High School

High school was not good to me. I was the girl people didn’t want to be around. I was too “weird” for the goth crew, but too “goth” for everyone else. I had the died black hair and dark clothing, but I stuck to mostly satin, lace and velvet in the form of long dresses and skirts. To be technical I was “Romanti-Goth” where the rest of the goth crew was “Manson-Goth” and everyone else simply wasn’t.

This was back in the time where Columbine had just happened and was fresh on everyone’s mind. Your average goth in my school was popular enough to get through, and they had each other. I, on the other hand, was alone.

I vividly remember the day someone spit at my feet while I was walking through the halls. Yeah, it was like that.

It didn’t help that I didn’t have the high school mentality. I wouldn’t say I was above it, I just wasn’t into it. I was a mentally ill loner who enjoyed role-play games and people older than me. I wasn’t about dating around, parties, and the latest group of girly giggles.

Even my boyfriend was 8 years older. Then my husband, who was next is 6 years older. It in fact, wasn’t until Andrew, that I could be interested in someone my age or younger and have them not be a teenage boy. Your average teenager repulses me.

So high school was hell. It wasn’t something I enjoyed, it was something I struggled to survive.

High school was when my mental heath issues became obvious. Most of it is a blur, but I do remember going and seeing my guidance counselor looking for a push in the right direction. Luckily, a licensed therapist was in the school every Thursday for cases just like me. I was only able to see her 7 times at school before I had to start seeing her at her office, but that was enough for me to know she was the one. She was the one I could spill my guts to and who would be there for me. She was the one to give me her cell phone number in case of emergencies. She saw in me what no one else at the time could see. I was special and in need of help. At the time diagnoses like “bi-polar” were thrown around but they never fit. The only thing she knew for sure was that I was getting lost inside my head and my sessions with her were my only chance to get help.

There was one other key figure in my high school survival. We’ll call her Mrs M. M was my high school 9th grade English teacher (and then later 10th grade journalism 1 and 12th grade Brit Lit). Right away we clicked. She was the type of teacher to give me passing grade when I accidentally answered the quiz question with the key event in chapter 4 and not chapter 3, when the whole main point was whether I read up to chapter 3 in the book or not. I had in fact about finished the book. Yea, I was one of those English students. And she was one of those teachers. She spent the 4 years of my high school life doing her damnedest to make sure I made it through and survived. She was always there for me, no matter the problem.

I remember when I was in roughly 9th grade and had my first website. It was just for me filled with my dark depressive poetry and even darker thoughts. My mom some how came across it and had a cow. She immediately sent the link to Mrs M for her thoughts on it. In true M fashion, she informed me and my mom that it was very well written. The fact that it showed how much I needed help was already obvious without the site. Why did it surprise my mom? I’ll always wonder that.

This blog, Mrs M is dedicated in part to you.

It is Mrs M I went to visit today at my old high school. I hadn’t seen her in years and felt the sudden urge to see how she and her family were doing. I wanted to fill her in on my life and my family. I was also excited to say the words that burst out of me. “I’m writing!” I knew she, of all people, would be proud of me.

I knew she of all people would look past the darker times, and see the beauty of my written word.

So yes Mrs M, this one is to you.

2 thoughts on “High School

  1. I am pretty sure if we had gone to high school together, we may not have been friends but I would have thought you were interesting.

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