An Almost That Could’ve Changed My Life

This is a true story — a story that I have held in for a while out of fear of being judged or ridiculed for my feelings. I am no longer hiding. I will not cower away from sharing my truth any longer. If I am to be ridiculed for how this situation affected me and my mental health, then so be it, but I have every right to share this story with everyone. I am ready to be open about something I have shoved behind closed doors for so long.

Out of respect for others, I will not be including any identifiable information. I will not put the name of the school, nor the perpetrator. Neither need to be known to understand the severity of this story and the perpetrator does not deserve any recognition.

— -

I was in high school, my senior year. And it was tarnished by a tragedy that was so close to happening, I swore I could feel it.

Throughout the country, school shootings have been occurring, and those innocent people are left to suffer beneath the rubble of what once was. They are made into nothing more than headlines on the television, and sweet, yet empty prayers from those on the internet. Those individuals are made to be nothing more than a news story, known for what they went through, but not for who they are.

I was almost one of these people. I was almost another statistic in the books of tragedy. I was almost another “She should have lived!” and “This shouldn’t be happening!” story played out on the news for all to see. I was almost another body in the ground. Grieving parents and friends, and yet I’d be nothing but a hot story on the news for a couple of days before the next upcoming event happened, and then I’d be forgotten like everyone else.

When I was in high school, I had a threat. A couple of them, actually. The first was bomb threat, which turned out to be a hoax; the individual who called it in only did it because he wanted to spend time with his girlfriend. What a drastic measure to take just to spend time with a girl you barely know. The second time was a shooting threat, which turned out to be real.

I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard those words, “There was a threat at your school. Some kid threatening to shoot the place up.” Excuse me? Come again?

The individual had gone to school with me previously, and I swear I remember seeing them in the hallways, though no particular memories come to mind. From what I have heard, they told their friend about their plan and that friend confided in an adult later on. This right here is what stopped the tragedy from happening.

I was terrified. We got a call on our answering machine that explained the situation, letting us know that everything was alright. Except, it wasn’t alright — our school was almost the next headline, and you’re going to sit there and tell me everything is alright? You’re out of your mind!

Then came the line that has stuck with me ever since: All students are required to attend school tomorrow. This was followed by something along the lines of Students who do not attend will be penalized. That part is fuzzy because I was in shock. Not only did our small-town school almost suffer a huge tragedy, now we will be penalized if we do not arrive? I was…devastated.

For weeks to follow, I was paranoid. I was scared of what was to come.

I remember sitting in my English class one day and where I usually sat, I was near the door, but my back was to it. Before this, that fact never bothered me. After this almost happened? It horrified me. Every time I heard that door creak open, I held my breath and, in my head, muttered, It’s happening. They’re coming after me. My heart would be racing and although I never did, I so badly wanted to squeeze my eyes shut and just wait for the BANG! But it never came. Not once. I spent the rest of the school year spinning around in my chair every time someone entered the room, making sure it wasn’t the threat that weighed heavily on my mind. I would be relieved every time to find out it was just a fellow student only to be on edge when the door opened once more.

I also remember going to the restroom one day. I had asked to be excused from class and was granted, so I left to take care of my business. As I walked down the hallway, I kept looking behind me. I would stop in the middle of the hallway just so I could turn around and look to be sure there was no one behind me or near me that could harm me. I walked down a hallway that was particularly echoey because of the brick walls surrounding it and as I made my way through, I heard footsteps. My breathing instantly got heavier, and tears sprung to my eyes. I kept my head down and tried to push through but stopped once I got to the end just to check. It was just someone walking to their locker. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, anxiety rising in my throat to the point I felt nauseous. Head down, I hurried to the bathroom where I sat in a stall, head in my hands, and cried silently. I managed to compose myself quickly and got myself back to class, following those same procedures.

Another time, I went to the bathroom during class and I had so much anxiety that I cried again. I had my cell phone with me and while I sat in the stall, I texted my mother. I told her how I was feeling, how anxious I was and how badly I wanted all of these feelings to go away; I wanted to curl up into myself and stay there. She did her best to comfort me, telling me she was right there for me, that she would have her phone near her at all times so if I needed to call or text her again. She would frequently check in with me, as did my brother and father when they had breaks during work, and I was so appreciative that they cared so much. That meant the world to me.

When someone came into the bathroom with me, I froze. I covered my mouth to stop any noise, feeling the tears run down my cheek softly. The footsteps seemed to echo off the walls, clicking against the tile floor as they walked past my stall. A small sense of relief washed over me, until I heard a noise. The first thought was: they have a bomb. I began to panic even more now, convinced that I was going to be at the heart of a different tragedy. After some more noise, I realized the person had been fiddling with their backpack and then was using the paper towel machine, which was a motion-activated roll. That was the noise I was hearing. The person left the bathroom, and I was left behind, terrified and crying to myself. I was a nervous wreck. I hurried and calmed myself down, splashing water on my face to cover the splotchiness of my features and my puffy red eyes. I resumed class, trying to pretend that I didn’t just have a breakdown in the bathroom, only to be asked by my teacher if I was okay. I wasn’t, but I told her I was okay. She believed me and although I was glad she did that day, looking back, I wish she would have seen past my façade and would have given me more help. Maybe seeing the school counselor would have helped, or maybe it would have made matters worse — I don’t know for sure and now, I never will.

This lasted a while. I was scared, always watching my back. I was sincerely afraid that my life was in danger. I was the same way when I would go into any store — I stuck close to my family, who I was always with — and kept an eye on those around me. I made it a point to look into reflective surfaces to watch behind me, listen for footsteps, and to just know my surroundings at all times. I was terrified.

The only time I felt safe was when I was home. I was safe and sound in our small apartment, my parents and older brother not far away from me. All I’d have to do is holler and they’d be there. No one could touch me when I was home. But when I was out? Paranoia took over my entire being, anxiety swallowing me whole until I was nothing but a shell of the girl I once was. I was no longer outgoing, but paranoid and terrified.

I graduated high school finally. Temporarily, I forgot what had happened and moved on with life. I was no longer reminded by the building the tragedy almost happened in because I would never have to step foot into that facility again. Summer was fine — I spent time with my family and made preparations for college in the fall. I was bettering myself, and my anxiety calmed down.

When I first began college, none of this affected me; I was fine. But then it creeped up on me and before I knew it, all of that same paranoia came rushing back and I was constantly looking behind my back, peering into reflective surfaces to watch my surroundings, and listening carefully for footsteps. I would be sitting in the library and refused to have my back to anyone — I needed to see everyone, so I knew if someone were to threaten my life.

One instance comes to mind instantly. In my college library, there are private study rooms — you had to get a key from the front desk to use them. I had gotten a key and was inside of my study room, trying to stay focused on my assignments, when a thump, thump, thump was heard outside of the room. My first thought was a shooter. Someone’s coming to hurt us. My heart pounded in my chest, those anxious and paranoid feelings came rushing back. I wanted to get away; I wanted to shrink into nothing. Please don’t hurt me, I begged silently, watching the door behind me like a hawk. Turns out, it wasn’t a threat, it was just someone walking up the stairs in heavy boots. I was safe.

This moment made me realize that some of that trauma was unresolved; it was still there, still hovering above me like a dark cloud. I hated feeling like this.

I had plenty of nightmares about this situation. My nightmares had me in high school or college with an active school shooter; I was always panicked and crying and most of the time, I followed the crowd. My only thoughts were, I can’t die. I can’t die. I’ll miss my family so much. What if I don’t get to say goodbye? I need to say goodbye. But I had no way to say goodbye and I didn’t get a choice in whether I lived or not. Even while I’m writing this, I still suffer from nightmares now and then, though not as often now as it was then.

Other than my parents and select family members, I have never told anyone about this. I never even talked to my friends about it; when I tried, they acted as if I was being overdramatic and dismissed me. They never seemed as affected as I was. I often put myself down, telling myself that I was not allowed to be traumatized because nothing actually happened to me. The person was stopped. I didn’t go through a tragedy. But it still affected me. It still traumatized me. Even though I still have days where I curse myself out for being affected, I am learning that my feelings are valid and that I have a right to feel how I’m going to feel. It’s okay to be hurt or traumatized by this. It happened to me — this is my experience.

Also, for those of you who have read my debut poetry book Hold On, the poems titled ‘Can’t Get Over It’ and ‘Why Am I The Odd One Out?’ are both about this situation. I wrote them while I was going through this. I felt so alone, and writing poetry helped.