Essay on Securely Unstable: A Narrative Fiction

Part 1: To be perfectly honest, I’ve never had a time where I have felt very isolated or very included in a school setting, well not a time that is particularly memorable. But, from talking to my friend, Caroline, she remembers her senior year of high school she was had a writing class and the majority kids in that class were the “cool/popular kids.” She recalls many instances where her teacher, Mrs. Upadhyay, would mock or make fun of the questions she would ask or the comments she would make in class. There was one instance where there were a group of popular boys in class and they were insanely chatty. Her teacher never asked them to stop talking but when Caroline turned to her partner to ask a question she was immediately called out. Another instance was when Mrs. Upadhyay was lecturing and a lightbulb went off in Caroline’s head. She thought she would say something that would really impress the class and help them understand the lecture. She raised her hand, when her teacher saw it instead of calling on her she chose to ignore her. Caroline thought it was okay though, she would wait until Mrs. Upadhyay was finished. Shortly there after, a popular boy raised his hand and she stopped her lecture to call on him. Caroline was completely appalled by this. She immediately cut off the

“Why aren’t you playing?” a voice in back of me asked. I turned around, to find a girl who was doing the same thing I was..

The school year approached its end. Another summer to spend alone by myself. The cycle had been repeating since I was in grade school. Sadness choked me as I returned home and shut my door. Every year, the resolution was the same: I would try to make friends next year; however, every year, I felt myself falling back down into the same trap. By the time high school began, I no longer felt the numb sensation of sadness or the flow of tears as the final day of May became the last day I talked with my “friends.” I no longer expected to make any friends, or, more accurately, I no longer expected to be able to make any friends. The sheer possibility of befriending an individual appeared to me as foreign as speaking in latin. When I walked into school, what should have been a site of chatter, opportunity, and growth appeared to me as a form of imprisonment and torture; however, unbeknownst to me, I did have friends; something of which I did not recognize until years passed by. I grown attached to certain conversations; there were times where I felt the need to initiate a conversation rather than waiting for someone else to make one. It was not until one of my friends told me,”We’re your friends aren’t we?” when I realized I was not longer

I breathed in the after rain smell. It must have rained the night before but I hadn’t seen it so I wasn’t aware that it would be wet. As I strolled onto the sidewalk and began my route to school I stomped on the wet, fallen leaves. I walked about a half mile each day to get to Florence Nightingale High school , or as I liked to call it, my daily prison. It was a good high school but it was still a high school. The usual American high school is full of people who are unsure of themselves and because of their un-surety, they feel the need to others down. Now take those people and add in an over-confident deaf girl into the mix and that's my every day. I am extra isolated but that’s fine by me. I really don’t care what they say about me. It's not like I can hear it

There he was, sitting at a soulless lunch table, munching on his sandwich, wondering why he stuck out as someone peculiar to others. Watching the other children laugh and share jokes his heart melted with sorrow, but he held onto the tears that were ready to escape, like a river is ready to plunge down the waterfall. Knowingly not wanting to bring in attention, even though he felt invisible. 62.5% of 8th grade students at Cooper Middle school came clean, expressing their sorrow about struggling to find friends at some point in their lifetime.

“What do you mean, ‘What are you doing here?’ What are YOU doing here?” she frustratingly responded.

“So, what was that about?" She asks. "Not that I mind having the air knocked out of me every once in a while. But did you really have to do that this early in the morning? I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” she says, giggling.

She earned a fierce growl, one that she hadn't heard before and Wolf enclosed the space between them quickly moving Tamara backwards so her back was now against the wall behind her. His huge frame locked her against the cold metal, the heat his body gave off now enveloped her. "I say H'ko. Mean no. Very mad, if go in. Say yes and we speak no more about this."

Initially, being the type who at types struggles with entertaining a multitude of conversation with others. I found myself concerned at the prospect of whether I would be able to have success with a rowdy group of kids whose perception of being calm was to yell across the room while I dodged the flying pencils, paper, and the sobbing individual? I was to discover that one of my freshmen had recently had gone through a terrible family event which for discretion will not discuss here. However, at that moment I was needed to help support a freshman who was struggling— I ensured that everything would be ok while the lonesome tears ran down my face, how could life be so unfair to someone so young and innocent? I was in utter sadness with the unpredictability and cruelty of life and would soon come to find that many more of my freshmen had also gone through similar experiences and many withheld the pain within themselves and yet still

“Don’t look at me like that,” she softly laughed, shaking her head. She secured the well-crafted twist of hair into place, allowing wisp

I sat in the corner of a lunch table, trying to grasp the fact that I was in a new city, new school, with new faces and no friends. I was by myself, repeatedly convincing myself that I was an independent person for eating alone, but the words were a shallow mask to my isolation. After the first full week of school, I decided to approach a table and asked to join them during lunch. It was a gratifying feeling when they welcomed me to sit with them. But I still remembered the the feeling of loneliness. It was why I was adamant about guiding new students at the high school on the first day, and also why I found myself sitting at lunch tables with

June 16, 2016. 9:00AM. I’ve been left alone at the cafeteria doors in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. Slowly walking to an empty seat, I can feel my body tremble. My lungs feel as if they’ve been filled with concrete. It’s so hard to breathe. I sit down now, my palms feeling a little sweaty. What have I gotten myself into? Why did I decide to go to a high school where I would know no one? I know I’m not good at meeting new people. I’m a quiet person, and I know I don’t talk much. Being this shy makes you have a panic attack whenever you’re called on in class or have to ask for help. You don’t have that confidence that you should, making you feel like an annoyance whenever you talk. It can get lonely sometimes, not being able to talk.

“Stop!” I demand as he crept closer. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes that I knew all too well. It was a lost cause, but I tried to run anyways. His long legs quickly caught up to mine. He picked me up and squeezed my sides, flipping me upside down.

Her footsteps loud and the crashing of the door even louder as she bursts in. I sit up, my spine letting out a series of cracks. She just glares at me, arms crossed. “Are you going to just keep staring at me?” she demands.

“I don’t know,” I had responded with a sound of annoyance and dullness in my voice.As if I knew what was going on, but I just didn 't want to tell her.