The Girl I’ve Always Been

On a recent Sunday night, I sat at a big round table making conversation with a pair of teenage siblings. I work at a youth group with middle and high schoolers, some of the funniest and most curious people. We joked about the differences between my public school and their private school, and talked about school dances. I mentioned how I only went to my senior prom, not my junior. The older brother turns to me and jokes, “What, did no one ask you or something?” 

I burst out laughing. Like, okay! You got me there!

At the time, however, I was not laughing. I was most likely crying in my bedroom, journaling at the late hours of the night. As I slid my purple gel pen across my shiny pink notebook, I tried my best to expel everything I was feeling onto the page. I mean, who doesn’t go to prom? Losers, that's who. I had just had a major friendship breakup, and the few friends who were going had dates. Going alone would have been humiliating. 

I often found myself in loops like this, self-isolating and blaming myself for everything wrong with my life. Whether it be friendship issues, school, sports, or my fear of others finding out the parts of myself I wanted to keep hidden, I felt like the common denominator. I didn’t have that many friends, and talking to people often made my stomach churn with anxiety. Again and again and again, I felt alone. And I started to become okay with that.

My senior year of high school consisted of school, work, and fantasizing about college. I reconnected with an old friend with whom I was going to room with in Chattanooga. I had suitemates I was talking to on Instagram; girls who seemed so much like me that I could not believe it. I daydreamed about this new chapter and new city, feeling like a kid at Disney World with infinite possibilities and a wide-toothed grin. What I felt was excitement, yes, but also a deep determination. A determination to live the life I wanted. To be social, friendly, and authentically myself. To be cool. I was not cool, but this girl in my head? Another story. 

And then the time came, wielding boxes of clothes and a new Zoloft prescription, I moved into my new dorm. And for the first time, it felt like I was getting everything I wanted. I made new amazing friends, ones who saw me for exactly who I was. And these people liked who I was, without having to change anything. It was all so refreshing, so intoxicating. 

A divide was created in my mind between the old me and the new me. I was not too shy to tell people how much I had changed. It was as if I was remembering an old friend, one that I pitied and wished well. One that I looked down upon, and removed myself from through the miles and miles between Knoxville and Chattanooga. If someone asked me what I was like back then, I provided no kindness. Oh, me? All I did was sit around in my room. I was kind of a loser. 

It was easy around so many new people. They didn’t know me. 

When I would return home to Knoxville, I felt lonely. And I found myself doing exactly what I spent my high school years doing, sitting in my room. I sat on my old bed, examining the space. My picture board, my books, my collection of records hanging on the wall, it all felt very warm. Like returning to the years I spent in the cold, with a warm sweater. I love my books. I love my records. I did then, and I do now. 

I go into my keepsake box and pull out the shiny pink notebook. I still feel all the emotions expressed on the lined pages from time to time. While reading, I felt a sadness, one different from anything written in the journal. She was trying her best, I was trying my best. And I still am. For I would not be able to be where I am, without that determination I felt to change. 

I didn’t just wake up one day with the best friends a girl could ask for. I built this life where I can be authentically myself. I still have the same quirks, I still get nervous at times I shouldn’t. My old self brought me here. She was the one who was brave enough to take control of her life and never abandoned herself. Even if it meant being alone, she was herself. And I am still her. 

I still do not know how to make small talk. I still need time alone. I still go ballistic for every new Olivia Rodrigo release and spill my feelings in notebooks with colorful pens. People choose to be around me not because I’m cool, but because I’m myself. People come and go, and I’ll continue to change. For every step, I’m the one who brought myself here; the girl I’ve always been. 

Strike Out,

Lillian Mclemore, Writer

Chattanooga