I never knew how to start my stories when I was growing up. But I guess the older you get, the better you become at telling them. I was out of practice in seventh grade. I had told my fair share of stories before, and had read triple as many as I could speak. But there is an untold story that is still inside of me; one that I have been trying to tell for years. It is about a broken seventh grader who met depression and took his hand, letting him walk her through thoughts that were not very kind to her mind. They were whispers that were seeping in from the outside world, changing the way she saw herself and other people, and to this day, they still cause problems.
You aren’t supposed to be depressed in seventh grade. You shouldn’t have to deal with your image or the way others perceive you, and you shouldn’t feel like you don’t belong. But the thing that differed between “shouldn’t” and “should” was that I knew. I knew I was different from everyone else, and that somehow, I was breaking a social norm rule. I guess I had broken it in sixth grade since my friends consisted of Tony, Jake, Connor, and Drake, but the reason why we didn’t fit the norm still remains unclear in my mind. The only think I can think of is that we were not very sporty people. Instead of joining the soccer, basketball, or volleyball teams, we partook in our pencils against sketch paper and our noses in books. One of us was musically inclined, one was constantly singing (no matter if the other kids enjoyed it or not), one was a comic artist, one of us was a great runner who always seemed energized and ready to push the limits, and one wrote song lyrics, poems, short stories, and prose to get her through her rough days. We were all special people who seemed to get along great as long as we did it away from everyone else.
I don’t really remember when the depression kicked in. It was something that just sort of happened on its own, and I think that what might have triggered it was that for the first time ever, I had been placed in a classroom with only one of my guy friends. All of the other guys were in the other class, as well as my friend Sophie, who had been in my class each year since 4th grade. What made it even worse, in my mind, was the fact that I didn’t know Jake as well as I knew Tony and Connor, and I felt completely awkward being around him. I had known him long enough that it shouldn’t have been that way, but in an odd way, it was. Still, he was the only one I had, and I think knowing that made me cling to him. So we started off the year trying to familiarize ourselves with each other while trying to maintain a comfortable distance, and that was the year I began to go home, change out of my uniform, and dress in solid black clothes. That was the year everything in my mind began to fall apart. That was the year I called myself a freak… and actually believed it.
I hadn’t really taken an interest in boys up until that point. Some of my classmates had started the practice of “going out” with each other in fourth grade, which, you have to admit, is pretty funny. But it was a thing that was happening then, and I never did pay much attention to that stuff. I guess I was a late bloomer when it came to getting those butterfly feelings for other guys, and the closest I had ever come to that was crushing on Tony, Jake, and yes, even Connor and Drake. But they were my best friends at the time, and I knew them more than I knew any of my other classmates. It was more of an appreciation kind of butterfly flutter, because I had them, and they had me, and that was all we needed. I didn’t know what love was, but I knew the way they made me feel made me happy, and that was more than what any of my other classmates (excluding Sophie and Genavieve) could offer. It was also during that time when I found out just how cruel teenage boys could be.
Our quintet was usually the butt of everyone else’s jokes. Why not? We were the minority. It’s not like minorities have feelings, right? At least, that’s how it felt on my end, and it could have been the depression speaking. It also could have been the fact that I was the only girl, and therefore, took things too personally. But I don’t think I was imagining the laughter that always followed the insensitive way my classmates asked, “Will you go out with me?” These invitations were often caused by dares, and I knew that they were always asked in a joking way. Why? I guess it’s funny to ask the loser kid out on a date and then laugh about it while he or she is standing right in front of you.
Names, in this instance, are not as important as the scars that are inflicted upon someone who begins to question who the hell would ever want to date her. She did not enjoy having to listen to the two boys sitting near her argue about which one would get to go out with her, each word sounding like a sputtering car as they tried to make the argument sound serious, but instead, chuckled through the entire thing. She did not appreciate being called up on the phone in the evening by the cool guy in the class, sitting through a long, awkward silence, and then hearing him ask, “Will you go out with me?” followed by bursts of laughter in the background. It was even more humiliating when one guy took it far enough to actually treat her like his girlfriend all year.
Being treated like someone’s girlfriend when you really don’t want to be associated with that person at all becomes extremely annoying. He loved putting his arm around me whenever he had the chance to kiddingly show me off to an audience, and at one point, I finally found enough courage to remove it. I vaguely remember him offering me a piece of chocolate on Valentine’s Day, and instead of accepting, I pushed his hand away and declined. And there were days where he would make an obnoxious scene around me just so everyone could see that we were next to each other. Those were the days I wished for nothing but for him to leave me alone and to let the torture stop. Those were the days I wished I could sink into the floor and disappear. Being treated like someone’s girlfriend for the sake of a joke, and being asked out for the sake of a joke, are not very funny jokes. I began to believe that there was something wrong with me. I would look in the mirror and see the ugliness of the girl staring back at me, thinking, Who in the hell would want to date this? After a while, I began to answer my own question, and the answer was no one.
There were several nights I spent talking to Jake over the phone. The more time we spent together, the more I could vent to him and talk through things that I couldn’t talk myself through. I was able to tell him about being sad all the time and dressing in black clothes. I could talk to him about being an outsider and feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere, and his voice was the only thing I was able to find comfort in when the other voices became too much. The gap that we had between us at the beginning of the year began to diminish. We were scooting our chairs closer and closer to each other each passing day, and we were getting more comfortable with the close proximity when we talked or told stories. I found it easier to look into his eyes when I was telling him my troubles, and they always gazed softly back at me. Speaking to him was easier than it had ever been for me to speak to anyone, and deep down, I felt like he understood my conflicting thoughts and feelings.
I didn’t feel like it was right for me to feel the things I felt. I had no idea why black was such an important color, but I did know that it was the color that people dressed in when they were sad. I wasn’t comfortable with the word “goth” because that was not who I was. I felt like an imposter trying to pull off the look of “my life sucks and there’s nothing anyone can do to make it better.” I didn’t feel like I had a reason for any of it, and I knew that my life wasn’t as tragic as I was trying to make it look like. But I still felt the urge to explain it to myself somehow, and to make me believe that, yes, I was an outcast who didn’t belong. Not only that, but I was hoping someone would see my sadness through the way I was dressing. I wanted my classmates to see that my clothes were without color, and I wanted them to question it. I wanted someone to fix me and to make me believe that I wasn’t who I thought I was and who I felt like I was. I just wanted to be colorful again, but I didn’t feel that way anymore. I was at the point where I was completely aware that I was not like my fellow classmates, and that I would never have a date or a first kiss or someone who liked me enough to even hold my hand. I understood that I would never have a spot at the lunch table and would never be included in the same gossip and drama as everyone else. I knew that I was different, and because of that, I got used to being alone. I had Jake, Tony, Drake, and Connor, and if they were not with me, I was in my room writing poems and song lyrics about the dark and sinking into quicksand and wishing that someone would just rescue me. My routine consisted of coming home from school and sleeping until one or two in the morning, waking up to do homework, and going to school. Sleep. Isolation. Not participating in activities. No interest in doing anything with my time. I had the symptoms of depression, but no one recognized it. Not even myself.
I think the most difficult situation that I was put in was when I discovered AIM. Everyone had the damn thing, and it was fantastic. Before the days of Facebook, and for a while, more popular than Myspace, it was the first place where every one of my classmates could connect with each other. We exchanged screen names and created our own little profiles to go on our accounts, and it was like having a reserved corner of cyberspace just for our own benefit. It was also easy to be brave, and that was when I was put to the test of trusting who I was, as well as believing the truth of another person. Bball (this name is sufficient to use, I think) was a boy who was in my 7th grade class, and throughout the year, we had kind of gotten comfortable with the whole communication/conversing thing that humans are supposed to do when they want to be friends or acquaintances. It was even easier to communicate on messenger because you did not have to look at a face, and therefore, did not worry about revealing emotions. Words can be taken in many forms when written out in such a plain way, and that is why I did not believe him when he asked, “Will you go out with me?”
I had heard this question many times before, each time asked with stifled laughter and the attempt to keep a straight face that ended up looking like the face you make right before you’re about to sneeze. Each time, I said no, and at this point, it was an automatic reflex in which the word “no” would escape my lips without a second thought. The word had become a rule to me; a bible of knowledge that I would be stupid not to listen to or to take note of, and without a second thought, I found myself typing those two little letters into the text box; two little letters that formed a word I found myself taking more comfort in than I should have. I sent the word with the knowledge that it was just going to be a one-time thing, and in reply, I received, “Why?” To this, I said, “I don’t feel that way about you.” It was not a one-time thing. I found the question repeating itself each time I signed on, and I kept giving him the same answer. Sometimes we were able to start a conversation with hello, and even a few sentences to follow. But “will you go out with me” was always thrown somewhere into the attempt to have one normal conversation, and each time, I found myself thinking, “Again? This is ridiculous. How long is he going to keep this up? I’m not stupid.” The idea that a boy might actually like me was completely out of the question because I knew the question was, Who would ever want to date someone like me? and the answer would always be, no one.
I expected him to catch on that I wasn’t going to be a punch line and that I wasn’t going to give into some silly little ongoing prank that someone put him up to. But the more I resisted, the more persistent he became. One of his friends even asked me why I wouldn’t go out with him one day when we were in the art room. I remember giving him the same answer I gave Bball, and the subject was dropped. I fought it because it was the only thing I had left to fight against; the only proof that I had dignity worth protecting. Then, one summer evening, I decided to use the word yes, just to play into the joke that he had been trying to pull on me for nearly a year. “Really?” He asked. I remember saying yes again, and he told me to hold on. A moment later, he told me to check his profile box. When I opened it up, I saw that he had changed it to “I love Stephanie Pabst,” and a wave of panic rushed over me. It was not that I didn’t like him. It was not that it was weird. Every guy who was dating someone in our class wrote a message like that in his profile box. What freaked me out was that he said he loved me when loving me was not at all possible, and since it was not possible, I was fulfilling his pranking efforts. I asked him if he was serious, and he said, “Yes. Are you?” Unsure of it, I told him to let me think about it, and after a stressful thirty minutes, I told him no. It was then that he messaged me saying, “I guess I’ll wait then,” and that was the end of it all.
8th grade started up and we ended up in the same class again. I felt as though nothing had occurred between us; as though that whole night was a blur, in the past, and that everything was cool again. I still had the idea that everything I had gone through had been an attempt to crush the last of the belief I had in myself; to destroy the little bit of high self-esteem left inside of me. But there was a moment in that 8th grade classroom that made me realize I might have made a mistake. One of our classmates had walked over to the teacher’s desk (if I remember correctly, to use the stapler), and on her way back, she tripped and stumbled. I cracked some joke about how funny it would have been if the teacher had been there and she would have knocked her over or something. We both laughed at the thought, and she went back to her desk. My laughter died down, and as I lowered my gaze to continue writing whatever it was I had been working on, I could see him in my peripheral vision. He was gazing at me, holding his eyes on my face while I tried to keep mine on my own paper, and it was the most powerful thing my 8th grade mind can remember. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. It was a struggle as he dared me to look up at him; to meet the eyes that wanted to tell me it was real. Finally, he looked away from me. I could breathe again, and at that point, I realized that he might have actually liked me. The fear that had been there for so long and that I had built up so high finally came crashing down, but at that point, it was too late. He had not waited, and I don’t blame him.
Seventh grade was a tough year, and maybe I’ll never be able to express everything I was feeling through these words. I don’t think that depression can be expressed as much through words as it can be by simply feeling, but I do think that by having some idea of what I went through, it is easier for people to understand those moments of uncertainty I still struggle with today. There are a lot of people who tell me that they can’t believe I’ve never had a boyfriend, and who can’t believe I have trust issues. There are people who call me innocent and don’t think I have experiences that haunt me and linger like a shadow. But maybe now, if you read this, you will understand that experiences like this stay with you, even if they’re little pranks that people play on you for a laugh or two. I have issues with self-image and the way people view me sometimes, and although I’m getting better at dealing with these things, there are days when I wake up and feel like I’m not pretty, and like no guy would ever want to date me. There are days when I can’t be in places filled with strangers because I can feel them judging me, stripping me down to that seventh grade weirdo who still isn’t comfortable in her own skin. There are days where I feel like I can’t trust the people around me, no matter how well I know them, and there are even days where I feel like I’m an outsider in the places where I’ve been a million times. It’s difficult to even be a stage manager sometimes because we have to dress in black for show week (since techs are ninjas), and when I slip into that solid black shirt, I can see seventh grade me staring at me from the bathroom mirror.
Guys, although I still have my moments, I’ve gotten better. I have people around me who care about my wellbeing and my health, and who love me enough to let me trust in who they are and to let me know that they will never intentionally hurt me. I’m comfortable with talking to strangers and to people who I’ve had very few encounters with. I have people who I can go to when I have those bad days, and I know that through all the difficulties, all I need to do is look at what I’ve overcome. By seeing my accomplishments, I can trust that sometimes I’m going to have bad days, and I am going to have mean thoughts and run into mean people, but that I can always get past them.
This story has been in me for as long as I’ve had the fire to write words down on paper. The only problem was that I always allowed people to give me my beginnings instead of allowing myself to start them on my own. You get tired of letting others determine your own story for you, and that is why I decided my senior year of high school that I was going to be the writer of my own story. Because of that, I have grown in confidence. I’ve learned to trust myself and to love myself, and that the only person who can control my happiness is ultimately me. I can look in a mirror and see how beautiful I am, and actually believe it, and even if I don’t find a guy out there who I’ll be brave enough to let myself love, I am brave enough to love who I am as a person. Not everyone has the power to say that, and that kind of love, to me, is pretty spectacular.
