Letter to my Antagonists

Dear You,

You are someone who contributed to my depression or anxiety in school, or even afterward. You are someone who saw me struggling to breathe, but didn't dare offer a helping hand. You are someone who called me a friend, until I removed my mask. Likewise, you are someone I called a friend, until I removed my mask.

When I was seven, you told me that the group was more fun without me. You told me I should go be in another class, because it wasn't any fun with me in it.

When I was eight, I sat alone at the soccer post, watching you. How dare you have friends? I'd observe the way you treated each other. I'd see a relationship I so desperately wanted to have with someone. I hated how much I wished you'd come talk to me. Invite me to play. Even if I had to be 'it' in every game of tag, or was always the monkey in the middle. Even negative attention is attention.

When I was nine, I thought I'd gotten what I wanted. People fought over me. They wanted me. Enough to contest for me. I could whiz through math facts, and kick the kickball all the way to the blacktop. Then I identified that it wasn't me you wanted. It was my skills. You wanted me to be a tool for you. And I was eager to be that tool, because even negative attention is attention.

When I was ten, I learned to see through the smiles and lies. Your eyes didn't communicate the same thing as your mouth. You didn't want anything to do with me. You were just stuck in my reading group, or stuck sitting next to me in art class. The closer we got, the more distant I felt. But you wouldn't dare call yourself my friend.

When I was eleven, I thought I'd found a friend. You and I were practically twins. That lasted until pressure happened. What I thought was an unbreakable bond that I wished I'd had three years previous was shattered in a moment, and I wasn't even there to witness it.

When I was twelve, I could do nothing but observe those around me. I didn't have anybody permanent. People close to me were only so because I had the answers written before the assignment was entirely explained. The ringing bell signaled the leave of my peers. The bell signaled the end of four classes every day. I'd look for someone who was going to the same next class--perhaps that short hallway walk could be prolific in procuring a conversation with you? Or maybe I could even bother you a little bit. Because even negative attention is attention.

When I was thirteen, I moved. You saw me struggling to find my niche in my neighborhood. You made it your mission to make this venture impossible for me. It's okay though, I had the internet. You don't have to know people there. They can't hate you if they don't know you. Slowly though, you began to see my power.

When I was fourteen, you were almost scared of me. All of the tools that had since been taken advantage of by my peers had come forth with personality and conviction. You couldn't touch me. I was too smart for you. Too fast for you. Too strong for you. And the best part is that you made me so. You tried to remove my tools. You teased those who befriended me. But you made me stronger than you.

When I was fifteen, you looked at me as a brother. We did things on weekends. I had friends. I could say with confidence that I'd be busy most Friday nights. Because I had friends, and we did friendy things. We watched movies. We doorbell ditched the old guy a couple streets down. We ran like hell when his son answered the door and was twice my size. We got pizza and played poker. We watched Avatar and played Halo. Then you found out I'm gay. We didn't do those things anymore. Suddenly, it hurt when you looked at me. But that pain was better than you not looking at me. Because even negative attention is attention.

When I was sixteen, you pretended to be my friend to me. Then you said harmful things about me when I wasn't there. You thought I couldn't see it. You thought I didn't notice your hesitance to look me in the eye. The interesting thing though, is that it wasn't spite or contempt. It was fear. You were afraid of me. You were afraid of what I might do to gain your attention. We had that in common. You feared that I was 'singling you out', because of my many texts and calls. I guess the others didn't tell you I'd been trying just as desperately to contact them. Because even you, who hated me, were all I had. I was clawing for you, not due to attraction, but for a sincere, desperate need for someone to tell me that they loved me. All of me. For me. I hated you. All of you. I'd hear about parties I wasn't invited to. I'd sit near you at lunch though, because maybe my sheer presence would be enough to elicit some revival of our former friendship. Shamelessly, you'd talk about your misadventures the previous weekend. Plans for more this coming weekend. You'd avoid eye contact though, so you wouldn't have to invite me. You didn't understand, though. And I couldn't expect you to. What would any of you know, of being trained to hate yourself? You're all straight, white Mormon males. What unwarranted opposition have you ever had in your life, ever? I unnerved you. I could feel my presence making you all uncomfortable. And I loved it. I loved being the catalyst in the minimal suffering I could cause you, if only for the mountainous suffering you'd caused me.

When I was seventeen, we had a couple of classes together. And suddenly I was your friend again. Because suddenly I was useful again. I was once again a proofreader, an editor, a calculator, a calendar, a resource. But for some reason you shut me down as soon as I tried to be a human. Why can't I be human? A person, with my own thoughts, feelings and emotions? That would be too difficult to control, is why. You liked having me around because I was a powerhouse. But if left unchecked, a powerhouse can be extremely destructive. You didn't trust me like you said you did. You were still afraid of me. But secretly, in the corners of your soul that you don't dare speak of, the ones where you know this is all true, you wanted me to snap. You wanted to see just what would happen if I was pushed too far. I felt it.

When I was eighteen, I made a lot of fake friends, because you wouldn't talk to me. I felt your eyes on me in the halls just seconds before I looked up at you to see you looking at the opposite wall. I didn't blame you at that point. I wouldn't know what to say to me, either. You'd left me in the dust far too long ago for it to be a viable option to offer me a ride now.

Now I'm nineteen. And because of you all, telling me that I can't, and that I shouldn't, trying to restrict and restrain me, I am freer than any of you. My mind is agile and flexible. My spirit is strong and unbreakable. Because through some perverse translation of those events, I was made better. And I have you to thank for that.

Unearthing Records of my Personal Hell

A few days ago, I cleaned my room. And no, that's not what this post is about. I ended up finding a lot of things and putting them in their proper places. Today, I found an additional magazine that I meant to put in with my collection of its brothers. When I put it away, I found a little notebook with a red cover: my journal from four years ago. It only covered a few months (Feb-May 2008).

Resolving to amuse myself by my own wit and cleverness, I began reading. I learned very quickly that my sophomore year was something that my brain had been hard at work suppressing. There was darkness in my life then that I'd since forgotten about. On seven separate dates I'd promised my journal I'd be dead before the year finished out. Three of them were illustrated. On two pages (also illustrated), I was killing my former friends. Those weren't what scared me, though. No. What scared me (and continues to scare me) is that I don't read it and say, "What a naive, pretentious douchebag I was." I read it and feel that my past self was reasonable in everything he wrote in that book. I'm filled with the same feelings I had then. I suddenly remember being abandoned. Replaced, even. I've written about a lot of this in another post.

If you read that post, I think you'll agree that it was being mild, compared to what I found today to be the truth. Extremely mild. Even I didn't know about the horror I felt then. I knew of the depression, and loneliness, but my brain was in the process of burying all of the violence I wanted to unleash.

Now, my question for anyone who reads this: Have I been healing without realizing it, or have I just been shoving it away? Should I confront these feelings or move away from them? If I do move away, will they follow me, or will I arrive in a place of light that will provide no haven for such feelings?