I have learned silence from the talkative,
toleration from the intolerant,
and kindness from the unkind.
I keep telling myself I’ll write my stories out one day. But people, that shit is painful. And most days it’s too scary and big to face.
Because it’s heavy.
And it hurts.
And it makes me angry.
It really just opens up old wounds, but here’s why I know I have to do it.
Charlie, from Perks of Being a Wallflower, couldn’t have said it better. I need to do it:
Because I know there are people who say all these things don’t happen. And there are people who forget what it’s like to be 16 when they turn 17. I know these will all be stories someday. And our pictures will become old photographs. We’ll all become somebody’s mom or dad. But right now these moments are not stories. This is happening.
My stories are from middle and high school. I was more of a outsider. Never in the middle of the action. I just watched. I watched these same damn people every day from 7th grade until senior year. And people/I wonder why I’m bitter. And this is why. I watched these people, and more importantly, I watched the way they treated people.
You ask why I didn’t like my middle and high school experience? It’s because I watched the “uncool” kids be made fun of to their faces and behind their backs. And it was almost everyone in my grade that did it, mostly the “cool” kids, but the majority of people were “cool,” so that doesn’t mean much.
And these same cool kids were the ones that, naturally, everyone liked. They were the ones that got the leadership positions, played sports, were respected, popular and well liked by teachers and all my peers.
So I saw the guy with Tourettes being laughed at, and the girl who liked to read get made fun of.
So, I have some stories to tell. For myself and for the people who didn’t get a say then. So at least someone will know that it happened and it mattered.