Found this on my computer – My Essay on how I feel, bullying from High School
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NB: I wrote this in high school and I can’t remember how old I was, I think 17. Somehow its floated down my computers. So I thought I would put it here. (Edit: It was written 2006) the same year I left school.. the same year my friend died.
All I wanted to do at the time I wrote this was be heard… for someone to help. No one ever did at school. I was sexually assaulted at school and forced to goto class with that person.
I was bullied by the teachers… this teacher of my english class at this time especially and other students.
In high school I was not allowed to write. So… every chance I got I liked it. I believe the task may have been to write about your safe place, and to me one of those throughout high school was the train home. The english teacher failed me on this and said it was to dramatic or over the top? Something like that I remember how upset I was. Maybe thats why I saved it.
Please do post your thoughts on this as it would mean much to me.
Everyone’s own safe Haven
I sit on the train as the rain pours. I watch as people go through the doors, each stop slowly comes and goes and it is as if time is slow. Others from my school are scattered about the carriage. A normal day like always. Of course it wasn’t long for me to face the tormentors, the creatures dehumanised to every last bone, the creatures from my school. They pass comments judge and are cruel. To escape THEM is like entering heaven, an event of joy with eternal sorrow.
You see, I am not a drone like THEM, I do not conform; do not follow the same rules, the boundaries that hold THEM back. I guess in a way I aged to fast, saw reality before my time, let my eyes loose their innocence… or maybe never had it.
Though I found a place I can call home; at least I believe this true, a place to think, ponder and live, and a place away from THEM, the dark creatures consumed by hate, consumed by the common judgmental ways.
Everyday around THEM, it’s the same, time passes and before you know it, it’s gone. Though this place, my home I found, time seems to almost slow sometimes even stops, as if the wind has ceased to blow, the wind always did seem like time, the days its calm it seems forever and when its enraged it flies like a plane passing speeds beyond human limits, this place, my home I found though, always seems calm. I guess so relaxing it heals me. To a point where time just maybe non existent.
For years, people have found such places, places they can call their homes, escapes from the chaotic reality. For some these places can be pleasant, for others sometimes fields of war, where thinking can either be important or the process of thought speed up. Where this place is depends on the person, there are many and countless possibilities, though with mine it technically doesn’t exist at all yet most pass through it everyday.
Though mine is very rare, mine is both a battle field and a haven, a place of safety and yet war. Mine is a place where power isn’t everything and knowledge can play a part once more in the existence of life and reality, at least within this world.
It’s amazing though that this place of mine is seen by others as a hell and not a haven, though then again I see theirs the same way. Maybe the human mind is truly lost and communication lacking to such a point that getting along with each other and seeing each others point of views is merely idealism and truly impossible.
I think everyone has a haven, and everyone’s is different, though the conformist of the world would like to believe it’s the same, deep down I believe even they know everyone is a different person, that no two people are the same. At least deep down I hope they realise that and I wish for THEM to know that truth, so they do not go through their whole lives as if they were a drone…. Do not go through their lives uncertain about themselves.
Having thought and pondered, wished upon these thoughts. My train has finally reached my stop. I guess today is one of joyful sorrow, I am glad I evaded THEM this day. Perhaps tomorrow will be the same; I hope it will be anyway. I pick up my bag, and out the doors into the rain, I don’t even bother running. Being different can be best anyway.
About The Author
Matty is a 36 year old girl who is an Autistic Poet, Writer and Artist and lives alone in Christchurch New Zealand with a kitty! Matty has given many talks on autism and about being unique in a world that's often not accepting, Matty has also engaged with artist and worked on Art projects Matty usually works on an Art project at the same time as a writing one! This means posts can be a bit delayed!
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That was very well written I can’t believe the teacher failed you, not all but most at the age you where are not able to put two thoughts together let alone two words. Its not a happy story but one I can at least relate to, and it deserves much praise
Oh Matty,,,,even at 17 you had such a wonderful gift. Your writings always move me deeply and this one is no exception. Try to forget about the teacher that failed you — I have no idea why! Perhaps one day, he will be browsing at a bookstore and see a book by you. It wouldn’t surprise me…you have amazing talent and I hope you never stop sharing it with the world! 🙂 HUGS!!!!