I couldn’t muster up the confidence to go back to my sixth period PE class.  
 What was once a social gathering for the popular kids, was now a never-ending catfight that always ended with me being emotionally ripped to shreds. I felt so stupid at times because I was afraid to speak up for myself, in fear that I would have to make a habit of it.
Seemed as if I was teased for everything, my shoes, my clothes, my hair, and my weight.
I had now come to realize that in their eyes, I would never be good enough...

The bell rung for sixth period, and I remember sitting in the bathroom stall at Calvin Simmons middle school, crouched on top of the toilet so that my feet wouldn’t dangle.
I was hoping that no one would be curious enough to peek in and discover me, because I wouldn’t have the energy to explain myself.
This had now become a ritual for me, ditching sixth period that is.

 I couldn’t muster up the confidence to go back to my sixth period PE class.  
What was once a social gathering for the popular kids, was now a never-ending catfight that always ended with me being emotionally ripped to shreds. I felt so stupid at times because I was afraid to speak up for myself, in fear that I would have to make a habit of it.
Seemed as if I was teased for everything, my shoes, my clothes, my hair, and my weight.
I had now come to realize that in their eyes, I would never be good enough.

 You would think that I would be used to it, being that this had become a pattern in every school I attended.
I was the eldest of 8 girls, needless to say we weren’t able to afford the “latest” fashions, and there were some days I wasn’t even sure if we would eat.

I had cried myself to sleep many nights, praying that the Lord wouldn’t wake me up again, to what seemed to be a horrible life.  
I contemplated killing myself, even had it all planned out at one point.
 I was going to write a “Goodbye Note” to my family, and name each person (bully) I believed was responsible for my death, in hopes that the guilt would eat them alive.
I could use a knife I thought… wait that’s too painful.
I could jump off of the roof of my school… hmmm, but who really suffers then?
I could shoot myself in the head… but where would I get a gun?
Lord knows we couldn’t afford that either!

So, this bathroom stall covered with random love notes and graffiti, was my alternative to a self-imposed death.
 I had never felt so alone in my life, as I did at those moments.
Who could I talk to? Who would listen?

 End of semester schedule changes, lead me to Mrs. Thompson whom I now had for 6th period English.
She had taken an interest in me, after a creative writing assignment where she wanted us to write about how “We would make the world a better place.”
So I explained the reasons why I thought, “making the world a better place” was next to impossible.
Even if we had made the world a better place but allowed the same stupid people to inhabit it, did we really change anything?
Although it wasn’t written as well as I’ve put it for you, she understood it.
Somewhere amongst the grammatical and spelling errors, she saw potential.

 She bought me my own personal journal, it was brown-leatherback and had my name engraved at the bottom.  When I asked her what she wanted me to write about, she said, “surprise me.”
The first day I didn’t know what to write, I just started with a bunch of random words, or whatever popped into my head. Cutting grass, peanut butter and jelly, my crush on Ricky McCoy, you name it I wrote it down.
Soon those words turned to sentences, sentences to paragraphs, paragraphs to stories.
I was finally able to vent, defend, argue, and fight all by lifting my pen.

 I immediately fell in love with writing, with my words, this allowed me to discover my voice.
She encouraged me. She taught me. She changed me.
My earlier prayers of death had fallen on deaf ears, not because God didn’t hear me but he had other plans for my life.
When you take a look back at your life, and the hardest times of it, you start to notice the small things God does to show you that he still hears you.
Those are the moments that I live for, and the moments that I write of.

Thank you Mrs. Thompson!