This I Believe

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

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For the first two weeks I would sit withdrawn and unconnected in a solemn corner and no one would talk to me.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.