High school was a labyrinth of overthinking, where every glance and whisper felt like a judgment passed down on my existence. I was acutely aware of how others perceived me or how I imagined they did. To some, I must have seemed to have a victim mindset. To others, I was probably just weird. But to most, I was shy, timid, and a crybaby.
What they didn’t know was the storm raging inside me. Beneath the surface, I was mentally and emotionally suicidal. Each day was a battle against the urge to end it all, to escape the overwhelming pain. The isolation was suffocating. No one could truly understand me, especially since none of them had to navigate life with a disability. My struggles were invisible, dismissed, or ignored.
There were countless times when I broke down in the hallways or the washroom. My tears were a silent scream for help, yet students would stare and walk past me as if I were invisible. Their indifference felt like a knife twisting in my already wounded heart. I wondered why no one would stop. Maybe they didn’t want to get involved or didn’t know what to say. But the truth was, I just wanted someone to listen, to acknowledge my pain.
The lack of understanding and support pushed me deeper into myself. I found solace in writing, pouring my anguish into poetry. Each poem was a piece of my broken soul, a fragment of the pain I couldn’t voice aloud. Writing became my lifeline, a way to express my inner torment. My words were raw and unfiltered, a cry for help hidden in metaphor and verse.
I hoped that someone would read my poetry and understand the message, that they would see the complete puzzle of my suffering and reach out. But even if no one did, writing was my way of coping, of surviving another day. It was the only way I could make sense of the chaos in my mind.
Looking back, I realize how deeply misunderstood I was. The overthinking, the constant self-doubt, the crippling fear of judgment — they all stemmed from a place of profound loneliness and despair. High school was a battlefield where I fought silently, my scars hidden beneath layers of forced smiles and polite nods.
As I reflect on those years, I see a person who was desperate for connection, for someone to see beyond the surface and recognize the pain within. I was not shy; I was a soul in crisis, yearning for compassion in a world that seemed to pass me by.
Ultimately, my poetry became my voice, my way of reaching the world. Each line was a testament to my struggle, a beacon of resilience. Through my words, I found a semblance of peace, a way to navigate the darkness that threatened to consume me.
Even though those days are behind me, the echoes of that time linger. They remind me of the importance of understanding, empathy, and reaching out to those who might be silently suffering. My high school years have taught me the value of listening, of seeing beyond the facade of the person within. As I continue to write, I carry those lessons with me, hoping my words might offer solace to someone who feels as lost and unseen as I once did.
