Weathered

I started off as any regular old kid. I was born in Colorado, but I don't remember that much since I was three when we moved to Florida. In Florida, I went to a private elementary school- mostly because my parents liked the curriculum and our church paid half the tuition.

The kids were normal. We had an odd ratio of Ukrainian students in the school for some reason, and they were a little more standoffish than others, but, overall, they were the same as every other kid.

I didn't realize it at the time because I was an optimistic, naive child that could see no evil in the world, but I was picked on quite a lot. I always thought they were joking and laughed with them, so I don't think they enjoyed it quite as much as when they could make other kids cry.

I had one really great friend in school, though. We met in first grade. She made me laugh when I had hurt myself in PE, and we were friends at once.

Life was going well, normal. But then something I had never expected happened... My parents decided that we were going to move. And no, not to another neighborhood, county, or even another state. My parents felt called to be missionaries- to South America.

It was such a surreal thing that I don't think I truly understood what that meant until we had been in Peru for about a year.

At first, things felt like a vacation. It was fun. It was all brand new. It was temporary. I was still just that naive child that saw the best in the world.

My brother and I were put into a local school to learn Spanish. Which...had it's own fair share of troubles, but I left that school almost fluent in the language and with a friend I don't think I'll ever lose.

She had been my rock in a sea of misunderstanding. She spoke English and could help me. She made that time in school infinitely easier and infinitely more bearable. I don't know how things would have gone without her.

Things were happy. There were other missionary families. We had huge Thanksgivings and Fourth of Julys. It all felt like just a huge supply of blessings and happiness. I was so happy we had moved to the country.

But then we had to move to another city, where we would actually be working. We moved to a city where there was only one other missionary family, a few American couples, and the rest...strangers.

My brother had it easier because that other missionary family had two boys, one his age, one my age. And I played with them, no doubt, and it was fun, but at the end of the day, I didn't have anyone to talk to.

The people I thought were my friends from the States didn't respond to my messages online. I would see their lives, how great everything was, and I realized that mine would never be like that.

I was so happy at first. Everything was brand new, but slowly, slowly...that optimistic twelve year-old my parents brought to Peru just, disappeared as I realized that sometimes friends aren't really there for you. Sometimes things are just bad. Sometimes there isn't a bright side to your situation.

It was a long road of falling farther and farther into self-pity. I wouldn't admit it to myself, but I needed to find a bright side. Thing is, I didn't want to. I wanted to feel bad for myself. I wanted others to feel bad for me.

I had lost all communication from my friends, I felt like my parents didn't notice my deteriorating state, and I kept seeing people's smiling faces. I was subconsciously begging for attention. I needed to feel like someone cared about me.

After about a year and a half of slowly becoming a broken person, we met up with a missionary family from another city. We met half-way at a hotel, and they had a daughter my age.

She's the reason I'm not still on that melancholy path. I was still desperate for someone to care, so I told her how I was feeling. I laid it all out, without even thinking how weird it must have been. We were strangers.

But she was so kind. She talked to me. She said she was sorry. She just...listened. She gave me the attention I felt I had been missing. She made me realize that I could still be happy without those friends who abandoned me.

After that trip, when we got home, it all became clearer. Most of those friends I thought had abandoned me... I had been pushing them away. My parents had been right there for me, but I didn't want to see it.

So, I began the process of picking up the pieces I had torn myself into. But this time, I had those friends to talk to. I let my parents know when I was feeling down. The pieces sort of put themselves back together.

I know I'm not the person I used to be, but that's okay. I know I probably will never be that optimistic little child that laughed with the bullies at school, but I think I'm better off seeing the world for what it is.

The disappointment and ground-splitting realizations of change perhaps won't hit me as hard now. Those things won't be quite as ground-splitting but cracks in the sidewalk I can find my way around.

So, that's how I've ended up here. Not broken but not brand-new either. Weathered down, maybe, but I won't let myself fall into such disrepair again.