Status: It's Narrative Non-Fiction.
Difficulties
The Incident
It was one of those nights. The one where you love to get cold just to sit wrapped in blankets, sipping hot chocolate, watching the freezing rain race on the window pane. My friends were on their way over with cheese fries, Dr. Pepper, and DVD's. I made hot chocolate and burgers for the masses, because the grease was going to distract us from the Instance.
Now, I know you're thinking that I made an error. That "Instance" shouldn't be capitalized, but until I further explain the happening, then it will be referred to as the Instance. My friends were coming over so we could forget it. So we could pretend that we were too caught up with boys to truly care what happened. But we weren't simple minded airheads. We knew better than to focus our thoughts on things as ridiculous as "love."
As the rain began to subside, their giggles were heard in the distance. I could almost see their faces through the foggy mist when my phone vibrated. At the feel of it, I jumped and shivered at the same time. It was her. I just knew it had to be her calling me to tell me that I would never be able to show my face again after this. It was two weeks since the Instance, but since then we were getting harassed more than ever.
I was getting calls from numbers, some random.. others not, saying that this is not something I could recover from. You see, I suffer from many psychological diseases such as anxiety and depression. And it was getting harder for me to, per say, breathe. I had written a letter to a trusted teacher, and when she sent it to another teacher to find out how to help me, she accidentally forwarded it to everyone in the school's show choir.
I wasn't good enough to make show choir, so instantly I was a mockery. Then made fun of my in the hallways, put nooses on my locker, and at one point they broke in and put empty pill bottle in my locker. Inside them was everyone's anonymous opinions about the letter. Some called me the suicide bitch, other's legitimately said I could talk to them anytime I needed to.
Since then, I've been known as the school freak. But that wasn't the Instance. I could recover from a couple words of discouragement. No, the Instance was much worse. I guess from an aspect you could say it started the summer of sophomore year, but in my eyes it was the summer into freshman year.
My friends were all getting boyfriends, and I guess I was in the lonelier aspect of life. I was boyfriend-less for over six months, but it didn't matter. I guess this is when I first realized that guys didn't really want me. All my friends got phone numbers and kisses, and all I got were grades, and the acceptance unto the Debate and Math Teams.
Through these teams I found someone. He was nearly perfect, because he made me feel perfect. He didn't just focus on my body parts like most guys, he actually like me for me. When we kissed for the first time, I had become lightheaded, something my past ex's could never accomplish. But then she came around and convinced him to cheat on me. I guess it wasn't all her fault, but I sure as hell know he liked her before he liked me.
To this day I'm still grieving on him leaving me. Secretly, I still liked him. Sometimes, if I touch my lips, I can feel the lightheaded ways about him. But what some people don't know is that my sadness started before that, I just hid it well. After this, I did become sadder, probably leading to my official downfall.
Over summer, I attended several concerts with my friends. We bought band merchandise, and even attempted to sneak on the tour bus, but that was probably one of the few happy days I'd experience. I met a new guy. I fell for him, he played me easier than Go Fish. When he started dating my friend, I was disappointed. Now, the friendzone is stretching to new limits. I never knew "friends" act like this.
My official downfall, or the Instance, happened right after school started. My friends were getting stalked, and soon I was too. Our secrets were being spilled like a toddler with a glass of milk. Here and there I heard whispers about how I'm a violent bitch, or how I had scars on my wrist, or I was talking to someone a year younger. Instead of helping me, they all made fun of me. I started getting many unknown calls saying they knew my secrets.
Later that day, I drove home. Someone clipped my car, and with the witnesses, they claimed it was public suicide; that I, Miranda Ingram, deserved to be put into a mental institution for self mutilation and an eating disorder.
Now, I know you're thinking that I made an error. That "Instance" shouldn't be capitalized, but until I further explain the happening, then it will be referred to as the Instance. My friends were coming over so we could forget it. So we could pretend that we were too caught up with boys to truly care what happened. But we weren't simple minded airheads. We knew better than to focus our thoughts on things as ridiculous as "love."
As the rain began to subside, their giggles were heard in the distance. I could almost see their faces through the foggy mist when my phone vibrated. At the feel of it, I jumped and shivered at the same time. It was her. I just knew it had to be her calling me to tell me that I would never be able to show my face again after this. It was two weeks since the Instance, but since then we were getting harassed more than ever.
I was getting calls from numbers, some random.. others not, saying that this is not something I could recover from. You see, I suffer from many psychological diseases such as anxiety and depression. And it was getting harder for me to, per say, breathe. I had written a letter to a trusted teacher, and when she sent it to another teacher to find out how to help me, she accidentally forwarded it to everyone in the school's show choir.
I wasn't good enough to make show choir, so instantly I was a mockery. Then made fun of my in the hallways, put nooses on my locker, and at one point they broke in and put empty pill bottle in my locker. Inside them was everyone's anonymous opinions about the letter. Some called me the suicide bitch, other's legitimately said I could talk to them anytime I needed to.
Since then, I've been known as the school freak. But that wasn't the Instance. I could recover from a couple words of discouragement. No, the Instance was much worse. I guess from an aspect you could say it started the summer of sophomore year, but in my eyes it was the summer into freshman year.
My friends were all getting boyfriends, and I guess I was in the lonelier aspect of life. I was boyfriend-less for over six months, but it didn't matter. I guess this is when I first realized that guys didn't really want me. All my friends got phone numbers and kisses, and all I got were grades, and the acceptance unto the Debate and Math Teams.
Through these teams I found someone. He was nearly perfect, because he made me feel perfect. He didn't just focus on my body parts like most guys, he actually like me for me. When we kissed for the first time, I had become lightheaded, something my past ex's could never accomplish. But then she came around and convinced him to cheat on me. I guess it wasn't all her fault, but I sure as hell know he liked her before he liked me.
To this day I'm still grieving on him leaving me. Secretly, I still liked him. Sometimes, if I touch my lips, I can feel the lightheaded ways about him. But what some people don't know is that my sadness started before that, I just hid it well. After this, I did become sadder, probably leading to my official downfall.
Over summer, I attended several concerts with my friends. We bought band merchandise, and even attempted to sneak on the tour bus, but that was probably one of the few happy days I'd experience. I met a new guy. I fell for him, he played me easier than Go Fish. When he started dating my friend, I was disappointed. Now, the friendzone is stretching to new limits. I never knew "friends" act like this.
My official downfall, or the Instance, happened right after school started. My friends were getting stalked, and soon I was too. Our secrets were being spilled like a toddler with a glass of milk. Here and there I heard whispers about how I'm a violent bitch, or how I had scars on my wrist, or I was talking to someone a year younger. Instead of helping me, they all made fun of me. I started getting many unknown calls saying they knew my secrets.
Later that day, I drove home. Someone clipped my car, and with the witnesses, they claimed it was public suicide; that I, Miranda Ingram, deserved to be put into a mental institution for self mutilation and an eating disorder.