Story by Finn Konett | sophomore | Skyline High School
[This work comes from the Art of Storytelling class, taught by Julia Satterthwaite.]
I’m not normal. I never say the right thing. Whenever someone is talking about anything even slightly related to something I’m interested in, I freak out and jump in. When someone asks me a question, I answer in a 15 minute rant, and that leads to another rant … And another, and another, and another.
Whenever I start talking, people look at each other and roll their eyes, like I annoy them, or I’m a burden. My mother always told me to just be myself, but sometimes I feel like people don’t want me to just be myself.
In eighth grade, I tried to be “normal.” I would rehearse conversations. I dyed my hair blonde, and I wore what everyone “normal” was wearing. That made it worse. People made group chats dedicated to talking about me. They said I was trying too hard to be something I wasn’t, that I was being weirder than normal. I thought I was fitting in, but I was doing the exact opposite. They said I was like a “wolf in sheeps’ clothing,” and I told them that’s not how you use that metaphor. That didn’t help.
Over the summer, I decided I would go back to being myself, but that made things WORSE worse. I cut my hair, reinforced my identity as a queer person, and started to be more true to myself.
Apparently, that wasn’t enough for me, because I still felt like I had to try fit in. At the beginning of my freshman year, I made friends with the “cool alternative kids” (or so I thought). I thought it was weird that they wore Shein, and I didn’t consider that alternative, but I didn’t tell them that. They made fun of the real alternative kids, the ones who were proud of their queer identities.
I didn’t think peer pressure was real until I experienced it. We would explore abandoned buildings and sit under highways. I thought it was cool at first, but then it got scary. They would do dangerous things, like stand in front of a train on train tracks and run off at the last minute. They would tell me to do it, and when I said no, they would be fine with it. But then I would feel like I was missing out, and I would give in.
They would talk about me behind my back, and when I did something they thought was weird, they would give me tips on how to act more “normal.”
One time, we were watching a movie at a sleepover, and there was a graphic, violent rape scene — I got triggered. I went to the bathroom and calmed down. I was proud of myself, because I had removed myself from an uncomfortable situation instead of freaking out. When I came out of the bathroom, my friends said they wanted to talk to me. They said that I had ruined the mood and I always overreacted. They said I was too sensitive.
When we had a big falling out, I started dressing the way I wanted to dress, hanging out with the people I wanted to hang out with. I joined theatre and I found a great community there. Fitting in means you fit, like a puzzle piece. And I fit there. They laughed at my jokes, they liked it when I talked — they even listened. For once in my life, I felt accepted. I felt normal because no one was “normal” there.