluded from groups in class, not invited to birthday parties and sleepovers, had my student government campaign posters vandalized, I sat the bench for about 95% of all my softball games. I was lonely, and isolated, and in pain. I felt like no one liked me and no one cared about me. I had gone to teachers before about bullying and teasing and none of them ever did anything.
I never wanted to kill myself, never tried to kill myself, never thought about or planned ways that I would kill myself. Death was, and still is, my biggest fear. I didn't want to die, but I did want the pain to stop. I didn't want to have to continue to live through that torment every day. I thought about what would happen if I died. I wondered if anyone would care. I thought about death, a lot. Obviously enough to write a whole slew of poems about it. As an adult with about 16 years worth of perspective on this now, I realize that I was subconsciously crying out for help. Demanding that someone care about me. Begging them to do something, anything, to make it all stop.
I was really angry about this situation for a long time, and vowed that I was never going to write anything personal again. I had a rough few weeks following this meeting with the principal and cried a lot with my parents, who were justifiably upset and concerned as well. For all intents and purposes, I was basically on suicide watch. My Mom told me she was afraid to leave me alone, they couldn't trust me and I couldn't convince them that I didn't want to hurt myself, I just wanted to stop hurting.
The good thing about this seemingly horrible period in my life, is that it actually did help things get better, and for that I am grateful to the teacher and to the principal. I was finally able to see that I did have people in my life that loved me and cared about me. My parents had always told me that no matter what happened out in the world, home was always my safe place to land, I would always be loved by my family. This situation helped me understand how true that was. I was safe inside my house. I was protected from all the bad things that happened at school. I can't imagine how different the situation would be if I were to go through the same torment as a high schooler now, with the added hell of cyber bullying. For many kids there is absolutely no escape from the torment and their bullies can follow them home and continue to beat them down over the internet. I realize now how lucky I was that I only had to face bullies in person.
I called this post "healing" because from that moment forward, that was the journey that began. School got marginally better and I made a few close friends, but I was stronger and didn't let the things that had happened in the past weigh me down as much as I had before. I didn't think about dying as much anymore, especially after I lost my friend Josh the next year. Up until that point death was an abstract concept; losing Josh made it real. I began to cherish life and hang on to the good parts and not dwell so much on the bad, because I realized how quickly it can be taken away. I decided that making the most of the good moments and worrying about the people that love and care about you is much more worthwhile than being focused on the bad and thinking about death all the time.
As I continue through life, I can look back on this time and remember that no matter how bad it gets or how alone I feel, I always have my family and I know that they love and support me, so I'm never really alone. One reason I thought it was important to write this post was so that it might help someone else heal from these kinds of wounds. If I could go back, this is the kind of thing I would want middle school Ginny to hear. I know there are kids that are going through similar experiences now. I would tell them to keep asking for help until they are heard and find someone that cares enough to listen. They don't have to feel hopeless and alone. I would tell them to stay strong and focus on the people that do love them, because it really does get better. Acknowledging that you were hurt and being honest about how you feel are the first steps to healing, and that is a journey that I'm still on to this day. Hopefully the worst is behind me and this is another big step towards being a happier me.
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