Thursday, September 6, 2012

when things get raw

Today was the second day of school, but the first day that I had to be ready and in class by 7:35. Ugh. I hate mornings. And having Weight Training first thing isn't exactly a motivation to get out of bed. Although, having the class with my best friend helps a little :)

Second period was Pre-Calc. Not much to say other than that we're just reviewing right now. And I'm pretty much the slowest person in the class at getting through assignments. But that's really nothing new. You know those few kids left at the end of the period  who are still finishing their test? Yeah, that's me. 

Things actually got interesting in English, though. And not all in a good way...

We have a huge class full of a mix of interesting people. It will be an interesting year, I think everyone can tell that. My teacher, Mr. McNeal, is pretty great so far. My ex once told me that he was one of his favorite teachers. He seems nice, and entertaining. I think it will be a good year for english (unlike the last two encounters I had in high school).

For the majority of the 90 minutes in class, Mr. McNeal introduced to us and had us brainstorm/discuss in small groups our college essays. He gave us the sheet of prompts and said to start thinking. 

I suppose that in that moment the reality of college and applications became inescapable. This was is. This is my last year of high school. 9 more months and I'll be done. But before that happened, I was going to have to write multiple essays that different college admissions would later read, that could end up being the deciding factor as to if I was accepted or not. The chance to set myself apart from all the other high school seniors in the country, in the world. 

One of the major events in my life that instantly came to mind to write about was sophomore year when I was admitted into the hospital for anorexia. 

Truthfully, I've been thinking about my hospital stay and my whole recovery process a lot lately. I don't necessarily feel too great about my body most times. Sometimes I just wish I was skinny again. And it doesn't help your self-esteem/body image when you're back in class, surrounded by these tall, skinny, beautiful girls who are all about a thousand times prettier than you. 

So in other words, I've had a heightened level of insecurity lately. And after we had narrowed down our options of topics to write about, we were asked to share a little about one of them in our small groups. I sat with my friend Beth and another kid in our grade, Jason. Beth talked first about swim team and how it has impacted her life, then it was my turn. 

"Well, I have one thing I want to write about, but it's a little raw, so I think I'll just talk about something else..." Beth knew to what I was referring, "Can you just try?" she said in the sweetest way possible. 

"Uhhh... I guess..." I began to describe my first day in the hospital, how at dinner that night I sat in my room with one of the nurses, Melanie, eating my meal of chicken and tortillas (along with a few other items that I can't recall at the moment) while she made small, discreet glances at me and my tray to make sure I was eating. That first dinner at the hospital seemed like such a simple task, but for me it was huge. 

I was barely holding it all together by this point. But as I started to tell of how later that night a sweet, old nurse stopped and came to the entry of my room to say, "I just wanted to tell you that you're very pretty," I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. My voice got embarrassingly high as I fought back the tsunami tide behind my eyelids. 

I felt weak. Vulnerable. Beth tried to comfort me by saying, "Look how far are you are now, though." I attempted to smile as I joked, "Look what you made me do, Beth." Although I don't think that it came out quite as humorous as I had hoped, it was more on the sympathetic side. And I am not one to search for sympathy. 

Either way, I tried my hardest to mask my face and eyes from any of the surrounding tables filled with students. I'm not sure how well I covered it up, but once I got myself together to a certain degree, I quickly, quietly walked out of class and to the bathroom to fix any mascara + eyeliner that had made its way from my eyes and onto my face. 

I cried in class. On the first day of english. 

I'm not embarrassed for telling my story or having gone through what I have, but embarrassed that my classmates may have seen me crying and didn't know why. I didn't want to be labeled as anything like 'cry baby' or 'melodramatic' on my first day of class. Hopefully people didn't notice, or better yet they will forget come monday.  

Its been said that 'Crying isn't a sign of weakness; It's a sign of having tried too hard to be strong for too long.' I hope this is true in my case...

taylor :]

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