I told Emily, my best friend, that I wanted to attend film school. Her reaction was not

what I had hoped for. She indicated that I was following in her footsteps as if my life

revolved around copying everything she did. I was very frustrated with this reaction, but

now I really know why it bothered me so much.

As a kid, my teachers would constantly contact my parents to tell them I was distracting

other kids in my class by telling stories, daydreaming, or doodling during lessons. If the

lesson or the teacher wasn’t engaging me enough, I would create a full movie in my head.

Half of the time, it was based on the situation I was currently in, and the other half felt

like saviour movies. Someone would come in and save me from the dreadful life I was

living.

I did try to be slick about it, but I do remember being kicked out of the classroom

multiple times because of this distracting behaviour. What they didn’t realise is that

kicking me out gave me more plot points and time for the movie running inside my head.

Idiots.

My teachers wouldn’t just tell my parents about this concerning behaviour, but they

would tell me too. From the age of 10, I was convinced something was wrong with me. I

did so much research because I couldn’t shake the feeling, and I concluded I had

undiagnosed ADHD.

I remember telling my mother. We were at the pool. I wasn’t the best student, and we

both knew that. I remember being in second grade, and I kept failing a test because I

always wrote that a minute was 100 seconds. It wasn’t till I cheated off of Cordelia Burns

that I realised it was 60 seconds. But I tapped my mother on the shoulder. She turned

around and took the phone that was glued to her ear and put it to her side.

“What?” She asked in annoyance.

“I want to tell you something I figured out” I looked up at her, she still had her sunglasses

on.

“Okay,” She waved her hands around, which told me she wanted me to spit it out already.

“I think I have ADHD. I did a lot of research on-“ She cut me off before I could finish.“No, I think you like to make excuses for being lazy and stupid” I couldn’t see her eyes,

but I could tell she was rolling them. She picked her arm back up, and as she turned back

around, I could hear her mutter something in French to her friend.

Honestly, the whole interaction felt like a kick in the face. I knew it wouldn’t go well, but

part of me hoped that maybe this time, my mother would be more compassionate. I

especially thought this because we were in a public setting. Hope is a crazy thing.

After that summer, I started middle school. I went into it as a super outgoing kid. My

parents used to call me a ‘social butterfly’. I used to go up to people and just talk until

they became my friend. That quickly changed.

My older sister was incredibly smart, and she still is. She received a lot of praise for it

from everyone and anyone.

I got all the same teachers and guidance counsellors as she did. On the first day, they

would read my name on the class register and tell me they knew Lily, and if I was

anything like her, then I’d be their favourite. As time passed in these classes, I started to

disappoint everyone around me.

I could tell my parents hated me. I could feel their love for me dim every time I didn’t do

well on a test. I used to hide my grades from them. I knew if I came home and told them

once again I had done badly on a quiz, they would hurt me. I wanted peace for another

day. At that age, I could not think the lying through; once they found out I was lying the

whole time, it only worsened the punishment.

I wasn’t absorbing the material, and I was doing very poorly. The teachers started looking

at me, all confused, wondering how my parents could produce a child prodigy and then a

complete moron.

My guidance counsellor called me into her office one day. It was a Thursday. I got there,

and she handed me two sheets of paper. The first was a transcript of my grades, and the

other was Lily’s grades from when she was in my classes. I started tearing up. It never

felt like my parents really believed in me, but it was this woman’s job to believe in me.

And she actively defied that role to make me feel shitty. I spent about ten minutes in

there, I let her rant to me about how I had to do better while I sat there silently nodding.

That night I felt so disappointed in myself. Until then, I had really tried to let it roll off

my back. I believed in myself. But after being called into the office, I felt hopeless. I felt

the weight of it all start to crush me.I tried to distract myself by choosing my outfit for the upcoming TGIF event. TGIF was a

dance event at my middle school. I was really excited about this TGIF event because I

knew my crush, Adam Weinstein, would be there. I can still remember what I wore, but

that isn’t important.

And then a house call came. It was Marielle, my mother’s close friend. I thought it would

be a sneaky distraction if I eavesdropped. I picked up the phone and answered but stayed

silent. They were speaking in French, and at first, the conversation was boring. Then, I

heard my name. My mother told Marielle she was unsure what she would do or where my

parents went wrong with me. I could tell from my mother’s tone that she was stressed and

maybe concerned, and then I heard them laugh. They joked about how dumb I was and

how, in twenty years, they would visit me at my job. The only jobs they described me as

having were a Target cashier or a gas station worker.

I put the phone down. I felt so ashamed of myself. And as sad as it is to say it was the

first time I looked around a room and thought, ‘I should die’. I burst into tears, and I

didn’t know what to do with myself. I went down a spiral of bad thoughts. I genuinely

thought if I left the earth everyone else would be happier.

I put my hands around my neck without thinking. I started choking myself. My tears

stopped. I could feel all the blood pool in my head. I felt my eyes shoot open, and I

couldn’t breathe. It was scary, but there was a moment of peace. That was quickly

followed by the thought of, ‘What the actual fuck am I doing?’.

I ripped my hands off of my neck and fell over. I was on my hands and knees, trying to

catch my breath. I felt scared; I didn’t know how to make everyone happy. Even though I

stopped myself, I still felt a deep hatred for myself.

Looking back, I don’t think I actually wanted to die. I think I was 11 years old and in so

much pain, and I wanted to make it stop just for a moment. Apparently, choking myself

was the only thing I could think of.

After that moment I tried everything I could to get my grades up. It was more for me than

my parents. I wanted to feel smart for once. I stayed after school with all my teachers to

try and get a better understanding of the material. Sometimes I even skipped lunch so I

could get more time with them.It didn’t work. My history teacher gave me a test back. I studied so hard for it; I went

after school for weeks to try and really grasp all the key concepts. I got a D- and a note

that said to see him after class.

After everyone left, I walked up to his desk with my test in hand. He looked at me, and I

could see the pity in his eyes. I knew, once again, that I had disappointed another person

and that all my work meant nothing. He started speaking, and at first, it was confusing.

But he eventually confessed that all this extra effort I was making was useless. He told

me it ‘wasn’t working’.

I was incredibly angry, and after that moment, I tried to give up on proving my parents

wrong. I accepted the comments and the pain. I knew I could handle it for a few more

years.

I spent another year at that school, and then I was sent to Saint Rose of Lima Academy as

a punishment for getting into trouble with the cops for shoplifting. That was the best

punishment my parents ever gave me.

Everyone around me was so kind. I had never been treated so nicely in my life. It wasn’t

a fake kindness; it was so genuine. I was able see to Karen again.

Karen, honestly, has nothing to do with this, but any time I am allowed to speak about

her, I will. I have known Karen since I was around 5 years old. My home life wasn’t

great, but she became my second mother. She was the nicest woman I have ever known.

She treated me like her own. I used to go over to her house and raid her and her

husband’s closet. I would put on all her makeup and wear her heels with Peter’s blazers,

running around the house. If there was a thunderstorm, I would climb into Karen and

Peter’s bed, and no questions were asked. They would take me shopping and buy me a

summer pass for the country club. Karen would put on a TV show, make a bowl of salted

butter popcorn with Hershey's chocolate pieces, sit me on her lap, and let me help her

complete a jigsaw puzzle. Sometimes, she and the entire family would start dancing to

some music, and they wouldn’t stop until I joined them. It was nice, I could goof off in

her house, and no one would yell at me.

Karen was an amazing woman; she was so strong and kind. I look back, and I see the

person I want to become, I want to be that safety net for my kids and their friends. I was

taught from a young age that kindness is a weakness, and I firmly believe that idea is

complete bullshit. Karen’s kindness changed my life; I think about her every day. Karen

passed away from cancer when I was 16. The funeral was held at Saint Rose of Lima

Church. That place changed my life. I became a kinder person, I started to value myeducation, and I was able to reconnect with the Stokes family. It truly was the best

punishment ever.

My year at Saint Rose of Lima Academy was fantastic. I thought I was going to hate it; I

loved it. All the teachers wanted to help; they wouldn’t stop until I understood the

material. The teachers made me fall in love with school and challenges. It was such a

positive learning environment.

There are some teachers that stay with you forever because they truly see you. I had a

few.

In elementary school, I kept calling Mrs.Accardi my mother. Now that I have studied

psychology I do recognise that stems from my immense amount of mommy issues. She

could tell that too, and so once a week, she took me out of lunch and brought me to her

classroom so I could talk to her about my home life. My family still pokes fun at it, trying

to insinuate I was a weird kid. But I felt special, and I felt like she could really see me

and wanted to give me a free space to talk about my feelings. Sometimes, I would speak

the whole time that I barely made a dent in my lunch, and sometimes, I wouldn’t speak at

all. That was the really amazing thing about it. I knew I could just be myself, and she

would still want me to return the following week.

In middle school, I was the class clown in my English class. My teacher, Mrs.Chapman,

was always incredibly patient with me. I did okay in the class, but she always told me she

could tell I wasn’t trying and that if I did, I could be really great. I tried to ignore it

because, at that time, I didn’t want to try and disappoint another person. I didn’t want to

get anyone's hopes up. We began a really friendly relationship. I would stay with her after

class or after school just to talk to her, and she let me. She found me funny, and that made

me feel really good about myself. Over time I started trying a lot more in class, and I

could tell I was making her proud. It got to the end of the year, and it was the final

project. We had to recite a full essay in front of the class. I remember being so nervous.

She tried to give me courage leading up to the presentations, but when I got up there, I

completely blanked. I got a few sentences in, and my mind went empty; I looked around

and saw pity on everyone’s faces, and I burst into tears. I ended up having a panic attack

on the floor behind her desk as she rubbed my back. She let me come in the next day and

recite it for her alone, and I did great.

In high school, I started taking art classes because, as a kid, I loved it. That is when I met

Mrs.Vos; she is an incredibly tall woman with a deep voice and an intimidating vibe. But

from the moment I met her, I loved her. We started fighting and bickering like mother and

daughter, a lot of the other students found it really strange, but to me, it was socomforting because I could tell she cared about me. She helped me with my art and

always motivated me to do more. I used to limit myself a lot, and she would knock some

sense into me by giving me kind words. She constantly told me I could do more and be

great. She invited me to her greenhouse club and to her honours art course because she

told me I ‘had something’. She made me feel so seen and special, and it felt nice knowing

someone believed in me. It felt like she was always trying to find a way to support me

and cheer me on. Even now, we still talk. I visit her classroom whenever I’m home, and

we email occasionally. I know that even with all this distance, she is still rooting for me,

and that’s a really beautiful feeling to have.

I’m sure by now you can tell I was not kidding about my mommy issues. And I’m sure by

now you’re pretty confused about where this is going. Stay with me.

After Saint Rose of Lima Academy, I returned to the public school system. I still did

poorly, but I got better. When I was 16, I started studying for the ACT. I went to a

tutoring company, but before starting, I had to do a mind map test. They emailed the

results to my parents, and the owner followed up and told them I should get tested for

ADHD. The owner also sent a referral for an ADHD specialist and paediatrician.

I went to the doctor, and within 30 minutes, he told me I had ADHD. He told me it was

an easy diagnosis. I wish I could say I was relieved, but the only thing I felt was anger. I

looked at my parents, and they looked so happy to know what was wrong with me, but I

resented them for all the years they tore me down and refused to listen to me. I resented

them for all the years I could have been brilliant, but I wasn’t because they couldn’t listen

to their child.

I ended up getting on medication, and my world completely changed. I was able to really

focus. I started doing well in school, getting all A’s. That was the first time my parents

called me smart or said they were proud of me. I didn’t and still don’t believe it when

people tell me that.

I constantly thought about how if they had taken me at 10 years old when I asked, the

colleges I was applying for would be completely different. I felt so cheated. There was

nothing I could do besides keep working and hope I end up somewhere okay.

Even with all the anger and resentment I felt toward my parents, I still desperately wanted

their approval. I was willing to do anything to try and feel loved by them, even if I didn’t

want to do it.I wanted to go to university for art, specifically clay. I loved working with my hands, and

I loved doing something creative because I knew that was what I would succeed at. But,

my mother told me to do psychology, so I did. My mother told me to look at schools

abroad, so I did. My sister told me about the University of Westminster in London, so I

went. My father told me I should be a lawyer, so I told him I would be.

I feel like my whole life I have been fighting with myself to keep getting their approval.

I’m so afraid of losing their love that I never think about what I want. But since I was 10,

I was the only person who believed in myself. I was the only person who advocated for

myself. I was the only person who believed I could prove everyone wrong and become

great.

I want to go to film school. I feel confident this is the path for me. And I know I could be

brilliant at it, and I also know there is a high chance my parents might disapprove. I

haven’t told them specifically what I would attend graduate school for, but Emily’s

reaction made me angry. It brought up all these old feelings of doubt.

I’m not doing this for anyone else. I’m not trying to copy anyone, but instead, look

inward and notice I’ve been imagining making movies in my head since I was a child.

Now I’m an adult, and I have the ability to make it happen. And I will because I can do

much more than people gave me credit for growing up.

I’m not really sure how I should end this. The outline of my childhood isn’t to get pity

points because it is the only life I have ever known. I don’t sit around and cry about it; I

wouldn’t ever go back in time and change it. I’m grateful for all the experiences I’ve had.

And I don’t consider myself a victim.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is since I was a kid, even when I absolutely hated

myself, I still believed I could do more. That light has been put out so many times over

the years by myself and others, but it is on me to keep it lit. It is on me to believe in

myself, trust myself, and listen to my gut like I did all those years ago with the ADHD

diagnosis.

Creativity was always part of me, and trying to get on the same pedestal as Lily was

never worth it. I want to be happy and genuinely interested in the work I am doing. I

don’t need to keep begging my parents for love and acceptance. I don’t need to prove

anything to them; I must do things for myself. Otherwise, I’ll be old and miserable and

probably still have a colossal amount of mommy and daddy issue