Trying to Hide

Trying to Hide

Everybody goes through a time in their lives where they face insecurities, and feel held back by their own personal demons. Some even feel repressed by their own silence, even though inside they are screaming, fighting, and kicking to feel as welcomed and accepted as everyone else around them appears to be.

I spent many years of my life trying to find myself, trying to figure out exactly where I belonged in this world around me. I didn't think it was realistic for me to ever find that place where I could just let everything go, and express myself freely without feeling like every set of judging eyes were aimed in my general direction. Throughout my early adolescence I spent a large quantity of time drowning myself in music and trying to creatively express myself through a paintbrush or a lump of clay. It wasn't until my freshman year of high school that I discovered an additional outlet that seemed to be the best remedy for anything that ails you, as well as the most fulfilling friend when I needed to share whatever high school secret seemed so important at the time.

Around the time that high school began, I wasn't a very diligent student, I also spent more time trying to remain invisible than I spent trying to actually hold on to the few friends that I already did have. In an attempt to stay out of the way of those vengeful eyes and out of the line of fire from the tongues quipped with tasteless remarks, I decided to join the clubs that the school had to offer, and as a pathetic attempt to keep even more invisible, I opted for the clubs that met during lunch and homeroom. I guess I just found comfort in the structured environment, and slightly more protected from the jeers and unkind remarks that seem to freely fly out of the cruel mouths of teenagers trying to show off for their friends.

I dabbled in keeping diaries and writing in journals throughout my entire life, but I was always afraid to really open up and run the risk of one of my three snooping siblings unveiling a secret or an opinion of mine that surely would have brought an end to the world and sent the sky crashing down around me. I never actually gave any realistic thought into writing as an art form, even though I thoroughly enjoyed reading. I still considered writing as some form of work, and what high school student enjoys doing anything that is expected out of them?

I joined the school newspaper staff without any intention of making any sort of a contribution to the content of the newspaper itself; however, eventually my body being in the room wasn't acceptable and I was informed that I either needed to give some input and pull my weight as a member of the staff, or I needed to withdraw from the club altogether. At first, I started out by taking on small tasks, such as calling businesses and verifying their placement of an advertisement, but inevitably it happened, and I was asked to write an article concerning the new foreign exchange student that was currently living with my family. The article turned out pretty well and I was asked to write more and more as time went on. Unfortunately, I was not an academic overachiever and I slacked on my studies, thus ensuring that I was no longer eligible to continue writing for the newspaper.

Spending time writing for the newspaper didn't quite open up my eyes to how rewarding it can be to create a masterpiece, how great it feels to write something you are so proud of that you can't wait until you run into somebody and are finally able to share your work with another set of eyes. I decided that I did enjoy my time on the paper staff, and I needed to raise my grades in order to be eligible to rejoin, and vowed to dedicate myself to my studies. My English and Literature classes really caught my interest and I began putting a lot of work into the essays and written assignments that I was handing in. I discovered the ability to take myself away and get lost in a new world, similar to that feeling you get when you fall into a captivating book, except you create your own imagery and you control which direction your story goes. I discovered that with a pen I could take every situation or strain that I wanted to get off my chest, and write them into my journal using my imagination to disguise my words so that the average person wouldn't be able to directly decipher my ramblings, had he or she happened to stumble upon my compilation of random ruminations.

Around my junior or senior year of high school I was under the impression that I had found myself as a writer, and even considered the possibility of pursuing a career in journalism, but because I was so terribly shy, I never allowed myself to fully open up and give everything I had to a work that was going to be seen by a multitude of people, and even though a few of my teachers tried to coax me into submitting or writing as essay for some local contest that was being held, I could never convince myself that it was all that brilliant of an idea. I also had a teacher that assigned an essay, and allowed the class a couple of weeks to complete the few pages that it had to be in length. I worked diligently on the essay, using the thesaurus and having it proofread until I was sure that it had reached its maximum potential. I then proceeded to enlist my mother as an additional and fresh set of eyes, to read my paper and give me her unbiased opinion. I was confident about my essay and I was certain I would receive a rather good grade; my mother was also impressed and enthusiastically commended me, assuring me that this was the best of my papers that she had read so far.

I worked so hard, and finally for the first time in my life I was finally sure that I had accomplished something worthwhile, something that, being my own worst critic, I deemed worthy enough for other eyes to view. When the teacher came around to collect our assignments I had already taken mine out of my folder and had it ready to hand to her. Barely able to contain my excitement, I gave the teacher a smile as I passed my paper forward to the front of the row. She grinned back, just a small grin. Her forced smile seemed almost painful.

As I look back on that day, my memory distorts the teacher's reaction to my animation as I enthusiastically handed in that assignment. I know she kind of smiled and I interpreted that "kind of" smile as her acknowledging my excitement and her silent understanding of the work that I put into this essay. Those last few events, however, do not replay in my head in that such manner. Now when I think back on the last day that I even slightly considered writing as a career, I can see her forced fake smile, and I can see the pain in her eyes from forcing that fake smile. I clearly see the edges of her evil leather face cracking like plaster as her demon horns broke the surface on the top of her head.

Holding my head up high, I walked into the class the next day secretly hoping to be revered for my amazing essay. I swear she put mine at the end of the pile, just to torture me while I waited to see the grade given to such a brilliant paper. I saw her slightly smiling when she laid that paper upside down on my desk, and without even making eye contact she turned and walked away. My stomach had butterflies in it as I reached for the paper and quickly snapped it around to see the highest grade in the class. The entire room went silent and I sat there. My stomach sunk as I remembered her little smile, that evil smirk she had just moments before she knowingly destroyed every ounce of confidence that I had. She didn't say anything as I got up and calmly walked out of her class, struggling to hold my composure in front of the many sets of eyes staring at me, as if they were just waiting for me to give them a show.

The last day that I was sure I was going to be a journalist will always play on a loop in my head, and it will always be a devastatingly emotional day in the history of my life. It's amazing the impact that one little letter can have on your self-esteem, and how it can make you so discouraged that you second guess everything you do for the rest of your life.