Writing has always been my way to escape the harsh realities of the world I am living in. All of the horrific events of my past, all of the hardships I’ve been through, and all of the terrible things I have witnessed have all made their way to the paper in my journal. Sharing the events of my past, although encouraged by others, including condescending therapists and caring friends, has never been something that I was willing to do. I didn’t want people to know what I had been through or to judge me based on my past. I wanted to flee from that past life and to start a new one. I thought that I could somehow obliterate those events from my memory, and I could become a new and better person. However, I recently found out that this just could not work. Every day I am constantly reminded of my past.
I was with my best friend a couple of months ago, and we took one of our crazy treks around DC. The snow had just touched the ground, kids were laughing and playing in the street, and the sky was a clear blue; all signs of a good day. My friend was cracking one of his hilarious but inappropriate jokes that usually cause me to roll around on the floor from laughter. However, my thoughts were elsewhere and I didn’t laugh at all. Startled by my silence, he stopped, looked at me with great concern, and asked, “Is everything okay?” I had been holding so many emotions inside of me. I couldn’t even bring myself to tell my best friend! All I gave him was, “It’s fine,” and the rest of the trip was gruesomely awkward. Why couldn’t I just tell him that when we saw that little six-year-old boy crying all alone that I thought of me? It truly eats at me.
Until a few weeks ago, I wasn’t able to vent to anyone about things that I carried with me from my past. Instead, anger, fear, and worry were constant emotions of mine. Those emotions were pulling me down. Then one day, I was sitting alone in my room, tears running down my cheeks, pen in my hand, and notebook on my lap. As I was writing, I glanced out my window and noticed the snow on the ground, the kids playing, and the clear blue sky. I thought to myself, déjà vu. Then it hit me. I realized, right at that moment, that there was no possible way to have a bright and successful future with so many skeletons in my closet; it is simply impossible. So, I wiped my face, closed my notebook, put my pen in my desk and called my closest friend. He knows everything.
Martese Holmes is a rising junior at Cesar Chavez Public Charter School and lives in Washington, D.C.
