Middle School Dreads
By Serena Nelson
During my time at Circleville Middle School, I always felt out of place when in a group of students. Sitting with other students in loud places made me uncomfortable. In fact, the most stressful part of my day was lunch time, where hyperactive students ranging from ages twelve to fifteen would yell to one another and haphazardly make messes everywhere. Within the already chaotic middle school, the cafeteria was the most uncomfortable place to be for me.
Throughout my day, I usually wouldn’t talk to anyone else unless they spoke to me directly, and I would strictly avoid eye contact with anyone who walked past me. This was likely due to depression, but at the time I did not realize how much my depression and anxiety affected my daily activities. I just happened to be the girl who wore three layers of clothing—anything below seventy degrees was too cold for me—who stared at my feet as I walked down the blue colored halls, dodging in and out of people’s way like a skillful ninja. I would mutter, “Excuse me… Sorry. Excuse me. So Sorry,” under my breath because it was all I had the energy to say.
My vocabulary mainly consisted of one word: “Sorry.” At lunch time, walking down the hall became especially tiring, since I was trying to be invisible, the school ghost to anyone who might try to stop me on my long trek to the cafeteria.
Once I made it to the crowded cafeteria, my soul started to crumble. Kids sat and stood everywhere. The noise level was ear piercing, and the distance from the cafe entrance to the food line seemed too far away for me to muster up the courage to walk over and take my place on line. I dreaded this feat every day, but still went to lunch since I still wanted to eat. The angry growling of my stomach’s emptiness finally pushed me forward into the line of fire.
Once I received my lunch—in the prison some called school—I sped-walked to the other side of the school to the guidance office, all while still looking at my feet! My palms sweating with anxiety, I tried not to drop my tray. After taking a seat in one of the chairs in Dr. Hass’s office, I could finally relax and eat my lunch in peace. There were no head-throbbing noises trying to possess me, no ruckus. My only moment of respite was to eat lunch away from all of the other kids. I had no problem conversing with most of the adults in the school, so I often made some small talk with the counselor.
One day, after a few minutes had passed, Dr. Hass curiously asked me, “Why do you like to eat in here away from the other kids?”
“I’m not sure,” I said in a low tone, once again looking at my feet, while swaying back and forth.
“You also look down a lot when walking and talking.”
“Sorry . . . I do that I lot. I just thought it was a habit of mine.”
“Don’t be sorry. You did nothing wrong. Are you sure you’re not struggling with lack of self-confidence of some sort?”
“Well, actually I . . .”
That question made me pause for a minute, but I never did get to answer him because the bell rang just then, and I escaped, avoiding the topic. However, throughout that whole day, I thought about it at length.
Since then, I have found that answer to the question Dr. Hass asked me: I was struggling a lot with self-confidence, as most teenage girls my age do. My way of coping was to hide and be in deep thought as I watched the lights from the ceiling shine across the floor tiles of my middle school in distorted shapes. After our short conversation, I began trying to focus on looking straight ahead, instead of at my dirty, ankle-high combat boots.
Now, I keep my head held high, and look everyone in the eye as I walk past, even if I have no idea who they are. I am much more talkative than when I was in middle school. I have even mustered the courage to give silly on-stage performances in front of a crowd of people, dancing or singing or talking about a subject. Those days of eating in the guidance office helped me realize that I don’t have to hide from all of my problems, especially if they can be solved with a little bit of confidence in my step.
