rissy stories

Hey guys, so this is actually the very first Creative Nonfiction Short Story on this blog. It’s a little more personal (obviously because it’s a story about something that actually happened when I was 16 years old, but it’s also personal due to the fact that it’s about a pretty dark time for me), and I actually wrote this a long time ago (during my sophomore year of college… I think) for a creative writing class. I never actually submitted this story to my professor – I’d written a different one along with this one, and I ultimately chose to submit the other one, but I still kept this one because it was special to me.

When I first wrote this, I was discouraged by family and friends from sharing it with the general public because it’s so personal and there’s a stigma in regards to talking about mental illness (which is why I submitted the other story to my professor and not this one), but I feel a bit differently about it now. I’d like to attempt to help people through my writing as well as entertain (and teach – sometimes), and I’m trying to work against that stigma. (I did briefly touch upon this time of my life in the “Dear Eleven Year Old Me” piece that I wrote, but this specific story will be going into a little more detail about one important event in particular.)

It’s not graphic or anything like that, I didn’t name names, and I think it has a good overlying message for people who are currently going through what I’ve been through (and what I still technically go through, but its not nearly as bad as it used to be): good coping strategies and outlets for stress/anger/frustration do exist, there are always people who genuinely want to help you (family, friends, coaches, teachers/professors, etc.), never give up (no matter how much you will want to), you’re a better/stronger person than you think you are, bad things happen for a reason, and most of all… it’s going to be okay.

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I curled my fingers around the cold doorknob, twisted it to the right, and struggled to pull the large black door open. Once I finally did, I felt a blast of warm air rush over me as I stepped into the school hallway and let the door slam shut behind me. I stood still for a moment. I watched students dressed in tan khakis with white sweaters, or brown and white plaid skirts with dark brown sweaters, fly past me as though I was the only one moving in slow motion.

I constantly felt like everyone was moving forward a lot faster than me.

However, I would always remain right where I was. No matter how hard I tried to move my feet as fast as everyone else, they were never going to feel like anything other than cinder blocks. My heavy eyelids shut, and I asked the same question I have been asking myself all year: Why did I even bother showing up to school today? I turned around to walk towards junior hall when I felt a strong hand grasp my arm.

“Hey, where are you going?” a deep voice asked. My tired eyes snapped open and I instinctively ripped my arm away from my softball coach. He appeared to be taken off guard by my defensive reaction, but I didn’t care. His big brown eyes were attempting to just look at my face, but I caught them glancing down at my arms. I pulled my sweater sleeves over my hands and crossed my arms over my chest as I looked up at the tall, bald man.

“To my locker, where else would I be going?” I snapped, then immediately regretted my decision. My mood swings were getting out of control. I never snapped at people, let alone a man old enough to be my grandfather who could still snap me like a twig. However, I couldn’t seem to help it. This unusual behavior had been building throughout my entire junior year and I had finally hit my breaking point mid-school-year. Now I couldn’t hide the bitter human being in me.

“I want to speak with you in my office. Now,” he said and walked away as if he expected me to follow. I contemplated just walking away – I could’ve really used that nap I usually take for about twenty minutes in homeroom until the bell rings. However, I sluggishly walked towards his office with my cinderblock feet as a sort of apology for snapping at him – the bags under my blue eyes suddenly felt extra baggy, and the blonde/red/black bun of dyed hair at the top of my head bobbed as I walked.

Besides, the last thing I needed was to be kicked off of the high school softball team…even though that’s secretly what I wanted. I didn’t have the energy or the willpower to play anymore. Not to mention the was a huge division between two halves of my high school softball teammates over travel softball drama, and both sides kept demonizing each other and trying to pull me over to one side like it was some twisted tug-of-war game.

So, as a result, I pissed off one side by yelling at them to stop it, and the other side sort of got the memo – so no one was talking to me anymore. I’m sure I always looked miserable at practices, and I also skipped too many of them, so this was bound to happen sooner or later, right? I just wanted to get it over with.

I snapped out of my daydream as a particularly athletic male figure in a white sweater, khakis, and dress shoes rammed into my left shoulder with his own, almost knocking me over due to my pathetically small size. I gasped and turned towards him.

“Oh s***, I’m sor…” I lifted a hand and started to apologize as I watched the brown-haired a**hat walk past me. He didn’t even glance at me, he just kept walking, and stayed absorbed in his conversation with one of his gorgeous – and probably douche-y – looking guy friends. “-Ry.” I finished bitterly in a whisper, then slowly turned around, and continued to walk on my death march. I wish I could say that this was the first time something like this happened to me in high school.

I was invisible, what did I expect?

When I finally reached Coach’s office at the end of the hall after walking for what felt like hours, and I drug myself inside. It was the tiniest, most miserable room in the entire building, littered with empty boxes and books, even though he had moved in months ago. There were newspaper clippings of all our team’s accomplishments taped to every inch of the surrounding walls. The large mahogany desk was covered with paperwork and Coach was sitting behind it, staring at me in silence as I walked in. I hesitantly shut the door behind me, not knowing whether he wanted me to or not, and shrugged my backpack off of my shoulders. I tucked my uniform skirt underneath me as I sat down in a chair.

“Am I being kicked off the team or something?” I asked, wanting to get directly to the point. Coach raised his eyebrows at me, probably because that wasn’t my style. I was a beat-around-the-bush kind of person – I’d normally start off with asking something like: “I’m sorry, am I in trouble?” or “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” and then I’d wait for him to tell me whether or not I was being kicked off the team.

However, I really just didn’t care anymore. It felt better not to care about anything – to just feel numb. I’d come to love feeling numb because anxiety just made everything painful. Numbness was like taking an ice bath after suffering a bad injury – it might be freezing and uncomfortable at first, but after awhile, you relax because you can’t feel anything anymore. Unfortunately though, numbness has a nasty habit of sticking around for too long. Then you start to panic because a feeling that’s only meant to be temporary becomes permanent, and then the entire painful/numbing process begins all over again.

Needless to say, Coach looked baffled and then sighed heavily while staring down at his desk, as though he couldn’t figure out how to respond.

“No, you’re not… but I’m concerned about – ” he started, but couldn’t find the words to finish. I suddenly sat up straighter when I realized what he was trying to say. I felt my muscles tense when I saw that awful look on his face: the furrowed bushy eyebrows, the extra-wrinkled skin in between those eyebrows and forehead, the puppy-dog eyes. That guilty, concerned look which said: ‘I know what happened.’ My mouth felt dry and I gripped the edge of my seat until my knuckles turned white – suddenly this tiny room was beginning to make me feel claustrophobic – I started to feel like I couldn’t breathe.

“How do you know?” I asked him quietly. All I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die there. Tears sprang into my eyes before I could try and stop them – I felt so embarrassed. Did all of my teachers know? Did the whole school know? Coach shook his head at me, leaned forward on his desk, and looked extremely uncomfortable. He always did that whenever someone was crying, or about to cry, right in front of him.

“No, no, please don’t do that,” he practically begged, “You know that your teachers talk to me. We’re in-season and you’re one of my nine players on varsity – of course I was told. Look, please don’t cry,” he pleaded. I tightly gripped the messy bun on the top of my head, slumped back into my chair, and huffed. I felt the muscles in my chest tighten and my jaw set.

“I can’t help it,” I said through my teeth, refusing to make eye contact, and roughly wiping tears off of my cheeks. First of all, I was tired of people telling me not to cry – if I could’ve helped it, I wouldn’t have. And secondly, I was back in school after staying home the day beforehand and everything was fine now, so what was there to talk about?

“I know you can’t,” Coach said while chewing at his lower lip, “I know it’s hard,” he added. Then the last thing I wanted to think about in this moment popped into my head:

I could picture my pathetic, bony self, sitting alone in my French teacher’s classroom, after class had ended, with my best friend and boyfriend – sobbing into a desk like the baby with my glasses in my left hand and my boyfriend’s sweaty hand in my right. I could feel my best friend’s tight grip on my left arm as I heard her cry along with me – the plague of empathy. I could also hear my boyfriend talking to my teacher about his own personal problems after my best friend had forced me to spill about my problems – it was like the three of us were all in a confessional, taking turns talking to a priest during one of our stupid in-school Catholic retreats about how we’re such horrible teenagers because we felt this way and that way.

Meanwhile, my head had been buried in the inside of my elbow, because as soon as my best friend started to cry when listening to my personal problems and then my boyfriend’s (her best guy friend’s) personal problems – I was gone. Tears seeped into the loose threads of the brown uniform sweater we wore every single day. My eyes felt raw and swollen, my cheeks felt hot, the inside of my forearms were stinging, my hands and armpits were sweating profusely, my brain was about to explode out through my throbbing temples, my lungs were burning from breathing so harshly, my spine hurt from hunching over for so long, and my back muscles were sore – it was just a f****** mess, and I’d never been happier that my school didn’t have security cameras because I’m sure I looked great.

And sure, I felt that my world was completely falling apart in that moment – but I always feel that way during an anxiety attack. This event occurred once or twice a day (possibly three times on a really bad day), except it was usually in private. This one just happened to be a one-time out-of-character breakdown in public because I was forced to talk to someone by my best friend, and I figured that my school would be slightly more understanding of that fact. It honestly wasn’t that big of a deal – I did this all the time. At least I didn’t think it was that big of a deal – and my parents didn’t think so either. This was my first day back to school since it happened two days beforehand.

It was only two damn days ago – I JUST walked through the door – and we were already diving headfirst into shark-infested waters.

“Yeah, it’s hard,” I muttered under my breath.

“Quitting softball won’t help you, it will just make things worse,” Coach randomly blurted as I wiped the rest of the tears off of my face and pushed myself back out of my slumped position. Speaking of no longer beating-around-the-bush. It was almost like he could read my mind.

“I never said I was looking for help – I just don’t want to do any of this anymore, I’m tired,” I said, and it was true. I was tired of worrying about school, softball, my home & social lives, and my depressed boyfriend to the point where I always felt nauseous and barely ate anything anymore in fear that I would just vomit it back up. In consequence, I was tired of receiving questions about whether or not I had an eating disorder. I was tired of crying at the drop of a hat every day – it was exhausting, annoying, and very inconvenient for me. My parents found it annoying, and it kept me from doing homework and studying.

On that note, I was tired of never letting myself stop working ahead in homework and studying, which would have allowed me to go to bed earlier than three or four every morning. I was tired of having to wake up at six for school every morning. I was tired of being told by my parents that I wasn’t trying hard enough in school, softball, and SATs, and then fighting with them about everything under the sun. I was tired of feeling like a loser for losing all of my friends and not even knowing why. I WAS JUST TIRED.

This constant cycle of worry and disappointment had been going strong for months. Hell, actually waking up in the morning and not dreading every single aspect of my life had become a struggle in and of itself.

However, instead of the anger that I anticipated from Coach, he only seemed to look more concerned, which wasn’t much better.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to quit – I know you. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you do. And honestly, I don’t think it was a bad idea that your friend made you speak up about your issues the other day,” he admitted and then glanced down at my arms. You mean on the worst day of my entire life? I thought as I subconsciously pulled my brown sweater sleeves back over my hands. Then my anger faded away as exhaustion took over – as it always did.

“After I was sent home because ‘my issues’ were apparently a threat to me and everyone around me, my parents took me to the emergency room – where I waited for nine hours in the waiting room when all I needed was a note saying that I wasn’t suicidal, so I would be allowed back in school,” I took a large breath and tried not to think about everything I experienced in that waiting room. “I’m not suicidal. So, how could you possibly think that the worst experience of my life came from a good idea?” I asked. My fingernails hurt from digging into the chair so hard, my hands were trembling from the effort (and lack of food in my system), and my head hurt. I could still picture my parents yelling at each other in the kitchen after I was brought home the other day: “Well, what are we gonna do?! We need to get her back in school as soon as possible!”

“This needed to happen in order for you to finally seek help,” he replied confidently. I scoffed and leaned back in my chair. I crossed my arms and my eyes darted around the room, searching for an answer to make him understand that there wasn’t anything that would help.

“I just…I don’t want to do this anymore,” I pleaded tiredly – hoping that he would just let me go. I was clearly tired of fighting – why couldn’t anyone see that? He stared at me intensely. I could tell that there was something that he wanted to say, but I hoped that he’d decide against it. Unfortunately, my prayers went unanswered as he folded his arms over his broad chest and shook his head.

“No, I won’t let you quit, and here’s why: your grades are slipping and you look like you haven’t slept in ages. You’re walking around these hallways like you’re constantly carrying a heavy weight on your back every day. You’re always looking down at your feet and I’ve noticed that you’re isolating yourself from your teammates at the practices you actually decide to attend. And you had a mental breakdown in school two days ago,” He paused and shook his head. “No… quitting softball means that you’re officially giving up on yourself and I won’t let you make that mistake! You need to keep yourself busy,” he added, clearly not budging on the issue.

I remained frozen in my seat, staring at him with unblinking eyes. Was I being that obvious? I’ve barely spoken a word to anyone except for my boyfriend and best friend for months, was this really something that he could figure out based solely on my appearance? It’s not like I’d really been trying to look pretty anymore – I hadn’t worn makeup, or my hair down, in God knew how long, but I didn’t think I looked that unappealing.

“Keeping busy is what got me into trouble in the first place,” I replied softly.

“I know you need a break, and I know that softball’s been a source of stress for you… but channel this new uncaring feeling you seem to have and transform softball into a break for you instead of something to stress over – like an outlet, or an escape from your mind,” he suggested, and I squinted at his bald head in response. An escape from my mind… how in the hell does he expect me to escape my mind?

After realizing that I wasn’t going to respond, he sighed again: “Look… believe it or not, I’ve been through what you’re going through, and so have some of the assistant coaches. From experience – keeping busy is what helps the most. Hell, that’s why I’m still coaching despite everyone telling me to retire,” he paused. “But most of all, I refuse to let one of my best players give up, I just won’t,” he added. I raised my eyebrows and shifted in my seat uncomfortably – partially at the fact that he cared about me enough to openly admit something personal, and partially because he called me –

“One of your best players?” I asked with disbelief. Coach laughed and leaned back in his chair.

“Are you kidding? Why else would I have brought you up to varsity as a freshman?” he asked as though it were obvious. I blinked and grinned a real grin for the first time in months, because it was a pretty idiotic notion when I heard it being said out loud. He then continued after a moment of silence: “We’ve honestly been watching you spiral downwards for the past year, but we just didn’t know that it would get this bad. I’ve already informed the assistant coaches of what happened, and they want to help you. Your teachers want to help you. We all want to help you, so please let us,” he said. I felt a comforting warmth spread throughout my body, something I hadn’t felt in a while.

“I don’t know where I’d even begin…” I said, on the verge of crying again.

“Take it one day at a time. I’m going to meet with you every morning just to check in, and I’ll keep an eye on you during practices – that you’re going to start showing up to regularly again. If you feel like you’re starting to fade, please let one of us coaches know instead of pushing yourself harder,” he paused for a moment, looking at me like he wanted a response. I nodded at this, and he continued: “It’s going to be a rocky rest of the year, especially since it’s the beginning of softball season and you’ll be starting the anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds, so it’s going to take a lot of extra work on your part – but you’re a fighter. You’ve always been a fighter, and as long as you don’t give up… everything’s going to be okay,” he said. I suddenly heard the late-bell ring. I should’ve been in first period by now, but clearly Coach didn’t care because he ignored it too.

I instinctively nodded, like I did with almost everything he told me, and tried to tell myself that over and over in my mind: Everything’s going to be okay, everything’s going to be okay, everything’s going to be okay. Even though I didn’t believe it in the slightest at the time – I at least had something somewhat comforting to hold onto when I was having anxiety attacks.

“I just feel like I’ve failed at everything. I had to withdraw fail from AP Chemistry – which wouldn’t have even happened without your weight behind it because of the school’s stupid “no dropping classes” rule (otherwise I would have had to stick with the class and actually fail it – which would have been even worse), but my GPA still dropped anyways, I can’t read, take the SATs, or make decisions about college or softball because I can’t concentrate on anything, I can’t eat, I’m always tired, all of my ‘friends’ are annoyed with me, I depress my boyfriend, no one wants to talk to me anymore, my father is disappointed in me and I can never seem to try hard enough for him… I just can’t get anything right anymore,” I explained while wiping more tears off of my cheeks and taking those short, gasping-breaths that you take when you’re crying. Coach nodded at everything I was saying and pushed a tissue box towards me. I was beginning to feel like I was in a therapist’s office. I pulled a tissue out and blew my nose.

“You haven’t failed, it just feels that way because that’s the way your brain is wired right now. It’s an illness – you’re not abnormal, you’re not a loser, and you’re not alone. Everyone hits a rock bottom like this… it just happened to you a little earlier in life, that’s all. I didn’t hit mine until my thirties,” he said. I forced myself to take a deep breath and I slouched back into my chair. I looked around the small room with red, puffy eyes and suddenly it didn’t feel so constricting and cluttered anymore. It felt more like a sanctuary.

“I don’t know how to not feel this way – what if it never gets better?” I asked. Coach leaned forward in his chair again, folded his hands together, and placed them on the desk.

“Healing and change won’t happen overnight. They take time, which you happen to have lots of. You’ll get better, I promise,” he replied. And I wanted to believe him. So badly, I wanted to believe him. But I just couldn’t see it – my teary vision was blinding me.

“Okay, but what if I do, and then this happens again?” I wondered.

“It won’t,” he automatically replied. I looked at him skeptically and he shook his head, reinforcing his answer, “It won’t because you’ll learn from this experience. After this is all said and done – you’ll know the warning signs, and you’ll be able to get yourself some extra help before it gets this bad,” he explained further. I bit my lip and looked down at my sweater-covered arms. I definitely wasn’t looking forward to dealing with this for the rest of my life, and while I thought about it, I instinctively pulled my left sleeve a little further up my arm and scratched the inside of my left wrist as it started to itch, forgetting that it was scabbed-over. I accidentally ripped one open, flinched, then quickly pulled the sleeve back down.

“And don’t do that anymore,” he suddenly added with a very serious tone, pointing a rather large finger pointed at my arm. My head snapped back up and I immediately felt my face heat up – the one thing I really didn’t want to talk about. I swallowed nervously, his eyes looking almost threatening as they glared at me. “Promise me right now.”

“I promise,” I replied instantaneously. I’d already made that promise to myself two days ago anyways – even though it helped me stop crying during an anxiety attack, I made the promise that I’d never do anything to put myself in this type of situation ever again. He appeared somewhat satisfied.

“There are other ways to cope, you know,” he said. I nodded, already knowing what he was thinking.

“Softball?” I asked. He smiled and nodded.

“Just focus on the game itself for awhile – don’t worry about making decisions about playing in college, don’t worry about making your parents happy, don’t worry about any of that. Just focus on improving your game, getting your anger and frustration out, then going home and feeling tired enough to fall asleep at a normal time,” he explained. “Sound like a deal?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

Now, I didn’t realize it at the time – but after this conversation, I finally had my first major inspiration to try moving forward again. This strategy worked for a while, and it definitely helped to officially pull me out of my rock bottom. Without it, I probably would have been stuck down there in the darkness a lot longer than I was. Coach gave me an escape at the end of my cold, dark tunnel… so I made a run for it.