Post Four (Part One)

In January of my senior year of high school, I was sent to the health center at night. I was walked down to the basement of Wieler dorm in my navy blue sweatpants and light blue sweatshirt that had a unicorn on it dabbing. My mascara was all over my face, and I only had my dorm keycard and my phone that had a 32% charge.

“I prefer you to stay in the Health Center rather than your room because you need to be taken care of.” My advisor told me over FaceTime.

She was very much right, but at the time, there was no right for me. I could not be alone, but I could not be with anyone else either. With all that said, it was decided I’d stay the night in the Hotchkiss health center until my mom picked me up in the morning. It was a cold January night, but the thermostat was blasting hot, dry air on top of me. I was boiling and shaking all at once, and there was no chance of me sleeping at all.

Nobody was up, so that I couldn’t call anyone, so I decided to write a list on my phone. I wrote every emotion I was feeling and why. Angry, relieved, frozen, unbearably sad. I didn’t feel good enough, but at the same time, I also felt like I was too much. It is an uncomfortable feeling (which I still struggle with to this day). You almost feel as though you weigh yourself on a scale balancing out the perfect amount of you. I was not enough, but I was too much… so I told myself.

My list became a rage poem about myself to myself. I still have the list in my notes, and I choose not to share it here because I think that should be between me, myself, and I. I am aware that I am neglecting to tell you why I was there, but the specifics on why I was there that night is not the reason why I am writing this piece today. The reasons I was there are not what stands out to me now; it is how I chose to look at myself that night and the steps I decided to take.

I watched the charge on my phone slowly drain while I used the flashlight to find my “GS” engraving that I carved in the wall with my room key when I was 15 years old in that room with the flu. I traced the carving with my fingertips and found a little infinity sign next to it, which was very Gwen of me. I remember sitting and thinking about all that had happened in those four years. From freshman girl to the young woman, I had become at that moment. Shit happened, yes, but that’s not all. I took risks, I lived. I traveled. I met irreplaceable people. I wrote. I danced. I loved.

I did a lot, but I also took note of how I felt right then and there. I felt broken. At that point in my life, that was the most I ever hurt, but nobody would know if I didn’t show them. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, and my blonde curly hair was tumbling out of what was a messy top knot. The mascara was still smudged, and my nose and apples of my cheeks were bright red. My eyes turn this bright green color when I cry, which I always found cool, but I would have done anything for them to be my normal hazel. My body was not on display. My oversized comfy uniform kept me safe and hidden. I am describing how I looked when I really could be more concise and say I looked like absolute shit. I looked like shit, but I knew if I went back to my room, showered, applied my short but effective makeup routine, put on a baggy sweater with a pair of jeans and colorful sneakers (preferably light blue), I would be that smiley, radiant self to the eyes of others. Still, they would not know at all what was happening underneath.

That night I was in the health center, I remember so vividly thinking about how I was not the only one who felt all these contradicting complex emotions. I guess it comes with the territory of being eighteen, that all the uncertainty and brokenness and complications with both my mind and body are just apart of growing up. Yet, the people at school, specifically a top tier prep school, neglected to show anything that wasn’t to a certain standard of perfection. The fact that I allowed myself to be mixed into that dynamic, and try to swim, then try to float, then not drown… Well, call a lifeguard because I was fucking drowning.

I had enough of all the faking and the beautiful facades that hid lousy architecture from everyone, including myself. So I took matters into my own hands and impulsively emailed the school’s chaplain. I announced I would give a chapel talk (a speech in front of the whole school), and that I’d instead give it sooner rather than later so I wouldn’t chicken out. Did I know what I was going to say? Nope. Did I want to let it all rip? Yup. Did I want to do it constructively? Yes. Did I know how to? Nope.

Did I do it? Yes.

Part Two coming soon.

I’ve been reflecting on how I have chosen to cope with the curveballs life has thrown at me over the past few years. I have been thinking about this night at the health center a lot because I went in ‘fuck it’ mode and did something just for me. The outcome truly was something I never expected (shhhhhhh, you don’t know this… Part two is coming), and not only did it make the people in my community feel less alone, but it also started conversations on how to change and help. I had this fearless quality about myself, I still have it, but I need to find it again. I think in my way, this blog is a version of that speech. I am not trying to relive that moment; I am moving forward but trying to use a more positive lens. I want to help myself just as much as I want to help the beautiful people around me. I live to protect others, and it comes with a cost because sometimes the only way you can protect the ones around you is by putting yourself first. I am honestly learning that now, and my way of doing that is by writing the things that make me think, the things that make me smile, and laugh, and love.

Yes, that was all a jumbled mess, but I hope you get just a little about what I am saying.

Wish on a dandelion for me,

G