When I was told in class about a unique opportunity to write a story and have my work published I was excited. It was a thrilling idea to have my story be published in a book. However when we got deeper into the topic, and I read other people’s stories, I began to worry. To be honest I wasn’t so sure I had an “American identity”, or an interesting story to tell. In some ways I still doubt I do. Despite hearing for months that “everyone has a story” and “you must tell your story”, I was at a loss. Then I started thinking about how everyone’s story is deeply affected by those closest to them. In my story, losing someone close to me helped me find myself.

Where grief pushed me away from others it brought me closer to myself. When my grandfather died I was devastated. It had been a rough journey from moving him into the nursing home to the final phone call where we were told of his passing. That night feels shrouded in a haze. I felt numb as a cold pit settled in my gut. Even sitting next to him on his death bed I felt numb as I tried to process the hoard of emotions flooding my body. My grandfather meant the world to me. He was someone who flew planes and sent people into space, if only because it was the closest he could get to touching the stars himself.

To me, my grandfather was the man who taught me how to play chess and who answered all of my questions about science and the moon. I didn’t see him as the frail old man everyone around me treated him as. However as I became a teenager his health only got worse and I began to understand the gravity of what was happening and how his slow decline was affecting those around me. The more questions I asked, the less answers I got, and the more frustrated I became. As I got older I continued to witness how people closed themselves off from confronting their emotions even when I was willing to be open about my own at the time. I felt shut out and as I dealt with bigger emotions I had learned to isolate myself. When my grandfather died I grieved alone.

Even when surrounded by friends and family, I felt distant. I didn’t talk about it to anyone. Most of my friends didn’t even know he died until months later. I learned the hard way that emotionally distancing myself from people who would have been eager to help me, was not a healthy way to deal with the overwhelming emotions I was feeling. However the more I pushed my emotions down the bigger they got and the more I secluded myself. So goes the unhealthy cycle of bottling things up before eventually lashing out. I became angry and upset because I felt like I couldn’t get the help I knew I needed, even when I had asked for it. In a way I felt scrutinized and unwelcome in talking through my emotions with someone I had previously confided in. This hurt me deeply and I felt more and more like the only person I could rely on for support was myself.

It was during this time in my life that I started a journal. That journal became the emergency drain when my emotions started to flood over. Instead of lashing out and doing something that could hurt others or myself, I poured all my emotion onto the pages. This gave me the release I had been desperately searching for. The more I used the journal the better I felt. I finally felt myself starting to heal, properly, this time. I learned a lot about myself during that period of my life. Most importantly I learned to love and to trust myself. I haven’t gotten the professional help I know I probably still need. However I have faith that one day I will.

© Olivia. All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.