Mac McDonald

9/23/15
English 3
Mr. Wilkinson

As a child the world seemed so colorful and bright. Instead of staring at my

ceiling for hours on end, I would create artwork to display on the walls of my room. My
desk was full of crayons, colored pencils, and paper. I didnt care what people thought
about me, because I was unique. Painful words from others didnt matter, because I had
a solid group of people for support. All of that changed my sophomore year of high
school.
Everything began to crumble when the leaves outside began to turn various
shades of crimson, marigold, and rust. School began to get rough for me as I felt my
renaissance way of thinking was not accepted in more than half my classes. My dad
was on an awful schedule as he was working nights at the nuclear power plant. My
mom tends to get stressed since its not just me she has to care for but also my younger
siblings without much help. The best points of my day were singing in choir and Mr.
Foleys theatre class. There was a place where I could be free from having to think and
act like everyone else. I have always loved the theatre and music.
Once the fall musical had begun, all of my feelings and thoughts had gone down
hill. It didnt help that I was struggling to succeed in my classes and could not find the
help I needed. Everything that I did, even when it was to the best of my ability, was
incorrect or not good enough. One night during the show one of the cast members
asked me to find a pair of his shoes. I looked in his cubby, hangers, and quick change
basket. Discouraging words and emotions from the previous events in classes started to

fill my head. They were like vultures circling a dead animal. I told him I couldnt find the
shoes. But the shoes were where they were placed last night. I felt bad that I couldnt
find them and made him late for his entrance. The screeching vultures, of negative
words, began to dive at me. I loathe crying in front of other people, because in
elementary school I was made fun of for being a cry baby. I went into the backstage
bathroom, sat under the sink, and let my tears flow. I was under there for about an hour.
I only came out from under the sink for final bows, even though I felt like I didnt deserve
it, but Mr. Foley said I needed to. Mr. Foley and I had a talk about what was going on.
He knew I didnt leave the building because my coat and bag were still in the hair and
makeup room. Mr. Foley did not scold me for pulling that disappearing act, instead the
kind old man listened to what I had to say. Im struggling with Geometry, I feel like I
dont fit in at all in my other classes, because I think differently than everyone else, I
said. I only feel like I sorta am accepted in your theatre class and choir. For only two
hours of the day I truly safe to be myself. Foley immediately understood what I was
saying as my eyes began to well up with tears. Its okay to cry, Mac, he said. That
night was the first of many when rivers flowed from my eyes till I thought I couldnt stop
crying till I lulled myself to a restless slumber.
A month passed and I became a starving exhausted beast. Every night I would
not sleep, instead I would lie awake worrying about misfortunate scenarios that my brain
created. My lunch consisted of rice, greek yogurt, some sort of fruit, and maybe a
granola bar. Rarely I would eat breakfast or dinner. Eating became a once a day routine.
The month of December should be a happy one with Christmas on the way.
Twinkling lights, the smell of peppermint, a fire crackling, choirs singing carols, and

snow blanketing the earth. My December was not as it should have been. The lights
began to dim, and peppermint was just a flavor of tea to keep me from getting sick.
Snow was just as cold as my body was from not eating. Fire was just a thing I wanted to
create at the bus stop to keep myself warm before marching through another day. There
was no choir singing just orders barked at me to Stop daydreaming. With the month of
December also came auditions for the winter play Scapino. I thought maybe if I was
apart of something big like the play I would feel happier. With middle school I never got
into the school plays so, I had little confidence of making the cut. Hours on end were
spent on working on my monologue. Mr. Foley had helped me with it so I would do well
in auditions. Three days after my auditions the cast list came out. Again it was another
list absent of my name. Again another disappointment. Again the feeling of brokenness.
That night I had e-mailed Mr. Foley, because I felt like I couldnt talk to my parents who
would tell me that Im over reacting.
Nobody is ever going to cast me in a show ever. Everybody thinks Im too stupid
because of my grades. Im too awkward to be on the stage so Im always shut behind
the scenes. Im either too young or too short. Everyone hates me maybe Im just a
mistake. Something worth forgotten. Just the invisible person nobody notices. The
invisible chime of the bell you think you hear but its not there. I am a mistake I am
just a nobody. I might as well just give up everything all together. Ive got nothing to
lose! Why do I even try to do this stuff in the first place if all I get is nowhere.- Mac.
Instead of a talk with Mr. Foley again, it was straight to the guidance counselor's
office with me. Mrs. VanHeukelom had a copy of the the e-mail on the table in her office.
She beckoned me to sit down in one of the chairs as she then sat across from me. I told

her what was going on and we talked for around 20 minutes. Tears began to dribble out
of my eyes as I let down my guard. Mr. Foley had forwarded this email to me because
he is worried about your mental health and that you may become suicidal. Mrs.
VanHeukelom addressed. We went through the printed copy of the e-mail circling and
underlining words that may have seemed too strong to use. Mac, you need to tell me if
you have made any plans to take your life. she said in a deep worried tone. I nodded
my head no. Mrs. VanHeukelom then let me back to my 3rd hour.
I entered the choir room looking like I was about to cry again. Mrs. Pierson
noticed that I had a pass in my hand from the office. Choir was one of the things that
was deeply important to me. Mrs. Pierson always pushed us to strive to be the best
vocalist we could be. She asked me if was going to be okay. I think Ill be fine. I
mumbled trying to keep rivers flowing from my eyes. I got my music out but I did not
sing. I stood on the risers and listened to the beauty of my other sisters of
WOSWE.Each note was not a cruel scorn but a comforting lullaby. Throughout the
rehearsal my sisters gave me hugs not knowing what was happening but only a few.
Kourtney, who was a senior, had lost her boyfriend to suicide. She had spent months
seeing a counselor herself. Paige, who could have been mistaken for a freshman, had
been bullied frequently for her size and interests. Sam, who was also a senior, had been
dealing with depression for most of her life. She was an avid member of the performing
arts. Sam had no younger siblings and vise versa with me so we kinda latched to
eachother. The other older girls could see it in the way I walked and spoke. Slowly with
my head to the floor, and quieter than usual. But overall, Sam was the most worried for
my life.

After Christmas things started up again. The end of the first semester was
approaching, and that is when exams begin to come out. Students crammed their heads
with all the knowledge they needed to pass their classes whether they had the time to
really do that or not. Over the break, everyday I sat down with my mom each day and
reviewed everything in Geometry as I was already carrying a D+ in the class and
needed to pass my exam. Early in the semester I had gotten behind because I couldnt
deal with everything being thrown at me, and because my teacher was awful, I was
unable to learn. That had made school very hard for me. On my exam for Geometry, I
had shown the work for every problem. Double checking is what I did throughout the
whole strenuous exam. That night all of the exam grades were put up and calculated
into our grade for the class. I had gotten As in Theatre and Choir. World History was a
B+ and English 2 and Chemistry were both in the C range. My eyes lingered impatiently
to Geometry to see if I had passed. I then read Geometry: F.
I could not believe it. I struggled to find a way to boost my grade quickly. Instead
of barely passing, my grade fell and so did my spirit. Tonight would be another night
when I would cry myself to sleep again. I just sat up in bed e-mailing the two teachers I
trusted the most. Mr. Foley and Mrs. Pierson.
I had e-mailed both teachers very similar emails expressing what has recently
happened with Geometry. In my heart I knew that they would listen to my distress
signal. Both teachers answered back. Mr. Foley had written. All great artist have a
string of failures along the way, but they did not let those failures beat them down like a
captured lion. What they did was to decide that they would keep going, keep learning,
keep working towards their goals. They did not let a stand in their way of achieving their

hopes and dreams. Apparently he saw some sort of potential in me. Mrs. Pierson
encouraged, ...Life is an endless stream of ups and downs- thats normal and helps us
to appreciate the things that are special in our lives. Look forward not back, and stay on
the journey. Two people ,who were just teachers to some, were saying the words that I
needed to hear.
Later that month in choir we had gotten a piece called Truth. One day Mrs.
Pierson had us take it out and sight read through it. Mrs. Florip, our accompanist, began
to play our notes. My roots are earth, we sang, Muddy river and honey suckle,my roots
are earth, muddy river and honeysuckle. The alto section dug deep into the core of their
voice as the sopranos soared in the wind. I shared a sisterhood, with the amber
grasses. Sturdy and rigid like farmhouse planks. I shared a sisterhood, with the amber
grasses. My dreams climbed endlessly like the kudzu in July, we sang. My mother told
me I , out rang the most tear inducing minor chord, was beautiful. I felt a lump in my
throat and thick, heavy, droplets began flowing down my cheeks, converging to my chin,
and then onto the floor as my sisters sang, And I believed her then. Why shouldnt I.
Then I sat down in my chair. You are beautiful. You are enough. You must believe in
that. Believe the truth, My sisters sang. Those were not the words of the author but the
words of my choir family reaching out to save me from falling. Even though I believed
that was already gone to the dogs. My roots are beautiful. My roots are strong, the piece
finished off. All of the voices were joined as one. Each voice, though very different from
each other, all blended together into one singular voice. A strong unified voice. Sam had
seen that I could not keep the happy little girl act any longer. Soon I found her arms

wrapped around me with her mop of copper hair tilted looking into my eyes. Then it was
when I knew that the choir room was the safest place in the school.
January was not the end of barely eating, crying myself to sleep, and wishing I
was gone. February brought on its new challenges. Even though I had choir to forward
to, everyday I marched in between classes. I blared my showtunes through my
headphones. Les Mis, Phantom of the Opera, Hair, The Lion King, Newsies, If/then,
Once, Wicked, and Pippin. Music became a sort of therapy to me. At sometimes music
became better than actual therapy. Music became a medication, addiction, a drug. One
day a song from Pippin found its way into my ears. Instead listening subconsciously, the
lyrics hit me right in the stomach. Morning glow, by your light, we can make the new day
bright. And the phantoms of the night will fade into the past. Morning glow is here at last
,then it hit me. Instead wanting the sun to shine all I needed was to just let the morning
glow take over. Another thing hit me too. The first wave of massive depression.
Everything I attempted in school was wrong or showed how intelligent I was.
Every time I thought I had the right answer to a question it was always incorrect.
Moments of the goofy, flamboyant, curious, girl came out sometimes to brush of the
insecurities I faced everyday. Instantly, I shut her up as curled up into a cocoon at my
desk. The crazy, loveable girl was dead. A hurting savage had implanted herself into my
soul. I did not cut or burn my skin, instead I drew beautiful tattoos in gold sharpie.
Frequently I would get compliments on the masterpieces that climbed my arms and
surrounded my ankles. Still the greatest facade I played was bashfully saying thank you
even though it was art to express my pain.

One night, I couldnt take my own misery anymore as assignments from my

classes began pile on top of eachother. Frequently I would imagine myself taking a
sharp blade into myself or walking into moving traffic. I took my frustration to Instagram
while working on an essay from my English class. While mascara created a muddy river
like many nights before, I snapped three pictures in a dark scheme. With each picture
went a poem. In just moments comments from other people came in. I love you, said
Lousia, who I felt was too young to understand. Please dry those tears youre making
me cry. said another, You are worth so much! You do belong here! Please listen,Mac,
Lousia shouted through the screen. Yo Mac, DM me your number, asked Jake.
I had met Jake last year in Drama Club , even elected him as a Drama Club
officer. He always seemed to has a certain bright energy that made anyone smile. Jake
wore a kaleidoscope of color everyday with his hair worn long to his shoulders
decorated with a printed bandana or headband. How are you doing? he messaged. I
didnt know whether to lie and say that Im fine and leave the conversation at that
having him worry that my name would be solemnly announced throughout the speaker
system. Im contemplating the meaning of life while also questioning Is my life really
just struggling through classes that Im forced to take. I typed into my phone. That was
the truth. The first night I had contemplated taking my own life, someone was willing to
listen to what I had to say. My phone dinged with message from Jake that read, I can
tell you that being alive is worth the hard times. What Mr. Foley and Mrs. Pierson had
told me a few months prior had then come through the words of another teenager.

The circle of people I felt safe talking to became small. Whoever walked into the
choir room and the group of friends I sat with at lunch became involved in the slow

process of my rehabilitation. Sam would frequently hold me in her arms when I couldnt
continue with my day. After school I would rehearse for a childrens play which was
something Mr. Foley had encouraged me to do. Mr. Foley had made Paige the director
and gave me a part in the show. Paige had been educated on what state of mind I was
in. Everyday held every emotion I felt inside and put myself on the stage. I kept holding
onto hope that someday I would feel happy again.
After the childrens show was done I had the rest of spring break to look forward
to. Instead of going to some exotic location to soak in the sun, I spent hours in my bed
staring at my ceiling. Occasionally I would look at my phone updates of other people in
beautiful places where as I was stuck in the cold, rainy, muddy, and grey Michigan.
Throughout all of spring break, my thoughts were my only companion. What I wrote in
my journal was what I believed about myself and the world around me. The kind words
from my teachers and my friends were all lies in my ears. The only words I heard were
my own. You are worthless. You are a mistake. You dont deserve any kindness.
You dont deserve to live.
April began with rain healing the earth from the harsh winter. I trudged around
school remorsely as the month went on. Sometimes I would walk through the rain
without a coat or an umbrella to feel the cool water refresh my parched soul. The sun
would shine occasionally but I would never see it. I saw the flowers bloom underneath
my feet and the grass would become greener. All I would see is the mud being created
in fields. By the third week of the month I was tempting death. I could no longer deal
with the way I had been living. One night when I had mascara stains on my face I wrote
my final poem. I had titled it The Lamentable tale of the choir kid who wanted to die It

was the story of what happened to me from October to now. The next weekend was
Youth Councils, an event for the teenagers in The Salvation Army. It would be a
weekend of music, food, friends, and worship. I had decided that if nothing had changed
after youth councils I would either run far away where no one could find me or end my
life in some way or another.
In one of the meetings, the speaker for the weekend was talking about how
sometimes when we walk alone we are not. God is always there. There was a time in
the meeting when I felt the heaviness of depression lift of my shoulders. I felt as light as
a feather. The heavy march that a performed daily became gentle dance as I floated to
the altar to pray. For the first time in months the snow and rain cleared and at last I saw
the sun. The colors of the flowers became more noticeable than before. I felt at peace.
Two months later I looked some of the things I wrote at the beginning of my
depression. There was a poem and a list both with the same message. Reasons why I
am an awful person. Slowly, on the list, I began to put the truth. I am beautiful. I am
worth it. I burned the poem in a campfire. Every mean thing I had said to myself now
was nothing more than scribbles and ashes. Those words no longer exist. The words of
the people who supported me stayed. The courage I had chosen everyday to keep
living continues to stand strong like a tree. My roots are strong.