This I Believe

Liz - Leawood, Kansas
Entered on April 9, 2007
Age Group: Under 18
  • Podcasts

    Sign up for our free, weekly podcast of featured essays. You can download recent episodes individually, or subscribe to automatically receive each podcast. Learn more.

  • FAQ

    Frequently asked questions about the This I Believe project, educational opportunities and more...

  • Top Essays USB Drive

    This USB drive contains 100 of the top This I Believe audio broadcasts of the last ten years, plus some favorites from Edward R. Murrow's radio series of the 1950s. It's perfect for personal or classroom use! Click here to learn more.

A Beautiful Ending

I believe every beautiful ending has a screwed up, hateful and brooding beginning. In seventh grade I switched from a private school with 6 people in my class, to a public middle school that had 180 people in my class. From the first day I transferred, to the day I rushed out, I absolutely hated it there.

For the first two weeks I would sit withdrawn and unconnected in a solemn corner and no one would talk to me. I was alone. All I ever wanted was to fit in, I just wanted to be accepted by others, I just wanted to have a friend. And every time I would try to be part of a ‘group’ the lurid, monstrous, results would only bury me further into a sorrow filled ditch which I would hide and secrete in for the rest of the most painful two years of my life, because at the same time my parents were going through a very difficult divorce, so there was no place for my voice anywhere.

I learned so much about myself though. I learned that I hate confrontation and how I will never treat anyone no matter what the circumstances are. I learned how to act different from what I feel and believe and how to shut out the world and to darken and haze my point of view towards life. I learned how to be completely desolate and forsaken and to be ok with it. I befriended sorrow, anguish and hatred. I dwelled in deep pools of tears that stung the wounds of hostility and enmity that I held so close in my heart.

I learned how to walk with sullen, tear filled eyes. I forgot my voice and its rhetorical rhythm. I learned the complexities of true desires and the unwillingness for others to accept an outsider. I was in a poetic trance; words were flowing through me like the sanguine fluid that runs through the vine like rope in my wrists.

I saw no faces or expression, only apricot and chocolate blurs. I was relinquished and abandoned. I waived and surrendered my emotions; I put down my white flag and retreated to a cobbled black and white composition notebook to write poetry and to run wildly on blue and red lines. No one could tell me that they hated me here; no one could push me away, only the thin white pages cherished my every rhyme or reason. I let the slow lulls of Chris Martins placid and tranquil vocal chords wind and twist my sorrow into knots. I was temporarily rid of hurt and the knife like pains I had in my heart, they were removed and wrapped in love.

Reflecting on my experiences, I thought without writing, without music, my expressions would be forever trapped in insecure, stubborn eyes. I don’t know if the kids ever understood the gravity of their actions but I would like to thank everyone that hurt me and left me down when I need help the most, because I am stronger now and able to put down my mask of insecurity and I now know I can face anything. I recognize my effortless talent to write poetry and essays with enjoyment and accept not being accepted.

This is my beautiful ending.