Covering my red face soaked with tears, I make a break for the bathroom. There I can escape from the students, the teachers, the drama itself. I place my hands on the border of the mirror, struggling to keep myself steady. I watch my reflection give out all the weakness and take a step back. I finally sink to the floor, sniffling and holding in all the rest. I have so much to say, yet can never get the words out without my tears interrupting as soon as my confidence builds up. ‘You always do this, crying never helps,” I say aloud not even caring if there were to be a person to walk by hearing me. My mind is overwhelmed with the thought of all the things I could have said and done, but just couldn’t find it in me to do so. I wonder why I ever came out of my shell this year, last year I was a completely different girl, one who always moved forward keeping to herself. “Why can’t I still be…,” I stopped myself almost immediately. I have already decided and been over this, I need to be glad that I have changed. It’s been step in the right direction. Yet nothing keeps my mind off the fact that things would’ve been and would be different if I had stayed who I was.

Feeling; one word that describes the only reason I write. Words that are spoken, and actions done, both have the capability of being forgotten. However, a feeling or even an emotion cannot. No matter good or bad, a feeling will be remembered. When I notice something that has an affect on me, I write about it. I cherish the ability to look back and read about those moments that had such an impact on who I am. I take every feeling straight to my journal, to write and create a new story that will help in the future.

I get myself together, walking out of the bathroom as if none of that just happened, but I know my pink face gives most of it away. There I stand, deciding if I should sit back down at that table. “Yes I have to…If I don’t nothing will change between the situation and I,” I promise myself. One quick, deep breath and I decide to face the fact that life is just going to continue, with or without me, so I mine as well handle it and take it as it is. I pull out the chair with my head down and take a seat. My legs and arms tremble, and soon enough, the nerves come in causing my body to gently shake. I stay there, hearing all their voices say my name. I don’t respond; don’t even bother to look up. Why should I? All they really seem to want to do is hurt me more and more inside. First of all, I don’t even know how I had even sunk to this level. I When I was entering the cafeteria, I had just been spoken to about my ripped jeans and how I was out of dress-code. As I had come to the table, it all at once just suddenly began, and I felt as if I was actually being attacked, not physically but emotionally. Now, as I continue to hide behind my invisible shield, every word spoken, every sound made, just everything, went completely silent.

Again, I take out my journal. Before even beginning, I always exercise my mind, trying to find a new idea and a new story to work with. I never narrate, I use my imagination to put different things in my footsteps, and take the situations and turn them into a writing that leaves the reader “touched” almost. I write because I enjoy reading something that truly speaks to me, and due to how difficult it can be to fill my standards, I just decide to write my own piece for me to read. Every writing, every entry, all the pieces of my journal present an emotion that gives the reader their own feeling. That feeling is something I may have once felt, but now, turned into something incredibly new. A short story that all came from something I had felt within, and or deeply inside.

Lunch comes to an end, and I walk side by side with my friend, we both don’t say a word. She was there, she knows just as well as I do what just happened. We both go on feeling similar- hurt and confused. I sit back at my desk just stricken by it all. All the times I have weakened and wept just create me to become even more furious with myself. I don’t understand how I could have gone so far that I have reached the level I never dared or even imagined I could ever be on: the level all the girls who are caught up in drama and conflicts are on. It’s not me, not at all. How could I have drifted this far from who I truly am? I go through classes, struggling to keep my mind on only what matters. Later I exit the bus with my headphones in, music on, and the world out. Each step towards my house getting colder and colder. My mind finally takes a break off of school until my head meets the pillow….when it all comes rushing back.

Each sentence, each paragraph, each story brings out a new lesson. My writings include morals to hold onto, or quotes to remember. I always try to carry a remark in each one of my entries. The things I tend to write about usually get to be very deep. I do not do this accidentally. I truly find it easier to come up with something sad and dreary to write about rather than something more on the joyful side. I do have writings that are much livelier, but to me, they don’t have as much of an effect or feeling. I find it much more difficult to put more emotions in that piece. Overall, my journal holds more then I can explain, the things inside always leave a different thought.

Once again the bell rings, and I am situated in school. I have not felt nearly as bad as I did yesterday so far, but who is really to know what’s to come? My teacher walks over, pulling me aside to talk. Soon enough another joins him and its now two adults wanting to find our more about something other than their own lives and business. I say little, because they are actually doing a good job intervening on the situation. I stand steady, making full eye contact. A question finally comes from the other adult, and I tease jokingly in my head how all the sudden they actually care about my say in this. “How have you been?” She asks. First I try to comprehend what kind of question that it, and then stare straight between the two of them completely aware, “ not myself, nor do I think ill ever be able to go back.”

The passion I write with, the emotion I put into it, and the feelings that overtake it all what has kept me writing. I dress in different styles, I fifure skate to different music, but the real way I show my individuality is with my journal. There I can escape and capture moments, expressing them how ever I wish. When I began to write, it was almost as if I truly needed to. The pencil just rushing to put down words that screamed within me, filled my body with a strange power. My journal is a base for all my feelings. Writing in it and writing itself has allowed me to open up as a person. I have come out my “shell” and became someone quite new. Without writing I wouldn’t have a place to show my true self, and I wouldn’t have been able to be as close with certain people as I am now. No matter if the room is filled with noise, or completely silent, I am always able to feel a new emotion-one to soon add into my journal.