The True Story of a Slightly Emotional 22-Year-Old

          I took this class last semester, it was supposed to be your typical public speaking class. A way to teach students how to communicate in the business world but, it ended up being an experience slightly more eye-opening than previously thought. A month in to class he had this assignment for us, “write something you’re dealing with right now.” I think the week before Mara and I had argued about cleaning and I couldn’t really come up with anything else so I scribbled “my roommate is being an asshole,” really quickly in scrunched up cursive and folded my paper. Seconds later my professor made eye contact and then said, “I want what you’re writing to be real, don’t bullshit this answer.” My initial reaction was, “fuck that shit,” I don’t talk about my problems to a classroom full of people, hell I don’t even like to talk about stuff like that to my friends. I balled up my paper and stared at a blank page in my notebook. The lines started to blur I was thinking so hard, I forgot to blink, I almost lost a contact in the process. I knew what I wanted to write, I knew what I was really dealing with but, did I want that collective pity from a classroom full of people? No. Never.

            Seconds before he called for our papers I quickly wrote my real problem. I instantly regretted it but, I squashed the instinct I had to snatch that little piece of paper back and I handed it to the kid next to me to pass down. Our professor gathered these little papers and walked up to the front; each footfall matched the pounding rhythm my heart had decided to drum out inside my chest cavity. He calmly started reading them; this little voice inside my head was having a panic attack or, maybe it was me.

“They’re going to know it was you.” “He’ll see your handwriting and know.” “Everyone is going to stare.” “They’ll pity you.”

            I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my eyes started to water, my hands became cold, and then he said it.

What was on my paper.

“Last week was the three year anniversary of my best friend’s death.”

He paused for a moment, “Wow. That’s rough.”

And then it was over. No one looked my way or, noticed the internal turmoil that was playing out inside my head. It felt as if the constriction I felt overwhelming my body suddenly loosened; I could breathe again.

            He continued on reading every problem, of every student in that room. Some were dumb, some were worse than mine, and some I could identify with. It was in that moment I realized the true point of this assignment. It wasn’t about embarrassing us, it wasn’t for us to talk about how our roommates were being a pain. It was to show us that everybody goes through shit.

            When you initially look at a person, you see them. Visually they might have winged eye-liner or, they could be wearing Vans. They could have a scar on their arm from the time they fell off the swing when they were five. Everyone has a story but, that’s not what we see first. We see someone and we form these initial judgments based on their appearance but in that we don’t see who they truly are. You can’t tell their story from a makeup technique or, a brand of shoes. You get to read their story by getting to know them. Their thoughts, their fears, their past. In that you’ll find people have a lot more substance than initially expected.

            In the past people have defined me; I’m stuck up, I’m a bookworm, I’m fat, I’m overly emotional but, I’ve discovered I’m only defined by those things if I choose to be. In the last couple of years I’ve learned so much about myself. I truly believe Emaleigh’s death was the catalyst for this self-reflective part of my life. This blog began almost three years ago as a way for me to claw my way out of the grief filled hole I had dug myself. In that climb I’ve found parts of myself that are so much stronger than I previously thought, in that climb I’ve found a purpose for life. The purpose, the beauty of life, is in the story itself. You have the ability to pen your own story. Don’t ever let someone else dictate how your story should be written because you’re the only one who should have that kind of power over your life.

            The day I told my story I was so afraid of what people would think but at the end of that class I walked out a slightly different person than when I walked in. It was one of the first times I picked up my own pen in front of an audience. Not having a screen between me and the rest of the world was scary but sometimes life is about doing the things that scare you.

            I’m not sure if this blog necessarily has a defined ending but it does have plenty of life-lessons sprinkled in. If you took the time to read this whole thing I’m sorry there’s no actual conclusion it’s just hard to end something that’s just barely begun.

                -Leah Q.