I Am What You See In Me

By the time junior year rolled around, I had finally started gaining a sense of style, putting effort into my appearance, and trying to put myself out there. For the first time in a long time, I thought things might actually be looking up. I had started making friends, something I never thought would happen. But even with that progress, I was still slipping. Most days, I skipped class, disappearing into the bathroom with my friends to hit weed pens before stumbling back to class feeling lighter, numb. When it came to schoolwork, I wanted nothing to do with it. I couldn't see a future for myself at least, not one that lasted beyond twenty. Still, I let myself daydream of being somewhere far away, even though deep down, I didn't believe I'd ever make it. Then, a month into the school year, I found myself in a new relationship. At first, I thought he was sweet. In truth I just wanted a date for my first homecoming. Or maybe I wanted to feel wanted? Either way, it didn't take long before things went wrong. The first time I went to his place, just to hang out, he started pulling at my pants. At first, I brushed his behavior off, trying to laugh away the discomfort. But overtime he didn't stop and it got worse. He kept pushing, until he eventually raped me. I was devastated. I didn't know what to do or who to turn to. He made me feel trapped, like there was no way out. I carried the weight of it in silence, suffocating under the fear, the shame. Then, an unrelated incident at school got me suspended, landing me in a psychiatric ward. The details of that part barely mattered to me at the time. What mattered was that it gave me the escape I needed. Medication, art therapy, a forced break from everything that had been suffocating me. It took all the courage I had, but I finally broke things off with him. That should have been the end of it. Instead, he stalked me at school for three days after the breakup, his presence a shadow that clung to me, making the walls of the school feel even tighter, even more unbearable. After that, I could barely stand being there. I skipped constantly, only showing up when I had no other choice. I felt lost just when I thought I was getting over one thing, another came along and wiped out all my progress. By spring, I was out all the time, hanging out with friends, refusing to be left alone with my thoughts. Home wasn't safe either. My parents, already bitter, became even worse. Their words were sharp, cruel, laced with the disappointment they could never hide. They reminded me constantly that I was a failure, that I was broken, unfixable. To them, all I did was smoke and waste my time. Maybe they were right. When the school year ended, I got the news: I wasn't going to be a senior next year. I was a few credits short. All the skipping, the avoiding it had finally caught up to me. But at the time, I barely cared. I told myself it was a problem for future me. They said I needed summer school, but I shrugged it off. I got a job at a local restaurant, balancing school, work, and whatever was left of my social life. But as soon as the school year ended, I quit. I wanted my summer, my freedom. And for the first time, I felt like I had it. I used the money I had saved to decorate my room, trying to make it feel like something other than a prison. I paid for my own summer school, determined to fix at least one thing in my life. I stayed out as much as I could, soaking in every moment, trying to convince myself that I was more than what had happened to me. That I was more than the version of myself that everyone else seemed to see. But as summer faded and the school year began again, reality came crashing back. I was still behind, still stuck while everyone else moved forward. And on that first day, I forced a smile, pretending just for a moment that it really was my last first day. Even though it wasn't, that lie burned in my throat.