Part 2 – Losing and Finding Myself

From my blog series: “Still Standing: My Journey Through Darkness to Finding My Voice"

After everything that happened in my early years, I was desperate for something that was mine — something that couldn’t be taken away. For me, that was writing.

I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. Poetry and short stories were my safe place. Horror and thrillers were my favorite worlds to escape into. I was a book-reading machine, constantly losing myself in stories that were dark but made sense to me.

I even twisted holiday tales into something more sinister. In my version, Santa Claus wasn’t a jolly old man — he was a creepy predator with a rap sheet full of breaking and entering charges.

My Little Binder of Stories

I carried a small one-inch binder everywhere, stuffed with my poems and short stories. It was my pride and joy, my hard work on paper. During math class, once my assignments were done, I would work on my writing instead.

But my math teacher wasn’t the kind of person who encouraged creativity. He made a point of calling me out in front of the class for wearing dark clothes — not knowing that I wore them because I was embarrassed about sweating and because bloodstains didn’t show on black.

One Friday, I wore my favorite skinny jeans and a maroon long-sleeve shirt. He sneered, “Our school spirit is purple — why are you wearing the opposite team’s colors?” I didn’t care about school spirit. I was just trying to survive middle school.

Neon Green and Cruel Laughter

The following Monday, I did something no one expected: I showed up wearing as much neon green as I could find — black-and-green checkered thigh-highs, green shorts, a neon shirt.

He laughed at me.

So I went back to my dark clothes. But the teasing didn’t stop. He went out of his way to pick on me every single day.

Then one day, he saw my poems.

Losing My Safe Place

He sent me straight to the counselor’s office. That was the first time I ever told an adult that I had been breaking apart bathroom razors and cutting my thighs.

My poems — my most personal thoughts — were confiscated and given to my mom, who didn’t approve of what I’d written.

Soon after, I was diagnosed with bipolar depression and anxiety. Therapy was supposed to help me “talk out my feelings,” but it didn’t. I had already learned to see every comment as an insult, every person as a potential threat.

I turned bitter, defensive, and always afraid of what was coming next.

Stay tuned for part three!