In elementary school, I loved school. I would wake up every morning, find an outfit, eat breakfast, and race out the door to meet the bus. I loved the bus. I would get to school and enjoy the entire day, all my lessons, music, art, lunch, recess, and even most of the time in the gym. I had a lot of friends. I would sit with them at lunch, hang out with them outside of school, play with them at recess, and really just do everything with them. On the last day or the last few days of school, I was highly depressed. The thought of having to go multiple months without the everyday routine of going to school, which I loved, and seeing my friends was unbearable. When we returned, I was shining like a star with happiness, ready to start again. I always did well on tests and projects, but in elementary school, it didn’t really matter anyway.
Now it’s different. I definitely don’t love school. It’s a major hassle to pull myself from my blue and white sheets every day when I would much rather mold into them and lay there forever. I hate the bus more than I can explain. I used to cry when my mom would have to drive me to school, now I cry when she even mentions riding the bus. Luckily, I can drive and I may never have to ride the bus again. I force myself to pry my eyes open for each class, even if it’s one I enjoy more, and push myself to finish any work. I have friends, of course I do, but no close friends like I used to, except for maybe a few. Even with them, it is more of a school-convenience friendship. Even though I only have a few days of school left, I couldn’t feel more careless. I can’t wait to leave those doors until August, and when August comes, I’ll be dragging myself back into them. I have started eating in the library or in my car instead of the lunch room, not because of anything particular, but because the smell and overwhelming, uncontrolled chaos of the lunchroom makes me want to throw up and cry at the same time.
I still try, but the social part of me has transferred into autopilot. I fear being seen as rude, annoying, or careless, but I know that I’ve gotten to the point where my mental state can’t always afford to hold a smile, even when tears are fighting to fall.
I think I have lost my love because I’m trying to be for other people. I dress how it is socially acceptable, and how I feel other people will appreciate. I act for other people, taking on their problems, giving them someone to be with, and helping them whenever they need it. I have barely any part of me that is for me when I’m at school or anywhere. I feel like a ghost, with people walking around, all holding a part of me until there’s nothing left for myself but the gust of air I resonate with. The funny thing is, I don’t feel like anyone cares, even when they hold those parts of me.
I know that’s not true. I know people do care, and I notice they care, but I feel the same. I feel like I’m never the first to get picked when there are partners, I’m never the first to be invited to things, and I feel overlooked when I am actually going through things.
The worst part of it all is that sometimes I don’t want to have them care.
It doesn’t make sense, and of all people, I know that the most because I understand why. But there are times I get invited to things, and I just don’t want to go. It’s not that I don’t like the people at all, but I’m not sure why. This story isn’t supposed to gain sympathy or make me the first choice for all partners because I don’t want that, even though I’m not sure why.
This story is my goodbye column, and it doesn’t seem much like one at all. I had an idea when I started, but somehow, I escalated and got where I am today. That seems to be the trend in my life, whether I like it or not. It’s how I naturally write; there are few times a story ends up how I planned it to go.
It will all be different, and although I don’t know how I will like it, I hope I won’t wither away and don’t think I will.
I know it isn’t goodbye because I will write even more next year, and thankfully, because I am not good with goodbyes at all. It will be different next year since a teacher who has made my days of school a lot better in writing will not be a teacher next year. It will be different because we will have a new TCT class. It will be different because I will be older, and I will be a junior instead of a sophomore. It will be different because I will have the SAT and four AP classes. It will all be different, and although I don’t know if I will like it, I hope I won’t wither away.
I wish all of these things goodbye. I wish my writing from this year goodbye. I wish my grades goodbye. I wish my school rotation of outfits goodbye. Most importantly, I wish myself goodbye because I am sure that when I drag myself through those doors in a few months, I will be a different person, even if I am not aware.
I know how much school has changed for me in so many different ways, but that’s okay. I know my grades have suffered, but that’s okay. I know my smile has seemed lost at times, but that’s okay. I know my stories have been written badly at times, but that’s okay. I will be okay.
Changes are conflicting, but they are okay; I don’t want to peak in high school anyway.
