High School

I did NOT take this photo. This is from Rock n Roll Revival last year, but it captures the spirit of the show better than any other image I could create myself. It was taken by Connor Smith.

Last night, I attended Rock n Roll Revival XXV at my old high school. RnR is the glistening jewel of Severna Park, outshining all other local events. Forty songs are performed over the course of two acts, and the singers, dancers, and band members are all students - except for the one faculty number. The talent is incredible. Each year I've been overwhelmed by seeing what my musically-minded classmates are capable of.

Yesterday something else overwhelmed me, too. As I walked across the parking lot to our car, my ears still slightly ringing, I felt sadness. There was a lump in my throat. What can I say of my high school experience? I never auditioned for RnR - the closest I got was signing up for an audition slot and crossing my name off the day of because I was too afraid. I never tried out for any sports. I have very few friends from that time in my life. There were no crowning achievements, no ribbons or trophies, no scrapbooks full of happy memories.

When I was alone with my dad, I told him about my feelings. "You were sick," he explained. "It would be more unfortunate if high school was the high point of your life."

He has a point. It's hard to make friends, join clubs, or audition for roles when you can't even convince yourself of your own worth. How do you make yourself appealing to a potential friend when you are disgusted by yourself? I didn't go to prom or graduation because I didn't feel any sort of attachment to my peers. I had enclosed myself in a box. I had withdrawn from everyone. Some nights I would get very upset that no one wanted to be my friend, but when anyone tried to get close to me, I pushed them away. Depression has a way of isolating you when you most need friendship.

I cannot let myself think how different high school would have been for me if I had had my bipolar disorder under control. To me, those years are lost. There are a few glimmering moments of happiness, most of them involving academics or discussions with my teachers. Despite my efforts to limit my closeness with others, I have a couple of very good friends. Overall, however, those years are marred by depression and mania.

Even though seeing RnR saddened me, I'm thankful I had to the opportunity to attend. I felt rare pride for my community, a place that I normally see as obsessed with athletic competitions and standardized test scores. My hometown is full of very, very talented young men and women. The best part is, I don't think RnR will be the high point of their lives. There is so much more in store for people with that kind of pure talent coupled with motivation.

So whether you shined at high school or just survived, I firmly believe there is more. I am finding happiness at college, where stability has finally allowed me to pursue the activities I enjoy. Soon I'll be playing softball again with a team from my dorm. I get to write all of the time. I'm making a difference through Active Minds, a club I'm involved in that helps fight the stigmatizing of mental illness. 

Things are getting better. High school is not the end.

The "B" Word

At Towson University, I have seen several posters advocating for "Spread the Word to End the Word." There is an entire website campaign dedicated to purging the word "retarded" from casual use. At first I was skeptical. Does one word really matter? The more I thought about it, the clearer the answer became to me.

Our choice of vocabulary matters. Now, I try to make a conscious effort not to say "retarded." I am aware that the word is not meant to be used to describe a situation I think is annoying or stupid. It  belittles and demeans those with actual intellectual disabilities, and it creates a hostile work or learning environment. It's not good for anyone.

I want to take the movement farther. We should take a similar approach with mental health words. For example, when you use the word bipolar to describe anything but the mental illness, you are stealing my voice. You are diluting my message as a young woman who struggles daily with the disorder. When you perceive the weather to be rapidly changing, you are not witnessing a bipolar experience. I will gladly share my experience with you, but please do not make this comparison. I wish my mood swings were as simple as the weather.

It seems trivial. One word! But our choice of word shapes our attitudes. Let's challenge ourselves to find a more respectful, intelligent substitute. The English language has a plethora of words for us to choose from. Let's not take the easy way out and compromise our ability to empathize with our friends with mental illness.

I know this is a controversial blog post, so I invite you to share your thoughts in the comments. I'd like it if we could have a healthy conversation.

STOP

Today I'm going to bring to light a secret I've been harboring. My therapist says, "You're only as sick as your secrets." I briefly mentioned this secret in the post I wrote about losing my religion, but I am ready to share a few more details.

When I was in tenth grade, I was sexually harassed by one of my classmates. It climaxed in an altercation that occurred after my first experience drinking alcohol unsupervised, and then persisted as a series of lesser incidents that involved inappropriate touching and what I have determined to be stalking.

Today I would like to focus on the lesser incidents. It started with an "innocent" hand on my knee, and progressed. I was told that this was happening because I was single and this was the best that I could get, that this is what I deserved. It happened on public transportation in front on many people, but I never had the courage to get up a move. I never made a scene. I sat in the same seat every day,   dreading what became the routine.

I was fourteen years old. I was very smart. My parents had talked to me about what to do if an older man tried to touch me inappropriately.

But I wasn't prepared when the person touching me was a classmate, my peer. I knew it was wrong, but I did not possess the proper context to handle my situation. I was timid. I didn't have the courage to make a scene.

So how do you confront someone who is in your class and you see every day? The same way you would confront a stranger who would treat you with such blatant disrespect. The following image that I have created applies to anyone who touches you when you don't want him or her to: friend, family member, classmate, or stranger.

Feel free to share this image on Pinterest, Tumblr, Facebook, etc. We need to teach people that they do not have to live in fear. It took years for me to "get over" what happened, and I still don't feel entirely comfortable sharing that part of my story. I think we're all ready for things to change.