Draft— My Story

[0] Alias.

My name is Macy. At the time, I hated that name. I didn’t know who I was, but I’m still ashamed of my identity, and afraid of my own feelings and actions. I went by other names, but not in a realistic sense. In my mind, I was somebody else. Whether I was Macy, or “Kyusai De,” I was still just a pitiful coward.
I was thirteen. Thinking I had all the power in the world, I did whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. To me, a punishment or two from not doing chores was easy to handle. I was rude, and selfish for a girl my age, or so I thought. I was going into the eighth grade now, returning to a freshly built school that had been finished during my second semester of seventh grade. When that second semester came around, I was at my lowest. I was worse than a bully, and acted like a monster. Treating my only friends like they were nothing was amusing. Entertaining it was to me, to watch and destroy every single relationship. Exciting it was, to hurt myself and others mentally and physically. Pulling all-nighters and pill popping became my normality. Reaching for every high like it would be my very last.
If I must confess, I suppose will. I was a shameful self harmer. I thought that punishing myself would ease the emotional pain inside me, but it really didn’t. I tried to take the anger out on myself, because I knew I was an out of control mess, who couldn’t even handle keeping a few friendships without ruining them for fun. I would mostly slit across my thighs, letting the blood trickle down my legs, and if I cut deep enough, it’d form a small puddle of hatred at my feet. It made me so crazy that I could almost sense lust just from the blade piercing my skin. When no one was around, I’d laugh hysterically, sometimes bringing me into tears of bitter shame. My heart was numb as I did this, and usually let my ill mind take control.
I was a bipolar mess. One minute I was crying about something ridiculous, the next I was angry and throwing my things against the wall. On my own, I was growing more violent towards society, and I became dangerous. The school noticed, and pronounced me as a “special case.” They were all scared of me in some sense, but were more concerned for the safety of others. When they attempted to provide aid for me, they were led to a disappointing failure. They let me do as I please, even if it meant skipping out on assignments. I didn’t understand why, but if anything, they were hoping I’d clean up my act and focus on that more.
I wasn’t always this broken and absurd. In the first semester of seventh grade, I was a really happy kid. I swung on the swing sets before school and during my lunchtime. I sold candy bars for my school’s fundraiser and played saxophone in the school’s non-varsity concert band. Playing and making music with my peers was always enjoyable. I’ve always had a love for the way chords sounded and the way the melodies and harmonies tied with the basslines. I would think my life was one of those happy little tunes you heard on the radio too often. It was nice to have me around, but I was clingy and obsessive with my friends which can get annoying after a while.
Over the summer between sixth and seventh grade, I spent all my time playing games. I was close friends with a guy my age that I had met online. He went by the tag “gamerkid1.” We played games together daily on various Minecraft servers. It was our favorite thing to do. We’d escape from reality’s stress, and win every game we played. He was the only person I really opened up to. I would hide most my problems away from my mother because I was afraid to upset her, and being shamed for mistakes I made. Gamer listened to me. He was friendly, and let me talk about whatever was on my mind. Being the dominant of a conversation wasn’t new to me, but with him, I truly felt confident in what I had to say. We didn’t know much about each other personally, such as our names and locations, but in some ways, it was comforting. I didn’t know what he looked like, and he hadn’t seen my face either. We didn’t talk about our appearances that much at first. Sometimes I would tease him to do a face reveal, after he saw my face in a social media post.
Not only did Gamer love games like me, he had a passion and talent for art as well. When we discovered more and more of our interests, we grew closer. We started to talk more through Google Hangouts, and eventually, we called each other on weekends too. It felt like he was the first person to truly admire who I was as a person, rather than just sticking around and having pity for me.
My feelings for him became deeper than a friendship, and one day, I revealed my heart to him. As the caring person he was, he accepted me, and the feelings were mutual. I later found out that he was actually a she. This didn’t make me stop loving her, of course. I comforted her confession by reminding her that I was bisexual, and that I didn’t mind her being a girl. My love was for who she was and not her identity nor appearance. As time passed, I did get to see her pretty face, and I learned her name as well. It was Chelsea.
The summer before eighth grade was very different compared to the last one. Me and Chelsea continued to play and chat all day everyday, which we agreed would never change. On one strange, life changing day, we came across several players, who were very peculiar. They were all equipped with similar themed skins, and it seemed they had been following a leader of some sort. As I was typing to ask what was going on, there was a message from a player under the tag, “Biscuitscuit.” The message was an advertisement for his YouTube channel, and to watch his current stream. Me and Chelsea weren’t sure what to think of it at first.

・・・

When the first day of eighth grade came, I was terrified. I had changed myself over the summer. I broke through my addictions by playing games, and I learned from Chelsea to be a truer friend. I walked through the doors with her on my mind. It felt a little strange to be somewhere at eight in the morning that wasn’t on the computer with my game tabs open. I searched and waited for my friends to enter the cafeteria where we would sit before class. When I spotted them, I rushed toward them with a smile on my face, excited for this reunion. My heart pounded through my chest in that brief moment, running with pure emotion. For the first time in a year or so, I felt free. I was breaking through last year’s pain with every step I took.
I’ve never been able to run fast, unless I was full of heavy emotions. In seventh grade, I took physical education for the very last time. I’m an overweight girl, and my gym uniform was always skin tight on me which was humiliating. I stopped wearing it since it was too revealing to the hideous scars on my legs. I told my coach the reasons I had, and she was fine with it. My little dependent friend, Kaia, stopped wearing hers too, and made excuses. When we got a new gym coach, she didn’t really care too much what we did. As a class, we became less intrigued during PE, and soon all of us disregarded our uniforms completely. The new coach never made us run but I did. I would go as fast as I could until I crashed. Sure, I got strange looks for being a rather large kid, running with a pathetic form. Running gave a chance for my heart to scream, and on occasion it’d mix with adrenaline and fear. I was scared for what was going to happen to me, and even more afraid of having a repercussion.
My friends seemed happy to see me. I was completely disconnected from them over the summer months, but it felt like I had never gone away. They talked about the things they did and the places they went, all the things I had missed. I was finally asked a question and I found it hard to answer, let alone speak about myself. I had been so focused on ignoring my feelings and prioritizing the internet more than anything. I hadn’t prepared for this.
“What did you do over the summer, Macy?” asked Kaia and Dezi.
All eyes were on me now. There was a feeling that sank in my heart, wanting to rant about all the games I played with Chelsea, but I knew they wouldn’t understand it. For once, it was my heart begging to speak, not my mind.
I responded with a “Nothing much,” as a pathetic way to dismiss the question. They turned towards each other again and continued to ramble without me. After that, I didn’t really know how to re-enter their conversation. Feeling disincluded, and a little embarrassed, I got up to use the bathroom. When I got into a stall, I hung my bag on the hook, and sat down on the toilet. I took deep breaths and closed my eyes. My thoughts began to flood in, now that I had a chance to listen to my feelings. The stall felt small, but not in a claustrophobic sense. I was alone in an inclosed area which felt more like a shelter. It felt safe.
In the bathroom, I could hear gossipy conversations from other girls. The awkward part, was emerging from the stall, washing my hands as if I had done my business, and exiting the restroom. There was tension that built up when the other girls saw me come out of the stall. They didn’t say anything, but their eyes were enough to show their bitter disgust for me. Most people did this to me and it was obvious why. The year prior to eighth grade had a big impact on my future in school, and how people would treat me.
The bell rang, and I dashed from the stall into the math and science wing. I took out my phone to pull up my schedule. Coincidentally, I had algebra first period. I made my way around the halls, gliding my hand against one of the classroom’s glass walls. When I got to my room, I saw my seventh grade pre-algebra teacher. She explained that she and Mrs. Koite, my assigned algebra teacher, would be combining classes this year. I looked passed her, and noticed the wall separating the two glass rooms had been removed. When she told me I could enter, I avoided the grouped tables, took my seat in one of the singular orange desks.
In my middle school, classrooms were often divided by glass walls that could easily be pushed or pulled to a new location. Each wall was made up of several panels. Some rooms would remove a wall completely, or just a few panels to provide a comfortable and inviting workspace. With all the glass, it gave me harsh anxiety. I could be sitting in one room and everyone in the rooms next to mine could peer in. About halfway through the year, they put whiteboards up on the glass to provide privacy. I figured I wasn’t the only one complaining about the exposure.
More students began to flood into the conjoined classroom. I recognized most of them. I took out a piece of paper, and began to write. Writing was one of my passions, and had been since sixth grade. It usually helped me to understand my own feelings. Emotions flew at me way too fast sometimes, and maybe it happened to everyone, but to me, it was the hardest thing to handle. I felt weak, so I forced myself to appear expressionless. If no one knew how I felt, no one could point me out on how I felt.
All of my classes that day were essentially the same. We’d sit down, talk, and watch a short video explaining something we already knew about. Before I knew it, the day was over, and we were dismissed to go home. When I got into the car, my sister, Abby, had somehow gotten there before me, and was waiting there with Mom. Unlike me, Mom was enthused and excited about the first day of school. I put a smile on my face, because I was excited to go home and play with Chelsea; it was all I thought about that day.
“So, how was it?!” Mom would ask.
“Great,” Abby and I said in unison. She immediately discussed everything that happened in chronological order, without skipping any details. Abby was just a year younger than me, and already, it sounded like her seventh grade year was going way better than it had for me.
“What about you, May? What’d you do today?” Mom curiously asked.
“Same as last year,” I sighed. “We watched videos, met the teachers, talked about the usual stuff… you know.” Mom nodded, and moved on.
Before we went home, Mom had taken us to McDonald’s. While we waited in line, I looked down at my phone. I was being blown up with notifications, but I decided to ignore them. Instead, I opened a chat and texted Chelsea about school. Since she seemed to have enjoyed listening to me, I told her everything. I said even the little things, like what was for lunch, and where I sat in the cafeteria.
Chelsea was in a private school, which meant there was a lot of contrast between our education systems. In a way, that kind of made it more fun to talk about. We always daydreamed about what it’d be like if she went to my school or if I went to hers. In our ideas, we were just two antisocial dorks who sat next to each other in every class. I’d also let her copy my homework, while I explained how the problems worked. Even though it was all in our imagination, it made me feel even more connected to her, despite the twenty hours of driving distance between us.

・・・

As Mom pulled into the driveway, I felt a strange feeling inside me. We’ve lived here for a few months now, and it still didn’t feel like home to me. I slept in my bed that I knew was my bed, but the room itself felt different from the old house.
At our old house, I had a large bump out window from the front of the house. I loved having such a massive view, considering how much I just love looking at the sky in general. On some nights, I could even see stars just from my bedroom, which fascinated me. Down the hall from my room was the bathroom, followed by my sister’s room. If it weren’t for the long, narrow bathroom, my bedroom would have shared walls with Abby’s room. To the right of my door, was the wrought iron spindle stair railing. It was a beautiful pattern. The black rods twisted around on each end and in the center was a twirly eye catching design. Beyond that, was the upstairs living space. In the gameroom, we had an old piano that was in a corner next to a small window. It sat right up against the wall next to the railing. As much as I had wanted to play back then, we never did. There was a chord I couldn’t find, and I just wasn’t sure how to tell Mom I wanted to learn.
I guess sixth grade must have been a big deal for me or something. I still look back at my grades and wonder how I had gotten all A’s and B’s that year. Maybe the classes just weren’t as hard at that school, I wasn’t sure. It had been the first year of middle school, so perhaps they still treated us as elementary students. I was always praised for how smart I was, but that was the year I discovered my inner voices. In my head I was immediately denying any compliment I ever received. At first, I thought it was normal to respond that way, so I didn’t think much of it. Little did I know, my voice alone would lead to such undesired events.

[1] Encounter.

During the summer of 2018, I was playing games with my girlfriend, Chelsea. I think our all time favorite game, despite how boring it could be, was murder mystery on a server that went by the name Skytonia. Skytonia wasn’t just any server you came across. Most of the players I met had come through a YouTuber and had hoped to play with him someday. When I was 12, playing with that famous YouTuber for one single game was the best thing ever. It was back in late 2017 when the server first became popular. There wasn’t a lot to do, but people still loved the little server nonetheless. Skytonia’s sponsors didn’t last long. It was lacking things that most people looked for in a server. I didn’t care, and nor did the genuine people who stayed.