An Emo Story From My Past

When I was a kid I used to hate school. I hated it with a desperate passion that glowed white-hot. More than your average kid. It got really bad from the time I hit 5th grade until around the middle of my 8th grade year.

I would fake sick. I would make myself sick. I would cry and beg -- if all else failed -- to be allowed to stay home. I got myself into trouble. I got my mom into trouble. I contemplated suicide. I planned my method of suicide. I planned how/when I would commit suicide. I even dreamed about not having to go to school anymore.

I remember those dreams. They were all lame and obvious. Even while dreaming I knew I was dreaming. I pretended not to know. I remember each time in those dreams, each moment, where I made the decision to pretend I wasn't dreaming. Or to pretend I didn't care that I was dreaming, so long as I kept dreaming. Hoping I was in a coma.

The best thing that happened to me was in the middle of my 8th grade year. I quit school. I stayed out about two years. That two-year-or-so break helped me tremendously. Thank goodness my mother realized I had to get out for a while and made it happen. Who knows if I'd be here today if she hadn't?

I'd like to think I'm strong enough that I would have been okay in the long run, anyway. But, I honestly don't know. And thank goodness (and my mom) that I never had to find out. I may not have liked the answer.

What most people call the best years of their lives and wish they could get back were so far the worst years of mine, and I'm glad they're over. The scary thing, though? I'm not alone. And of my like-minded peers I am one of the lucky ones. I'm still alive, and I'm a sober, mostly sane adult. Countless were not so lucky. I was strong and had help. Many have neither.