The Writer Who Hated to Write

Whenever someone would ask me what my least favorite class in school was, my standard answer was always English. “I’m just not an English, history sort of person” I would tell them. Instead I would focus on math and science, subjects I actually enjoy. 

But one year something changed. English and History rose, while Math and Science fell. The one common link, the one reason for these sudden changes, THE TEACHERS!

Let's start at the beginning: Grammar Class, 6th Grade: day 2 or 3:

I was sitting in the back of the classroom listening to my teacher talk about something or another. I was in 1st period and my friend got there late. The entire class was scared of the teacher, so when my friend quietly walked in and sat down next to me everyone was holding their breath to see what would happen. Nothing! Nothing happened, and my teacher just kept on talking. Relieved my friend turned to me and asked what page of our workbooks we were on. I whispered back that we were on page 12, when suddenly my teacher seemed to notice us and told us to stop talking. She asked if “we needed to switch seats?” We sat there silently terrified and hoped she would leave us alone. When she finally did, and went back to teaching my friend looked over at me and mouthed, “Sorry.” I mouthed back, “It’s fine” because it was, and we hadn’t done anything wrong anyway. Apparently this was very wrong because my teacher got mad and made me switch seats so that I was in a chair on the opposite side of the room that did not even have a desk in front of it, and effectively embarrassed little sixth grade me in front of my entire class. I took my seat in silence and for the very first time I bit my lip to stop from crying in school.

Middle school did not get much better from there. I still hated writing, I wasn’t any good at it, and my teacher did not make it any better. 

Fast forward a few years to 8th grade:

In order for our class to improve at writing essays my teacher decided to make us write an essay every month. The first essay I turned in I actually felt pretty good about. I had come up with a funny title, and I thought that I had written a pretty good essay. When my teacher gave them back to us she decided that we needed to meet one on one to go over them. That meeting tore my confidence right back down. She continued the assignment for the rest of the year. Each month we had to write another essay. We hated it. After the first essay I guess she ran out of time to read our essays because she stopped giving them back. After the second or third essay we did not get back she said we would get all of our essays back at the end of the year. One girl in my class was not as scared of standing up to the teacher as the rest of us, so she said, “if we don’t get our essays back then how are we supposed to improve our essay writing skills?” The assignment had been to write an essay, but my teacher's response to the girls question was “Well, they’re not really essays.” I saw a problem with this response because if the assignment was to write an essay, and our papers were “not really essays” then clearly there was something that our teacher did not teach us.

Before I start ranting I’ll fast forward again. The first day of High School.

I didn’t actually have English class on the first day of school, but I want to give you, the reader, an understanding of how my life was going when I started highschool. I had decided to go to boarding school, and I was really excited, it was going to be like summer camp, but all year. I was a little bit terrified about being away from home and not knowing anyone, but I had weighed my terror against my fear of going to a huge public school, and boarding school won. For the first half of the day I was doing great, but then my parents had to go to a meeting for my sister, who was a junior at the time. They told me to go hand out with the other freshmen, which I did, but suddenly I could not talk. I just wanted to cry. I still don’t know why it hit me so hard right then, but I clearly remember sitting outside with a bunch of kids I did not know yet, swallowing down tears to avoid embarrassing myself.

I’m not a person who likes talking about feelings, and I barely knew anyone, so I did not say anything. I did not admit how sad I was. I did not admit that I cried myself to sleep for the 1st 2 weeks of school. I did not admit how alone I felt. And I certainly did not admit how long these feelings lasted for.

I don’t like crying, and whenever I was alone with nothing to do I would start crying, so I threw myself into my school work. If I was so busy that I did not have time to stop and breathe, then surely I would not have time to be depressed. But nighttime still came every evening, uninvited, bringing new waves of loneliness and fear.

During these first few dark weeks my English teacher had us write a paragraph about ourselves, and what we thought he should know about us. I wrote mine about how I did not like to write.

I don’t know how he did it, but somehow my freshman English teacher got me into writing. He taught me how to write well, so that I could be proud of my words, and he taught me how to write about things I was interested in, so that writing could be a choice instead of a chore. Later in the year we had to write an essay about a life changing event we had experienced. I wrote about homesickness, about being somewhere new and being afraid, about questioning myself, and feeling alone, but at the end of my essay I said that it was all ok because I had grown, and was happy now. I wasn’t. I was seriously looking through my options. I was thinking about going back home to where my family and friends were. 

That essay was the first time I shared something deeply personal in my writing. It was the first time I admitted to other people how sad and alone I was. While most of that essay was powerful truths, the end was full of lies, and I knew it. I manipulated my story, so that everyone else could go home happy, and not worry about the girl who cried all alone at night.

It took me a long time to truly feel happy again, but eventually I did get there. I made friends, but not who I was expecting to. And I balanced my schedule so that it was full of things I wanted to be doing. I even joined a creative writing club. I did not go to the club the first few weeks that it met because, as you’ve probably noticed, I don’t like writing. I don’t really know why, but one day I decided to go, and then I started going every week. I joined the club and I started writing stories. I wrote lighthearted tales that I would read aloud from the prompts we started with each week, but I also wrote dark twisted stories about people who only exist in my mind. I wrote these stories, but I did not share them because I was still scared. I was scared that someone would see through my fake smile to the weird dark person I really am. I was scared that if someone read what I wrote they would be scared of me. But at the same time I loved putting my words down on paper because even if I was scared of someone reading my stories and judging me at least my words were out there. At least they weren’t just stuck in my head anymore.

One day I got my courage up and I amazed myself by entering one of my stories into a competition. I edited one of my stories into a short story with a beginning, middle, and end, but I changed the order around. I left the dark twisted parts that I was scared of sharing. I put my story out there to get judged, but I was still terrified of what people would think, so I did not let anyone else read it first. I did not think that I would win, or even place in the competition, but I thought it would be exciting to have someone judge my words for the first time.

I won first place in the competition. I won a prize and I realized that the people I had never met who judged my story did not think it was weird and disturbing. They thought it was good. After the competition I shared it with my parents, and they thought it was good too. That freedom, being able to wite whatever I wanted, and not be judged, it helped me accept myself, even the parts of myself I was scared of. The part of myself that had come up with a dark twisted story.

But that story was different from this one. That story was a piece of fiction that my mind created. This story isn’t fiction. This is my story. You might be thinking that would have been a good conclusion to my story, but like any good story there’s always another plot twist. The next part of my story comes the summer after my freshman year of highschool. I was glad that it was summertime, and I could relax, but I was excited for the upcoming year. Sophomore year should be the best year of highschool because you already know the ropes, but you're not overwhelmed and stressed by AP classes and future plans. Unfortunately for me life had something else in store. First my school shut down. The school that had been a nightmare, then a dream. The place where I finally felt like I belonged was ripped away from me in a single email. The anxiety that I had worked so hard to get ahead of came back, and it came back strong. I had a plan of what my future held. I could clearly see what the next few years would be like, and while there were some things I did not know they were small and harmless. When I read the email that told me my school, my home, was gone, my plan was replaced with a big fat question mark. Instead of my clearly planned future all I could see was darkness. When I tried to think about what I would do, all I could see was darkness, nothingness. 

Eventually I had to move forward so I enrolled at the public highschool I had been afraid of, and joined a sports team, but despite everything my future stayed blank. I knew some people who went to the public school, but none of them were my friends, nor did I want them to be. The girls I knew were the type who party all night and don’t really care about their grades as long as they have above a C. I had above a 95 in every class. 

My first day at my new school was bad, but looking back now it could have been worse, I got lost, and I did not know how the lunch schedule worked, but an old friend helped me out, and we ate lunch together for the first few days of school. I also met some kids who seemed nice before school. I vaguely knew two of the girls in this group, but I did not have classes or lunch with either of them. I did however have lunch with a bunch of their friends. After a few quiet lunches I realized they were the kids my friends were friends with so I went over and sat down. I don’t know where I found the courage to sit down with them, but I’m glad I did. They welcomed me and helped me find the way around. I became a part of their friend group, and it made my bid, scary, public school feel a lot smaller. I made friends and got good grades. I even joined a few clubs, but my future was still blank. 

Now fast forward to today. I looked through an old notebook from highschool and found the beginning of this story. Now when I look at my future I can only see a little bit, but the emptiness does not scare me like it used to. I have friends who I know will always have my back, and a blank future ready for me to create it. I know that life will keep trying to push me back down. But as long as there are blank pages in my story I plan to keep on writing them. I know that there will always be more darkness on the path ahead, but I’m not afraid of the dark anymore. My darkness is a part of me and it helps me conquer things that used to scare me. I know that my story will continue to grow and change, and I’m ready to flip the page and see what else life wants to throw at me, because this time I’m ready for anything. Now if someone were to ask me what my favorite subject is, my answer might very well be the same as it was years ago, but my reasons have changed. I no longer would tell them that I hate to write because it’s hard. I would tell them that I love to write because it allows me to put my words on paper and to see them is to know that my words and my feelings are real. I still wonder everyday where my story will lead me, but no longer because I’m afraid of the answer. I am simply excited to discover what the next chapter of my story will hold.