Senior Column: Finding a home away from home

Editor’s Note: The following article includes references to murder, guns, suicide, death, and depression.

When I was a little girl, I struggled to get up in the morning for school. It was always something with me, whether I pretended to throw up or I miraculously gained a headache within 30 minutes of waking up. I was the queen of excuses… and then COVID hit. 

Being stuck in my room was the least of my worries; it only brought the love to stay in my room to be at an all-time high, as the world was fearing for what was to come of this virus. Eighth grade was my first full year back, and I used my mother’s fear of the virus as another way to gain sympathy for why I should stay home. So I did.

In late November, my life started to spiral, and in December, I was put into an Inpatient-Outpatient program at Linden Oaks for obvious depression and anxiety. I ended up missing the first four periods of my school day and would only go half-days until January, when I was eventually released through Zoom as the pandemic started getting worrisome there.

Then, my life was forever changed on Feb. 4, 2022. 

I woke up, went to school, and looked at the clock at 8:21. I don’t know why I memorized the time, but I did. The vibes of the day felt off. I didn’t know what was wrong. Maybe I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

I got off the bus, walked inside, and saw my mother at the top of the stairs, crying. I asked, “What happened?” and she started sobbing. My future brother-in-law and my sister were home; they were supposed to be at school. I wondered, What was going on?

“Something bad happened,” my mother said. I instantly thought of my father, who did not live with me. His birthday was just the day before. He was okay, right?

“Jeff,” my mom said, talking about her boyfriend, “was at work, and one of the residents came up and shot him twice in the head.” Jeff was practically my stepdad, a person who, yes, I was always frustrated with, but he loved and cared about my family and me.

For days after, it all felt like a dream. I was convinced he was pulling some dumb prank on us all, and when the funeral happened, I thought he might pop out and surprise us all.  But the day of the funeral came, and I walked into the room and saw an open casket, and there he was. It was no prank or surprise; he was lying there, lifeless. Eighth grade, after that, was no less than me not showing up to school.

So many people told me how strong I was to be going through this, but I didn’t feel strong: I’d never felt weaker. That spiraled the immense amount of school I would miss for the next five years, even continuing to my senior year. It was a struggle to get me to go a full week in high school; partially, I blame myself for what happened to me, because I let myself get this way.

Only going 50%-70% of school was my normal; everyone knew me for that, not showing up. Then, acting normal once I come back after three or four days. I failed my entire first semester of high school, with my only passing grade being an honors class because it was weighted. It was a major struggle for me to apply myself to do better when I was already so low.

In April 2023, I attempted to take my own life, and someone who I never thought would, called the police. I was on suicide watch until four AM, which eventually led me to once again staying home from school with a doctor’s note as a reason.

After freshman year, my attendance was at a standstill until junior year. I still missed yes, but I had a reason to come to school. That’s because junior year, I started to find a new place that I could call home.

It was 42Fifty, our journalism publication. I walked in on the first day and instantly fell in love with the class and how the teacher, Dr. Howerton, ran things.

Where do I begin with Doc Howie? She has been my rock; she didn’t even know it, but she saved my life with this publication. I had a purpose, something to strive for and be proud of. I was so proud of who I was becoming and publishing all of my work.

So, to you, Doc Howie, thank you for saving my life, thank you from the bottom of my heart for being my safe space for these past two years. Thank you for caring and loving every part of me, flaws and all. For always pushing me to do better, for motivating me to be the best version of me I can be. Finally, thank you for calming the storm that one day in your office, where you just sat and hugged me while I cried.

Thank you, 42Fifty, for being a light that I thought no longer existed in me. Thank you for bringing my drive to work back, and for the confidence I grew through working for this publication, which I know I will hold forever.

Thank you for the endless fun of being with my 42Fifty staff mates, where I would forget the sadness I felt. Thank you, 42Fifty, for being a new love in my life.

Things may not be easy. I still may miss school, but I have bounced back in ways I didn’t think I could before.

This is your Co-Managing and Head Social Media Editor, Sammie Davis, signing out, one final time.