The Plan
The Plan
It is January 20, 2010—11:30pm. I hold the journal I got for Christmas in my hands, the quote on the cover jumping out at me, inspiring me as if illuminated by a spotlight. "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined." —Thoreau. Suddenly, a new idea excites me. It is my birthday, I am sixteen years old, and today I make the plan to change my life. In the dark sanctuary of my bedroom, I open my journal to the first page, the fresh scent filling my nose, and the blank space anxiously waiting to absorb my every thought, dream and goal. "As my new year's resolutions, I have set my mind to let go of the past, move on and be more positive. As a new sixteen-year-old, I am determined to follow through with these goals and to live my life to the fullest. Too much time is wasted by insecurities..." I write. I fill the page with my new pledge. "On your birthday, you are confident and you feel special and beautiful and you realize (though you already knew) that you are appreciated, respected, admired and loved by many". I vow to strive for this feeling every day.
Now, nine months later, I look back on that day and smile. Call it fate. Call it destiny. Call it an answered prayer. Call it a guardian angel watching over me that a plan came to me that night that would cure the depression I had been suffering from for years, that would finally give me something I never had: confidence.
It is sometime during my grade eight year. I am sitting on my bed, arms wrapped tightly around my legs, quivering and hiccupping while hot, messy tears stream down my face. This has become a familiar sight to my mother, who stands at the end of the bed, a hopeless, tired expression on her face from having to deal with my break-downs routinely. I have been suffering from depression for nearly two years. I hate myself; I hate the cruel world I live in, and I hate life. I have lost interest in everything I used to enjoy. I have lost interest in my family and friends. I have lost interest in myself. "Do you want to see someone," my mother asks. I nod my head vigorously and begin to sob even harder as I realize it is my last resort.
I walk into the psychologist's waiting room and already I do not like it here. I do not look anyone in the eye; I cave into myself, my posture terrible as usual. I keep my head down. I do not want anyone here to know I need help. She comes out of her office and I do not even look at her. The idea of having to see her makes me feel vulnerable and weak and although I know these are the reasons I am in this strange place I do not want to admit it to myself. She asks to speak privately with my parents before I come in. She asks if that is okay. "Nothing's okay!" I scream inside my head. "Yes," I say aloud. My voice sounds tiny and it makes me cringe. My parents disappear behind the sound-proof walls of the psychologist's room. They are in there for a long time. I imagine what they are saying. "Yes, our daughter has problems. Yes, she needs help." Again, the voice inside my head shrieks: "No! It's not true!" But a conflicting voice whispers: "Yes, Hon, it is". When it is my turn to go in and talk to the woman my parents have paid to listen to my pathetic middle school problems, I enter her room like I am following orders. The space may come off to an outsider as warm and inviting, but even the large cushioned couch offers me no comfort. In this place, I am at my lowest point. I have passed the edge of breaking. I have plummeted off this edge and crashed-landed in a broken state. After my parents leave, I start to reveal my troubles to the psychologist, hating every syllable I pronounce.
It is grade nine. I am walking outside at noon with my two best friends, laughing and acting silly and joking around. "You're so immature," one of them says, rolling hers eyes at me in a sign of disapproval. Her negative tone is one I have grown used to, after being put-down by it a thousand times. "Yeah, grow up. You're embarrassing," the other agrees. Immediately I shut my mouth and my smile vanishes from my face. I look at the ground and kick at a stone. I am used to comments like this. "Immature" and "embarrassing" are words frequently used to describe me. My friends walk in front of me, gossiping and whispering and giggling, their heads leaning in close to one another, preventing anyone else from hearing their conversation. I trail behind them in the silence I am famous for. This is our usual formation.
Earlier in the week, we are seated at our lunch table in the cafeteria. I have just finished telling my friend something I learned from an essay explaining the science behind the book A Wrinkle in Time. "Isn't that the coolest thing ever," I ask enthusiastically. "I don't get it," she replies. I attempt to explain but she cuts me off mid-sentence: "That's just stupid. You're such a nerd." "Is Kailey telling you another one of her geeky things," my other friend asks. "Yeah, it was really stupid. It doesn't even make sense." A heard of popular girls flock to our table, and my friends do not speak another word to me. This is the punishment I get for not amounting to the acceptable person they want me to be. They are caught up in their new obsession, popularity, and I feel invisible, something I feel a lot. The word "stupid" replays in my brain over and over. It is something I hear a lot.
It is the night of the Halloween school dance. I am getting ready with one of the girls I call my best friend. I have brought my pirate costume: a silk tube-top with poufy sleeves to attach, a red and white striped sash, a matching headband and skirt, a pair of leggings and a pirate's vest. I ask my friend to help me attach the sleeves to my shirt. "You're going to put those on? You'll look stupid. Show some skin, b—! Here, let me help you with the sash. There! Don't wear the vest with it, your boobs look good. And don't wear leggings, that skirt is sexy, girl! Go as a sl—y pirate! Yeah." She uses the language she has adopted from her role-models, the popular girls. "B—" and "sl—" are words she has added to my list of nicknames, along with the usual "stupid", "awkward", "quiet girl" and "geek". I give in to her pressure and allow her to call me by these ugly words. After hearing them many times, I have begun to accept them as the truth. When my parents see me, they are horrified. In my "sl—y" pirate costume, I feel uncomfortable and disgraceful and dirty, but it is what I think I have to wear to be accepted. When we arrive at the dance, my friend warns me not to be awkward. I receive comments like "you sexy!" and "d— you lookin' hot!". One of the popular girls even says that I look like a "candy stripper" (my costume now resembling a candy-cane as opposed to a pirate). The term disgusts me and makes me wish I had never gone to the dance at all. These comments are intended as compliments, but they do not sound like that to me. They remind me that I am ashamed of the way I am dressed.
It is almost the end of the worst summer of my life. I am walking down to the river with my so-called best friends, along with a handful of boys. "Hey, wouldn't he and Kailey make a great couple," one of the girls I longer think of as a best friend asks the group, referring to one of our other friends who was not present at the time. "Why do you think that," someone answers. "Think about it," she replies, "They're both totally awkward!". A few members of the group voice their agreement and everyone laughs. "But they wouldn't say anything to each other," one of the boys says, "They'd just sit there in silence 'cause they're both so quiet. And he wouldn't even hold her hand 'cause he's so green." Bursts of laughter ring out again. "But she's green too, though," someone adds, and everyone continues to make jokes at my expense. They do not even notice that I have started to trail far behind, not wishing to hear their mean words. It is the usual formation.
It is early in the next school year. I sit in my bed in the dark, a place that has become my crying chamber and my only escape from the world I wish I did not live in. By now, I wholly believe that I am awkward, embarrassing, stupid and a geek. I think something is wrong with me, that it is wrong to be the way I am. I do not believe that anyone likes me, and I think because of this that I must be ugly on top of it all. It is late at night. My laptop rests on my knees and I am chatting online with my pen-pal from Australia. I have fallen into the habit of venting all my feelings to him, because he understands and he comforts me. Jeremy does not say I am stupid or immature or awkward or a nerd. Instead, he tells me I am special and that I mean a lot to him as a friend from far away. He is someone I can truly call my best friend, the only thing I have to keep me sane. I tell him of the way my two friends are making me feel. "If I could be there right now, I would give you a hug," he says. I send him a smiley face, because I cannot express in words how grateful I am that he is in my life and how much better he makes me feel. "You're attractive and you have a great personality," he tells me. "You're funny and smart and kind. Don't let anyone convince you differently." I smile, and then beg him only half-jokingly to move to New Brunswick. Jeremy types "lol" and signs off with "lylaf". It means "love you like a friend".
It is May; I am finally putting my plan to action. In an e-mail (for words only led to fighting and denial and storming off without anything being resolved), I express my every feeling towards the two people I do not even refer to as friends. I do not hold anything back. Being brutally honest, I let them know how rude, snobby, mean and shallow they are. I stay up past midnight instant-messaging one of the recipients of this e-mail. She continues to deny that she does any of the things I mentioned, and I continue to tell her it is all true. She tells me that she is crying, for we had been best friends since childhood. The only reason I have to be sad is that I lost that childhood best friend recently to the peer pressure to be popular. The other recipient replies to the e-mail in a short message, saying she is sorry that it had to come to this. I am sorry too.
Now, it is early in my grade 11 school year. I am no longer friends with anyone who calls me names and pressures me in any way. No one says I am embarrassing, and I am no longer embarrassed to be myself. "Stupid" is not in my vocabulary, since I know I am intelligent and I am very proud of it. I wear what I am comfortable in, and my new friends say they like the way I dress. I know I am not ugly, and I feel beautiful. I know I am not awkward, but simply shy around new people. I have better friends who like me for who I am, and do not set standards that I have to meet to be accepted. They make me feel good about myself. I am no longer depressed. I am happy. I have regained interest in my hobbies, my family and my true best friends. I like my life and the world I live in. I am still quiet at times, but I am confident in myself. My plan has worked and I know what saved me: maybe fate, maybe destiny, but most definitely an answered prayer, answered by guardian angels looking out for me, in the form family and true best friends.
Now, nine months later, I look back on that day and smile. Call it fate. Call it destiny. Call it an answered prayer. Call it a guardian angel watching over me that a plan came to me that night that would cure the depression I had been suffering from for years, that would finally give me something I never had: confidence.
It is sometime during my grade eight year. I am sitting on my bed, arms wrapped tightly around my legs, quivering and hiccupping while hot, messy tears stream down my face. This has become a familiar sight to my mother, who stands at the end of the bed, a hopeless, tired expression on her face from having to deal with my break-downs routinely. I have been suffering from depression for nearly two years. I hate myself; I hate the cruel world I live in, and I hate life. I have lost interest in everything I used to enjoy. I have lost interest in my family and friends. I have lost interest in myself. "Do you want to see someone," my mother asks. I nod my head vigorously and begin to sob even harder as I realize it is my last resort.
I walk into the psychologist's waiting room and already I do not like it here. I do not look anyone in the eye; I cave into myself, my posture terrible as usual. I keep my head down. I do not want anyone here to know I need help. She comes out of her office and I do not even look at her. The idea of having to see her makes me feel vulnerable and weak and although I know these are the reasons I am in this strange place I do not want to admit it to myself. She asks to speak privately with my parents before I come in. She asks if that is okay. "Nothing's okay!" I scream inside my head. "Yes," I say aloud. My voice sounds tiny and it makes me cringe. My parents disappear behind the sound-proof walls of the psychologist's room. They are in there for a long time. I imagine what they are saying. "Yes, our daughter has problems. Yes, she needs help." Again, the voice inside my head shrieks: "No! It's not true!" But a conflicting voice whispers: "Yes, Hon, it is". When it is my turn to go in and talk to the woman my parents have paid to listen to my pathetic middle school problems, I enter her room like I am following orders. The space may come off to an outsider as warm and inviting, but even the large cushioned couch offers me no comfort. In this place, I am at my lowest point. I have passed the edge of breaking. I have plummeted off this edge and crashed-landed in a broken state. After my parents leave, I start to reveal my troubles to the psychologist, hating every syllable I pronounce.
It is grade nine. I am walking outside at noon with my two best friends, laughing and acting silly and joking around. "You're so immature," one of them says, rolling hers eyes at me in a sign of disapproval. Her negative tone is one I have grown used to, after being put-down by it a thousand times. "Yeah, grow up. You're embarrassing," the other agrees. Immediately I shut my mouth and my smile vanishes from my face. I look at the ground and kick at a stone. I am used to comments like this. "Immature" and "embarrassing" are words frequently used to describe me. My friends walk in front of me, gossiping and whispering and giggling, their heads leaning in close to one another, preventing anyone else from hearing their conversation. I trail behind them in the silence I am famous for. This is our usual formation.
Earlier in the week, we are seated at our lunch table in the cafeteria. I have just finished telling my friend something I learned from an essay explaining the science behind the book A Wrinkle in Time. "Isn't that the coolest thing ever," I ask enthusiastically. "I don't get it," she replies. I attempt to explain but she cuts me off mid-sentence: "That's just stupid. You're such a nerd." "Is Kailey telling you another one of her geeky things," my other friend asks. "Yeah, it was really stupid. It doesn't even make sense." A heard of popular girls flock to our table, and my friends do not speak another word to me. This is the punishment I get for not amounting to the acceptable person they want me to be. They are caught up in their new obsession, popularity, and I feel invisible, something I feel a lot. The word "stupid" replays in my brain over and over. It is something I hear a lot.
It is the night of the Halloween school dance. I am getting ready with one of the girls I call my best friend. I have brought my pirate costume: a silk tube-top with poufy sleeves to attach, a red and white striped sash, a matching headband and skirt, a pair of leggings and a pirate's vest. I ask my friend to help me attach the sleeves to my shirt. "You're going to put those on? You'll look stupid. Show some skin, b—! Here, let me help you with the sash. There! Don't wear the vest with it, your boobs look good. And don't wear leggings, that skirt is sexy, girl! Go as a sl—y pirate! Yeah." She uses the language she has adopted from her role-models, the popular girls. "B—" and "sl—" are words she has added to my list of nicknames, along with the usual "stupid", "awkward", "quiet girl" and "geek". I give in to her pressure and allow her to call me by these ugly words. After hearing them many times, I have begun to accept them as the truth. When my parents see me, they are horrified. In my "sl—y" pirate costume, I feel uncomfortable and disgraceful and dirty, but it is what I think I have to wear to be accepted. When we arrive at the dance, my friend warns me not to be awkward. I receive comments like "you sexy!" and "d— you lookin' hot!". One of the popular girls even says that I look like a "candy stripper" (my costume now resembling a candy-cane as opposed to a pirate). The term disgusts me and makes me wish I had never gone to the dance at all. These comments are intended as compliments, but they do not sound like that to me. They remind me that I am ashamed of the way I am dressed.
It is almost the end of the worst summer of my life. I am walking down to the river with my so-called best friends, along with a handful of boys. "Hey, wouldn't he and Kailey make a great couple," one of the girls I longer think of as a best friend asks the group, referring to one of our other friends who was not present at the time. "Why do you think that," someone answers. "Think about it," she replies, "They're both totally awkward!". A few members of the group voice their agreement and everyone laughs. "But they wouldn't say anything to each other," one of the boys says, "They'd just sit there in silence 'cause they're both so quiet. And he wouldn't even hold her hand 'cause he's so green." Bursts of laughter ring out again. "But she's green too, though," someone adds, and everyone continues to make jokes at my expense. They do not even notice that I have started to trail far behind, not wishing to hear their mean words. It is the usual formation.
It is early in the next school year. I sit in my bed in the dark, a place that has become my crying chamber and my only escape from the world I wish I did not live in. By now, I wholly believe that I am awkward, embarrassing, stupid and a geek. I think something is wrong with me, that it is wrong to be the way I am. I do not believe that anyone likes me, and I think because of this that I must be ugly on top of it all. It is late at night. My laptop rests on my knees and I am chatting online with my pen-pal from Australia. I have fallen into the habit of venting all my feelings to him, because he understands and he comforts me. Jeremy does not say I am stupid or immature or awkward or a nerd. Instead, he tells me I am special and that I mean a lot to him as a friend from far away. He is someone I can truly call my best friend, the only thing I have to keep me sane. I tell him of the way my two friends are making me feel. "If I could be there right now, I would give you a hug," he says. I send him a smiley face, because I cannot express in words how grateful I am that he is in my life and how much better he makes me feel. "You're attractive and you have a great personality," he tells me. "You're funny and smart and kind. Don't let anyone convince you differently." I smile, and then beg him only half-jokingly to move to New Brunswick. Jeremy types "lol" and signs off with "lylaf". It means "love you like a friend".
It is May; I am finally putting my plan to action. In an e-mail (for words only led to fighting and denial and storming off without anything being resolved), I express my every feeling towards the two people I do not even refer to as friends. I do not hold anything back. Being brutally honest, I let them know how rude, snobby, mean and shallow they are. I stay up past midnight instant-messaging one of the recipients of this e-mail. She continues to deny that she does any of the things I mentioned, and I continue to tell her it is all true. She tells me that she is crying, for we had been best friends since childhood. The only reason I have to be sad is that I lost that childhood best friend recently to the peer pressure to be popular. The other recipient replies to the e-mail in a short message, saying she is sorry that it had to come to this. I am sorry too.
Now, it is early in my grade 11 school year. I am no longer friends with anyone who calls me names and pressures me in any way. No one says I am embarrassing, and I am no longer embarrassed to be myself. "Stupid" is not in my vocabulary, since I know I am intelligent and I am very proud of it. I wear what I am comfortable in, and my new friends say they like the way I dress. I know I am not ugly, and I feel beautiful. I know I am not awkward, but simply shy around new people. I have better friends who like me for who I am, and do not set standards that I have to meet to be accepted. They make me feel good about myself. I am no longer depressed. I am happy. I have regained interest in my hobbies, my family and my true best friends. I like my life and the world I live in. I am still quiet at times, but I am confident in myself. My plan has worked and I know what saved me: maybe fate, maybe destiny, but most definitely an answered prayer, answered by guardian angels looking out for me, in the form family and true best friends.