She is an absolutely lovely woman, and I take great pains to tell her to please send my best wishes to her parents. So, here now, the photos Jonathan and Jay were nice enough to take of the big on-stage reunion…. But let me say this about Roland Young. He was a math teacher and soccer coach, and singularly gifted at both. He taught at Deerfield for 35 years, retiring to the Cape in He was one of those soft-spoken guys who never needed to raise his voice because it was so clear and focused.
I was the athletic trainer for the varsity soccer team my last two years, and I was forever stunned by the ease and succinctness with which he communicated with his players. And forever stunned by the way he communicated with me. Roland Young not only put up with me, he was always kind of charmed by me.
I have no earthly idea why. When we met, I was a lb wiseass, unsoftspoken, unhumble Jew, and when I left Deerfield for Cambridge four years later, I weighed We reminisced about as many people as we could with a fidgetty 9-year-old on stage who was suddenly tired of show business. And we have followed your career with great joy. I believe that people are put in your life for a reason and they show up when you need them most.
My alarm wakes me up with a jolt. The rain is gone, but the dark cloud still hangs above me, the bright colors replaced with the grey monotone of the world around me. I keep my head high and go through the motions. Every day is the same. Looking around I see my friends laughing and smiling like they always do, but their smiles no longer radiate bright blue. My dad calls it the black dog.
The black dog visits me often. Most of the time she lays on my bed at night or follows me around to class. As the sky grows darker and the air becomes crisper, her leash seems to tighten around my wrist, lightly rubbing a mark into my skin. Yet still, I plaster a smile onto my face.
I reach over for my phone on my bedside table and text my friend to see how she is. A feeling of relief washes over me but is soon replaced with an anxious feeling from an unidentifiable source. I feel my black dog tugging at her leash, begging for attention.
It takes every bit of strength left in my body to drag myself out of bed. My eyelids feel as though they have weights on them, making it impossible to keep them open. In an attempt to wake up, I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. For a second I am splashing in the puddles again with my sister and dancing in a kaleidoscope of colors.
I smile. I open my eyes and look in the mirror only to see that the bags under my eyes have become darker and my olive skin has grown paler.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly make my way back to my room to get changed. I apply a light tone of concealer under my eyes, masking the dark blue and grey color that seems to kiss me every morning and wrap a few bracelets around my wrist to hide the marks. I pack up my bag and turn off the lights, locking all of my secrets behind the door. As I make my way down the stairs my friends are waiting for me.
When we step outside, the sun is shining, but the chilled wind sends a shiver down my spine. Their voices are clear but my head is someplace else, making my thoughts blurry.
As they rant about a quiz they bombed and how they got into a fight with a friend from home, I listen. Just as I expected my words are stolen by the wind and carried away. These words resonate through my head. Their faces are puzzled, but with a shrug of their shoulders, they continue on with their conversation. Running into my room I slam the door and throw my backpack on the ground. It feels as though I have been punched in the gut over and over again.
My heavy breaths are uncontrollable, causing my burning eyes to water. Salty tears rush down my face onto my dry, pale lips. What is wrong with me. All I see is black as my mascara smudges under my eyes.
I look closer. The yellow sunflower that was once present in my hazel eyes has wilted to a muted grey. I untie my shoes and climb into my bed, holding the weight of the world on my shoulders. My black dog jumps up and snuggles into the curves of my back.
I close my eyes and shut out my fear, my life, and everything around me, just as my friend had done the night before. I understand. When the weekend finally comes, I set my alarm for am, pack my lacrosse bag, and run outside to meet my Dad.
His bright smile is contagious and for a moment I see a glimpse of bright blue but it quickly fades. Driving through an old town in Boston, he begins to look at me with worried eyes. Before I can say anything, he pulls the car over and parks alongside a coffee house. Reaching for my hand, he asks me to take a walk. As we make our way down the sidewalk, the sun is just starting to set, causing the old buildings to cast lengthy shadows onto the street. Nerves race through my body and it takes every bit of strength in my body to speak.
His grip on my hand tightens softly. As the buildings ahead of us grow closer and their shadows become taller, he leads me across the street. I look up at him confused at first, but as soon as I see him smile at me, I know he understands. The sun peeks out from the tip of the church and lightly kisses my cheeks.
I can see in color again. Yellow and orange jump from rooftop to rooftop, purple and magenta flow up to the sky like small bubbles as the dogs sing to each other from across the street.
I know that I am stronger now. I know that as my younger sister grows up, I will be there for her, reminding her that although some days it may rain, she should never forget that the vibrant yellow color of her duck raincoat will always be there, she just has to look at the world through her kaleidoscope.
Playing in my room pink tutu, purple leotard, and crowned with a large tiara. Whenever he hears my parents starting to yell at eachother, he rushes to my room. We are professionals, we know that they are just yelling because they want to prove who loves the other more. They are very competitive people.
When the fighting grows too loud, my brother recommends taking the game out to the pond. I just never understood why my mum would cry, and my dad would walk away, and there was a never a winner. Ignorance is not a quality I admire, but the age of innocence is a time I will always cherish.
A time where I could outrun my deepest demons by imagining my life in storybook form. It has been years since my parents gave up on their competition, since I moved out of the house on Greenley Road, and it has taken these years for me to grow out of my tutu, to realize playing make believe is not the answer to my problems.
I have learned the importance of being present, of facing my hardships head on. There have been, and there will be, many beautiful moments in my life, and in the not so beautiful moments, in the bad moments, I have realized, these are the times I learn, the times I grow, the times I become who I am. There are approximately 9 minutes left in study hall. I figure that is enough to start a submission.
Yet truthfully, I have no idea where to start. How do you pinpoint where you lost yourself? An educated estimate would be sixth grade. I had just transitioned to a small private school. As the winter term rolled in, I lost the enjoyment in my once well-loved pastimes. The best part of my day was arriving home to a silent space and scrolling through playlists of sad songs, depressing quotes and watching tragic real-life stories on youtube.
It became my daily routine. Barely anyone at school noticed, I tried my best to not let anyone worry. One night, I turned to self-harm. I decided it was time to reach out for help. Personally, this teacher has never taught me, but I had heard countless good reviews. I worked up the courage to tell him. To my surprise he answered, "You may be feeling really sad, but you are not depressed. I see your smiling face all the time.
He was reinforcing the idea that depressed people do not seem depressed through physical appearance. I felt overlooked. He could not read my heart or my eyes from the distance between us.
I wish I could outline how or why I got over my depression. It simply slipped away after the conversation with what I thought to be a trusted adult. I thought I was okay. I thought I could survive anything after that. In eighth grade I battled a new war against myself: anxiety. Tests were the worst. I worked myself up until I choked with every breath of air.
I got through eighth grade purely on a major case of senioritis after being accepted to Deerfield. My first fall here at the academy was wonderful. I had a great group of friends, loved my classes and was taking full advantage of being a day student yet living on campus. Things starting taking a turn for the worst during winter break. I felt stuck as all my best friends traveled home and to exotic places.
A void opened up without the constant laughter I experienced with my friends. I woke up late and went to bed late. I started pulling at the skin covering my hands, arms, stomach and legs. Endlessly discontent with their every aspect. I felt disconnected from my body and I tried not to notice it anymore in fear that I would shut down. According to my therapist, my anxiety has taken on a new dimension.
It feels intangible. There is no explanation to why I stay home for Sunday brunches, what previously was the highlight of my week. I know better now, I know more. I am trying my best to recover. But it is hard and has become a part of me.
Letting go has never been my strong suit. And let it be known that this is the first time I believe it. I grew up believing my parents were the most amazing humans on earth. I thought he was perfect in every way. With the drunken slip of one of his old friends, my sheer trust and belief in him crumbled. I realized he was only a human and he has made rather big mistakes. This realization was overwhelming. I ran off to the bathroom with tears pouring down my face. I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed that I was crying and I was embarrassed that I had never been told the truth when everyone, including my siblings, had already known.
Most of all, I felt betrayed. I slipped off to the bathroom to get away from the laughter and the music. It was at that point that I felt compelled to engage in self-harm. I returned to the party with a smile plastered onto my face and continued to socialize with the guests.
On the rare occasion that I do say something, the person is incredibly supportive and I usually end up feeling better. A fear that my father personified and made much worse during the days following the party.
I know that I should never self-harm] again to make myself stop crying because there is nothing wrong with crying in the first place. I felt a lump in my throat, as I dreadfully picked up my phone to call her.
She answered and I immediately bursted into tears. There I was, sitting right outside of the Greer on a Friday night, bawling my eyes out as people walked by and stared. Deerfield can be a lonely place, but I had never felt it quite like this.
Being away from home when a tragedy occurs, not being able to hug your crying mother, having to hear that kind of news over the phone; this was the cherry on top of my already gloomy winter. I felt helpless, and deeply saddened by the loss of my grandfather. That same night, sitting in my bed, listening to sad music, I began to reflect on my relationship with my grandpa. I felt ashamed. So I began to write:. Although devastating, this whole situation has really taught me a lot about myself, and the guilt and love I feel towards my grandpa.
I allowed myself to be vulnerable and emotional, whether it was in my room alone, or on the ice after my hockey game the next day, as I saw my mom cry for one of the first times in my life.
I am not alone. She knew exactly how to do it, slipping in a mean insult just at the right time, adding a cute giggle to the end of it that just begged others to join in and laugh along. I was used to living in her shadow, to be honest I mostly liked it. It was comfortable, no one expected much from me.
Her shadow was like a nice big safety blanket that protected me from mattering to much to our group of friends. What came to be clear though was that nothing I ever accomplished was ever worthy enough for her and soon when I was left alone at night with time to think nothing was ever worthy enough for me either.
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