*Disclaimer: Content warnings for mentions of sexual assault, eating disorders, attempted murder, and abuse.
When I was younger, a family member very close to me always told me, “Don’t cry. They won’t like that, and they’ll be mad at you.” There was no wiping my tears; there was no comfort. Just the cold consolation of reality—the reality that people will not be satisfied. They won’t be okay with tears, a lack of emotions, a ton of effort, or even a lack of effort.
So when I was little, I held my emotions tight. My emotions hurt other people, so why share them? I could use anything else as an outlet. But I could never cry. When the people around me hurt me, I stayed silent. My hurt and my bleeding were said to be the same as everyone else. If anything, some people had it worse than me.
I was sexually assaulted by another kid in kindergarten. I stayed quiet and kept that with me until high school. I don’t think he knew, and neither did I. I’ve forgiven it as much as someone who didn’t know better back then could.
I also lived in Chicago for a long time, changing schools (due to a bully choking me out in elementary school), until I moved to Texas when I was seven. We moved back after a year with a new brother, and I stayed in Chicago for a little longer. Then, during the middle of 5th grade, I moved to Bolingbrook to live with my grandma.
It was a rough transition. I was a chubby kid back in Chicago, and I didn’t understand a lot of basic hygiene on account of being a child in a lower-income family of seven. My hair was tangled and knotted, and I used to speak an unintelligible mix of Spanish and English at school whenever I got nervous. Most kids didn’t understand me.
Middle school was just as bad. I stayed in Bolingbrook for 6th grade, then moved to Palatine for 7th and 8th. Like with every school change, I found myself needing to fit in again. I developed an eating disorder around this time, between boys pretending to ask me out for a laugh and the lack of food and resources.
Differences do matter. People will say that we’re all human. We all bleed the same. But do we get hurt the same way before we bleed? My pain leading up to it wasn’t a tiny paper cut. It was a big, aching gash. There are so many instances of pain that my head blocks them all out. I still haven’t fully processed it all, and I haven’t shared it all here either.
I grew up as the weird kid who always moved away. I never made friends because I was too fat, too weird, too quiet, too messy and dirty, and too loud. I tried to force myself to fit, like an odd, defective puzzle piece that can complete the puzzle but doesn’t fit anyway.
Not to say I fit in now. There have been instances where I’ve messed up social interactions, where I have lost a friend, or where people stared at me for doing something weird. But the difference now is that I am authentically myself.
Being yourself is scary. It hurts more than a persona because unkind actions and words don’t hurt an act. However, being yourself, crying, and opening up leads to many opportunities. It leads to friendships that last even after your best friend (the only person who you could consider a best friend) moves hours away to another state.
I can’t live up to every expectation. Sometimes I’ll fall. And sometimes the little girl who scraped her knees and struggled to get back up with her tiny bootstraps will stay down.
But she’ll get back up and keep going like she always does.
Hello, I'm Gianna! This is my second year on staff, now as a senior in high school. I'm the head of the News and Artwork sections. I'm currently in Color Guard, B.I.O.N.I.C, NAHS, NEHS, Quill & Scroll Honors Society, and Senior Class Council!
