Eye of the Hurricane

Yesterday, I cried in the girls bathroom at school. The salty flavor of tears as they rolled down my cheeks and onto my lips combined with nausea stemming from immense anxiety was overwhelming. Despite my desperate desire to escape, I instead had locked myself in a stall. This contradiction amuses me now. The stillness and quiet of the empty bathroom washed over me, having a temporary soothing effect. It was only the eye of a hurricane. 

I couldn’t quite tell why I was crying at that moment. I had just gotten a bad grade the class period prior, but that was no reason to cry. I knew my parents would yell at me, but I knew they wouldn’t hit me, and therefore it wasn’t a big deal, yet I was still afraid. I hated myself, but everyone hates themselves somewhat. I determined I had no good reason to cry and proceeded to mutter the same two words that I frequently did.

“I’m fine.”

I believed it then, and I felt fine, but it was only the eye of a hurricane.

The door to the girls bathroom swung open with its creaky hinges. The commotion of clamoring students leaked in, allowing the hurricane to inch closer in my mind as relief proved its temporary nature. The cacophony ceased as the door shut once more, leaving a single, prominent voice to fill the space. It was one I recognized, belonging to Emma Hoffmann. She was the perfect girl, at least according to my extensive viewing of her Instagram profile. I adored her life.

Instinctually, and what I consider now to be irrationally, I stepped onto the toilet seat to ensure she couldn’t see my feet in the stall gap. All I wanted to do was hide, and I would especially rather die than let Emma Hoffmann see me with my puffy red eyes and snotty nose. 

“Sure! Oh, I can’t that day, I’m going to this party…”

Of course, she was.

“But how about next monday? Uhhuh, alright, I’ll see you then. I have to go now, bye.” She said as she hung up and slid her phone into her back pocket. 

Once her voice faded, I realized it no longer concealed my shaky breathing, and I quickly placed my hand over my mouth. I, also, realized how ridiculous it was and that the consequence of her seeing me staring at her secretly from the stall might be far worse than her seeing me crying. I wished I was smarter. Perhaps, then, I would get good grades and not dig holes that further damage my social life. Those things caused hurricanes.

I unlocked the stall door and began heading toward the door hurriedly, but my eyes caught her glance. She was fixing her make-up, and my sudden appearance had startled her. In that moment, Emma had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of what I truly was; a mess. I wanted to die then.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“I’m fine.” I said.

There were those two words again. They echoed throughout my mind as I walked out of the bathroom and even though it was a clear and sunny day, I was actually walking into a hurricane. 

The winds were made up of my anxiety, violently thrashing me around from all angles until my nausea returned. The pummelling rain was a part of a water cycle supported solely by my sorrow and tears. The waves crashing on the shore and intruding further inland, equivalent to the emptiness in my chest. I was meant to be like a sail, strong and with a direction, but my sail had holes. I told myself I was fine, tried to calm down, and tried to dismiss the storm around me. I searched for the eye once more, but it was too late. The sight of all the people that surrounded me in the halls was just as horrific as seeing a dozen bloody beached whales. Except, the whales were alive, and could stare at you, judge you, and maybe even laugh at you if you messed up badly enough. I tend to mess up.

I bumped into someone.

I threw up.

After yesterday’s incident, I was sent to the health office and eventually sent home after I told the nurse and my parents that I was feeling sick. I spent that night scrolling on Instagram to ensure nobody was posting about me, when it hit me that everyone’s lives are perfect. Especially Emma, who had just posted a picture of her holding a college acceptance letter, a huge smile plastered on her face, alongside two smiling parents. I wish I made my parents proud like that. What is wrong with me?

This morning, when my symptoms magically disappeared, my parents determined it was safe for me to return to school. I have felt relatively calm since, but tired and unmotivated. There has been an emptiness in my chest all day taunting me because it knows I cannot gnaw my way through my flesh and get rid of it. However, I believe that the eye of the hurricane is better than being in the hurricane, and I accept it. As long as I upheld my composure, and appeared well, I was fine. I’m fine.

“Harper, are you paying attention?” A woman, standing at the whiteboard, called out.

“Yes, Mrs. Warren.” I hesitantly reply as I pinch myself to wake up.

She squinted her eyes at me before continuing on with her lesson, something about functions, f(x) and whatnot. In order for an equation to be a function, its inputs must all have unique outputs. If two or more outputs share an input, it is dysfunctional. She uses the example of a broken vending machine. You press one button and it is meant to give you one soda but the first time you press it, it gives you Coca-Cola, and the next time you press it, it gives you Dr. Pepper, and so on. This is dysfunctional. I am a broken vending machine.

The bell rings.

As everyone hurriedly packs their bags, Mrs. Warren approaches my desk. As I look up at her, I notice her cautious demeanor and puzzled expression, given away by her furrowed brows.

“Are you okay, Harper? You’ve been falling asleep and your grades are slipping and I-” She began.

“I’m fine.” I snapped in reply.

There was a pause as she seemingly reevaluated our conversation. I made a mistake. In an attempt to avoid eye contact and confrontation as a whole, I finally start putting my math notebook away. The spiral binding gets caught on my zipper and the build up of stressful little things starts getting to me. 

The classroom was empty now.

“I’m worried about you. It’s okay to not be okay. You know… Maybe, you should talk to a school counselor. There’s people that can help you, if you’re going through anything.” She says softly, placing her hands on my desk.

I think about it for a moment and I fail to respond as tears begin to swell in my eyes. The hurricane was closing in on me again, no matter how hard I wished it away or ignored it. Was I that broken in her eyes?

“Oh, honey…” She mutters as she pulls up a chair and sits beside me.

She wraps her arms around me, a warm embrace that is surprising but not unwelcome. I lean into her, beginning to sob on her shoulder. I didn’t feel the need to run away or hide anymore. I feel weak and vulnerable, sure, but I trust Mrs. Warren more than any of the strangers out there. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I’m trying. I’ll be better, I’ll get my grade up, I swear. I’m doing my best.” I struggle to speak with a quivering voice.

“Harper, what are you talking about?” She leans back and looks at me with a soft gaze and even softer tone. “I know you’re doing your best. That’s not what I’m worried about right now. I’m worried about you.”

“My best isn’t good enough though. I’m not good enough. Everyone around me is perfect and my parents want me to be like them but I’m just not, no matter how hard I try, and I can’t talk about it at all or cry about it because that would just show people how not perfect I am!” I begin to tremble.

Mrs. Warren let out a long sigh now as she rubbed my arms soothingly. 

“Nobody’s perfect. Bottling up your emotions like that isn’t going to change anything, it’s only going to make you feel worse until you lash out.” 

I realize that’s what I’ve been doing. The hurricane and all its brutal mental destruction never went away when I was within its eye, it still rushed around me from afar. I was only denying it, pretending it wasn’t there, until the next time it hit me and I was forced to face it. I’m not fine.

“Every single person is going through something. Nobody expects you to be perfect, or have a perfect life, and it’s completely okay to talk about it if it helps you. You’re talking about it right now, and I’m not judging you.” Mrs. Warren continued in an attempt to reassure me.

“You don’t think I’m weak, or broken, or worthless?” I asked, wiping my tears.

“No, of course not. Your strength lies in the fact that you’re pushing through the hard times in your life, not in a lack of hard times.” 

I nodded slowly.

“I think I understand.”

“Please, talk to someone. Whether it be your parents, a friend, a counselor… I promise that people care, and want to help you, and it’s completely okay to accept help.” She squeezed my arm now as if to emphasize her point.

I began to stand now, wiping my tears and nose, and slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

“I will. Thank you, Mrs. Warren.”

We hug one last time. She writes me a hall pass and I leave to walk to my next class, new thoughts and self-realizations racing through my mind. I believe that I will remember Mrs. Warren for the rest of my life.

A week later, I worked up the courage to talk to a school counselor. I couldn’t talk to my parents because we just don’t have that kind of relationship, and I didn’t have any close friends, but I promised Mrs. Warren I would talk to someone. 

So, I find myself sitting in a comfortable plush chair outside the school counselor’s office, waiting for my turn. The office’s door swings open and to my surprise, Emma Hoffmann walks out. She smiles at me and chuckles, having the same puffy red eyes from crying that I had before. Quite frankly, I’m surprised at this. I had thought she was perfect and that her life was perfect, but I suppose Mrs. Warren really was correct in that nobody was perfect.

“Hey, Emma.” I say to her, returning a faint smile.

She nods, seemingly not having the strength to speak, and walks away. However, that interaction gives a new, unspoken understanding of one another.

An older man walks out now, turning to me with a warm expression and greeting me.

“Harper? It’s a pleasure to meet you! Please, come in.”

I stand, shake his hand, and follow him in. It’s scary, and unfamiliar, but I know it’ll be okay. I have an understanding now that I’m allowed to feel this way, allowed to be imperfect, and the hurricane becomes less intense.

I’m done hiding in the eye of the hurricane. Now, I’ll tackle the storm head on.