I’ve always known I had a dark side. A unique side. It followed me from place to place. It was evident in kindergarten when kids made fun of me — when teachers told me to stop being weird and go play. It hitched a ride to school, where I was beaten so severely, my front teeth were knocked from my mouth. Intermediate and high school were the same. I was a straight A student but was unmercifully beaten and bullied.
My grades slowly slipped and when I was 15 years old, I burnt the scholarship application my English teacher got for me to study Literature. I torched the poetry board he had suggested I send along with it. Instead, I turned to drugs. I hauled myself from the wreckage and began my new life as a teacher. I was excellent at it. Kids responded to me because I truly wished to help.
But no matter how much I pursued that dream; I lost a part of me I forgot that I needed. I never stood up. I never freed myself. Growing out of the ashes, I’ve established a new me. A passionately dispersed fragility that’s stronger than I’d permitted myself credit for. I’m becoming moulded. Crafted. I’ve been given a new voice.
And I’ve been quiet for too long.