![]() As I was in the bathroom drying my tears and splashing water on my face, the story spilled out. I don’t remember what Carla’s explanation was, but the teacher gave us permission to be a few minutes late so I could go compose myself. Carla and I were headed to the same class so she walked me as far as the door, got the teacher’s attention and asked her to meet us in the hall. Carla stopped me and asked how long “Oscar” had been saying those kinds of things to me. “Are you kidding me?! Did you really just say that to her?!” Her name – real name, this time – was Carla – “You should do us all a favor and just end it.” He leaned in over my shoulder, risking having someone else hear as they walked by – His verbal attacks lessened but didn’t end. The hope was “Oscar” might back off if he had to risk others hearing. I had started walking so close to the wall that my arm was practically brushing against the wall. With about six weeks left in the school year, “Oscar” goofed. The fact that I’m still here 30+ years later is what’s important. Let me be crystal clear – I made three different attempts to end my own life because I knew it would finally get him to shut up.īut I survived. Three different times during my freshman year, I made plans to give “Oscar” what he wanted. A fellow high school freshman “encouraged” me to end my own life. Summer offered a reprieve and I started my freshman year, hopeful that he had moved on. And, after a moment’s reflection, I knew that nothing I might have done warranted his behavior. I knew that “Oscar” wasn’t the least bit interested in a sit-down. (Side note – I never again went to that particular teacher for advice.) It was the first time I entertained the thought that it might be my fault. I was told that I needed to sit down and talk to the student so I could find out what I had done that made him angry. I hinted that really cruel, hateful things were being said to me on a regular basis by a fellow student. At this point in my story, someone usually asks, “Why didn’t you tell someone?!” I tried to. “Religious freak music nerds like you have no right to go on living.” “The world would be perfect if you weren’t in it.” ![]() “Nobody actually thinks of you as a friend. Multiple times a day, he’d find a way to get behind me in the hall, close enough to say horrible things that only I could hear – To this day, I have no clue why he chose me.įrom that first encounter, it just got worse. He preferred to play sports while I was already a committed performing arts geek. “Oscar” and I attended a small school – about 25 kids per graduating class – but we didn’t really spend much time around each other. It was the first time I’d ever had that kind of encounter with him. He went around me and continued down the hallway like nothing had happened. I was about halfway through my 8th grade year the first time he walked up behind me in the hallway and muttered, just loud enough for only me to hear, “You know you’re worthless, right?” We’ll call my bully “Oscar” (not going to use his real name because he doesn’t deserve that much respect). Music became my lifeline during a very, very dark period. As for the stylized portion of my tattoo – an eighth note in place of the dot – there’s a very simple answer. The semicolon joins two sentences into a longer sentence. Why a semicolon? It’s a punctuation mark used in place of a period when a writer chooses not to end a sentence. Semicolon tattoos are worn by those who have lost someone to suicide, those who love someone who battles suicidal thoughts because of mental illness, those who battle mental illness themselves, or those who themselves have survived suicide. Project Semicolon is a non-profit initiative focused on promoting mental health and preventing suicide. Call it a “stylized semicolon” if you will. ![]() But my reason for sharing is simple – I wish I hadn’t felt so alone all those years ago. Others think it is too shameful to share. A few people have told me I shouldn’t share this story. ![]()
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