I was 18 when I tried alcohol for the first time. And when I raced a state trooper on the thruway with my little sister in the car. I was also 18 (or 19) when I was arrested on felony charges.
I know that you think I'm going to be disappointed when you make mistakes because of where I am in life, but you're seeing me as I am right now, after 33 years of life to live. I've had 33 years to make mistakes, and I can assure you that I have. The only reason that you're seeing me the way I am now is because of the lessons I learned from those mistakes. You can read a lot about my life in my blog, but this post is specifically for you.
I was raised in a very financially secure, Christian household, and my parents spent a lot of money sending me to a private Christian school 30 minutes from our house. My dad owned his own successful business, and my mom was the homemaker. My grandparents were very prominent figures in our local Christian community with a lot of influence over a lot of people. They also owned a successful business. There was a lot of pressure to be perfect, and that pressure started first at home. My mom struggled with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (although she denies it now,) and put the pressure on my sister and I to be perfect, as well. Ha.
As soon as I graduated high school, I moved out of my mom's house (my parents had divorced by then,) and I moved in with my cousin. The pressure to be the perfect daughter flew out the window as I drove down the highway.
Back then, I had an online diary I kept to journal my life, as well as to share it with friends. I received an anonymous, nasty comment on my diary, and I was convinced it was my ex boyfriend. I went straight to the police, filed a report, and they conducted an investigation. It turned out that nobody in his home had even logged on to the internet (it was dial up back then, kids,) when the comment was posted, so the police arrested me for filing a false police report, a felony. My ex (we called him Bell Pepper because...well...they're tiny) filed a restraining order against me, as well. If you ever see my mugshot, yes, I'm the asshole grinning.
All of this to say, shit happens. We all screw up. We all hold ourselves to ridiculous standards, and then we all let ourselves down when we can't meet those unrealistic goals. I have done some CRAZY things in my life, but I was still able to make it to where I am right now in life, dressing up like a responsible adult. I'm in a great marriage, despite my self-sabotaging past. I went to college (for a little while, before I was booted for failing Statistics twice in a row.) I lived my high school dream of being a photographer. I'm living my lifelong dreams of being a writer, and a mom. Screwing up doesn't mean your future is worthless. (Holy shitballs, Batman, I should listen to my own advice!) EVERYBODY does stupid stuff, which is why politicians keep getting caught with their pants down. See? Even big, powerful politicians screw up, and look where they are!
You know, even if I came to you with no mistakes under my buckle, you making a mistake wouldn't make me love you any less. There will be times when I disappoint you, and there will be times when you disappoint me, but the love is always unconditional. We're family, kid, and there's just no getting rid of me. ;)
#YouAreWorthy
Friday, September 21, 2018
The Time My Boyfriend Was A School Shooter
I have graduated from being an obsessive TV watcher to an avid streamer, meaning I’d much rather watch YouTube videos or movies on demand than watch regular TV programming. I’m just selfish that way. In my YouTube journey today, I stumbled across a story about the Columbine shooting; I think it was the first real interview with Dylan Klebold’s mom, Klebold being one of the perpetrators of the Columbine shooting. She had a real understanding of where she was forced to stand, and I was very impressed with the emotional journey she must have gone on to get to that point. But anyway, she mentioned that there are now guidelines for assessing threats like this, and how many school shootings were stopped. Then they interviewed a man who was one of those stopped from killing people as a teenager, and how grateful he is that he was stopped. He is now a happily married father.
But nobody talked about my interactions with a potential school shooter. His plans were thwarted, but the school refused to call the police because, “We’re Christians, and we’re not that kind of people.” They WERE the kind of people, however, who allowed me to be publicly shamed when he stood in front of our class with some bullshit, half-assed apology, and he looked me right in the face when he said, “My TRUE friends know I would never do anything like that.” I was already suffering from physical symptoms of PTSD, and nobody in that school cared how I was. All they could talk about was “making sure he gets counseling, so he gets better.” What about ME?? WHY WEREN’T THEY CONCERNED WITH THE HEALING OF THE VICTIM??
I have tears streaming down my face as I write this. The incident triggered something in my head, and I was basically in a state of psychosis for months. I couldn’t see it at the time; I thought I was just being a “fun, crazy teenager!” But I was making really stupid, reckless decisions that would negatively affect me for a long, long time. I spiraled downwards so far, so quickly, that my family was stunned. Here was their sweet little girl, the girl who loved volunteering at nursing homes, who genuinely loved to help anyone in need, and she was going to bars by herself, getting into trouble, and getting arrested. It was a sharp 180-degree turn that happened in an instant. I was broken, and I couldn’t even tell.
Skip forward many years, and I can think about him and what happened without feeling the anger, the breath leaving my lungs, without my mind racing in fear. Until today. As I thought about my own experience, I wondered if he would do an interview with me. I wondered what we would say, I wondered if he would be angry and defensive, I wondered if he would apologize, I wondered how I would feel and react. I wondered if I Skyped with him, would I be able to feel that deep, black energy I felt on that day in high school? Had he truly changed? Would I be able to feel the change in his energy? The thought of speaking with him, however, threw me into a PTSD attack like I haven’t had in 15 years. I thought I was healed, but I’m not; I’ve just been burying my head in the sand, and pretending it never happened. I think what terrifies me the most about it all is NOT feeling that change within him, and being face to face with the same thing that destroyed me.
He was my ex-boyfriend. He took me to our Jr/Sr Banquet our junior year of high school, and that’s pretty much how the relationship started. He was so very sweet to me, and would write beautiful poems about how he was feeling. While we were together, however, he was really struggling with depression. I would spend hours on the phone with him after school, desperately trying to talk him out of committing suicide. There was a period in there where I think it was every day, or a few times a week, at least. I started to get sick of his constant need of reassurance because it wasn’t just reassurance he needed, he needed someone to argue with him every single day, and it was draining the life out of me. Most of what happened next remains a blur to me, as does most of my senior year. It was emotionally traumatizing, and my brain has blocked out quite a bit. I know that rather than making the decent, human decision, I decided to pursue something with someone else I had met recently, and the new guy ended up being my first kiss. I cheated on him. It broke him. I can remember looking at him after the breakup, and seeing a fractured version of the person I knew. I felt so guilty. It ate at my heart, and I tried to “make it better” with him, but that was impossible. I’d taken care of that relationship all on my own.
One morning in January 2002, my best friend came into school as usual, and she rushed over to chit chat, like we always did. She told me that my ex had been talking about doing a school shooting, and that he had written down a map of what he wanted to happen. There were several scenarios told by several different people because he hadn’t kept his thoughts private. Enough people heard, reported it, and then told me about it. One scenario was that he was going to kill me, and then kill himself. Another scenario was he wanted to torture a couple of other students, and possibly kill them, as well. He wanted me there to watch, regardless of which plan he chose. He also wanted to torture and kill other students in front of me, give me his college money, and then kill himself. I walked past him in the hallway after he’d been spoken to by the principal, and his eyes were completely black. He looked at me with pure hatred in his eyes, and it was terrifying.
He denied that I was a part of any of his plans to school authorities. I had heard it from more than one person, though, and the people weren’t even friends with each other. I’d be interested to hear what he told them back then, and then what happened to him afterwards. But I’m also afraid to hear his version of the events, as re-living my own version is painful enough.
I can remember sitting down with my grandparents to discuss my anger. I said something like, “I don’t want him to get help.” My grandma paused, and then asked, “Don’t you want him to get better?” “No.” “….why?” “Because he doesn’t deserve to get better.”
Now, as someone who understands the mental health issues I struggle with, and how hard it is to come out of dark periods in your life, I can’t imagine ever feeling that way about someone. I would never wish a lifetime of suicidal depression and debilitating anxiety on anyone. But back then, I felt it deep in my soul that I didn’t want him to get better. I wanted him to just be called a bad person, locked up, humiliated and hurt publicly like he had done to me.
In theory, keeping the incident private was advantageous to him; it was never put on his record, meaning he could walk away from everything, forget it, and nobody would know the wiser. Shortly after graduation, he enlisted in the military. Considering there's a screening process to be accepted into the United States military, I'm willing to bet they would have liked to know his past mental health issues, which include real threats of terrorism in a high school.
I hope he’s ok now. I really do. We both did some serious damage to each other, and we just left it that way, as if it would go away on its own. I don’t know if he ever thinks about what happened back then, but I do on occasion. I try to remember things about my senior year that I haven’t been able to, and it always reminds me why I’m not able to do that. I lost my very best friend in the world because of the downward spiral it had thrown me on, too. It was like I had done a complete turnaround personality-wise, and started doing stupid, selfish things. I say all of that because I can’t remember the argument that took our friendship down. I can’t remember anything fun we did that year. I have a few little random memories throughout that school year, but most of the important stuff is gone.
I didn’t think I’d ever share this story publicly, as I don’t want to hurt him all over again. But, this is MY story, therefore, I have the right to tell it. I can already feel a weight being lifted off of my soul with this little purge of emotion.
But nobody talked about my interactions with a potential school shooter. His plans were thwarted, but the school refused to call the police because, “We’re Christians, and we’re not that kind of people.” They WERE the kind of people, however, who allowed me to be publicly shamed when he stood in front of our class with some bullshit, half-assed apology, and he looked me right in the face when he said, “My TRUE friends know I would never do anything like that.” I was already suffering from physical symptoms of PTSD, and nobody in that school cared how I was. All they could talk about was “making sure he gets counseling, so he gets better.” What about ME?? WHY WEREN’T THEY CONCERNED WITH THE HEALING OF THE VICTIM??
I have tears streaming down my face as I write this. The incident triggered something in my head, and I was basically in a state of psychosis for months. I couldn’t see it at the time; I thought I was just being a “fun, crazy teenager!” But I was making really stupid, reckless decisions that would negatively affect me for a long, long time. I spiraled downwards so far, so quickly, that my family was stunned. Here was their sweet little girl, the girl who loved volunteering at nursing homes, who genuinely loved to help anyone in need, and she was going to bars by herself, getting into trouble, and getting arrested. It was a sharp 180-degree turn that happened in an instant. I was broken, and I couldn’t even tell.
Skip forward many years, and I can think about him and what happened without feeling the anger, the breath leaving my lungs, without my mind racing in fear. Until today. As I thought about my own experience, I wondered if he would do an interview with me. I wondered what we would say, I wondered if he would be angry and defensive, I wondered if he would apologize, I wondered how I would feel and react. I wondered if I Skyped with him, would I be able to feel that deep, black energy I felt on that day in high school? Had he truly changed? Would I be able to feel the change in his energy? The thought of speaking with him, however, threw me into a PTSD attack like I haven’t had in 15 years. I thought I was healed, but I’m not; I’ve just been burying my head in the sand, and pretending it never happened. I think what terrifies me the most about it all is NOT feeling that change within him, and being face to face with the same thing that destroyed me.
He was my ex-boyfriend. He took me to our Jr/Sr Banquet our junior year of high school, and that’s pretty much how the relationship started. He was so very sweet to me, and would write beautiful poems about how he was feeling. While we were together, however, he was really struggling with depression. I would spend hours on the phone with him after school, desperately trying to talk him out of committing suicide. There was a period in there where I think it was every day, or a few times a week, at least. I started to get sick of his constant need of reassurance because it wasn’t just reassurance he needed, he needed someone to argue with him every single day, and it was draining the life out of me. Most of what happened next remains a blur to me, as does most of my senior year. It was emotionally traumatizing, and my brain has blocked out quite a bit. I know that rather than making the decent, human decision, I decided to pursue something with someone else I had met recently, and the new guy ended up being my first kiss. I cheated on him. It broke him. I can remember looking at him after the breakup, and seeing a fractured version of the person I knew. I felt so guilty. It ate at my heart, and I tried to “make it better” with him, but that was impossible. I’d taken care of that relationship all on my own.
One morning in January 2002, my best friend came into school as usual, and she rushed over to chit chat, like we always did. She told me that my ex had been talking about doing a school shooting, and that he had written down a map of what he wanted to happen. There were several scenarios told by several different people because he hadn’t kept his thoughts private. Enough people heard, reported it, and then told me about it. One scenario was that he was going to kill me, and then kill himself. Another scenario was he wanted to torture a couple of other students, and possibly kill them, as well. He wanted me there to watch, regardless of which plan he chose. He also wanted to torture and kill other students in front of me, give me his college money, and then kill himself. I walked past him in the hallway after he’d been spoken to by the principal, and his eyes were completely black. He looked at me with pure hatred in his eyes, and it was terrifying.
He denied that I was a part of any of his plans to school authorities. I had heard it from more than one person, though, and the people weren’t even friends with each other. I’d be interested to hear what he told them back then, and then what happened to him afterwards. But I’m also afraid to hear his version of the events, as re-living my own version is painful enough.
I can remember sitting down with my grandparents to discuss my anger. I said something like, “I don’t want him to get help.” My grandma paused, and then asked, “Don’t you want him to get better?” “No.” “….why?” “Because he doesn’t deserve to get better.”
Now, as someone who understands the mental health issues I struggle with, and how hard it is to come out of dark periods in your life, I can’t imagine ever feeling that way about someone. I would never wish a lifetime of suicidal depression and debilitating anxiety on anyone. But back then, I felt it deep in my soul that I didn’t want him to get better. I wanted him to just be called a bad person, locked up, humiliated and hurt publicly like he had done to me.
In theory, keeping the incident private was advantageous to him; it was never put on his record, meaning he could walk away from everything, forget it, and nobody would know the wiser. Shortly after graduation, he enlisted in the military. Considering there's a screening process to be accepted into the United States military, I'm willing to bet they would have liked to know his past mental health issues, which include real threats of terrorism in a high school.
I hope he’s ok now. I really do. We both did some serious damage to each other, and we just left it that way, as if it would go away on its own. I don’t know if he ever thinks about what happened back then, but I do on occasion. I try to remember things about my senior year that I haven’t been able to, and it always reminds me why I’m not able to do that. I lost my very best friend in the world because of the downward spiral it had thrown me on, too. It was like I had done a complete turnaround personality-wise, and started doing stupid, selfish things. I say all of that because I can’t remember the argument that took our friendship down. I can’t remember anything fun we did that year. I have a few little random memories throughout that school year, but most of the important stuff is gone.
I didn’t think I’d ever share this story publicly, as I don’t want to hurt him all over again. But, this is MY story, therefore, I have the right to tell it. I can already feel a weight being lifted off of my soul with this little purge of emotion.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)