Write Out Loud-Day 1

On Anxiety & Writing For Yourself, Then Others

Trying to pin down the best moment of being a writing instructor is pretty hard. Maybe it was the first time a student wrote a way better poem than me (wait, that was on day one), or the first time that a really shy student in the back of class shared. Either way, being able to publish their work alongside mine has definitely got to be high on the list. After my students found out that I worked for SickNotWeak, our after-class talks shifted from essays to anxiety, and just how difficult being a student is. It’s hard enough getting through growing pains without complete strangers putting numerical values on your contributions, and it’s that very pressure that takes the fun out of the writing process. Creative writing is beautiful because it doesn’t need an ulterior moment. To create is enough on its own, and when the class decided that our end-of-year project would be to contribute pieces on anxiety to SickNotWeak, I couldn’t have been more proud. Since I’ve been leading the class, I’ll start with a story of my own – and then every day this week, there will something from my students, with a short intro from me. As you read their work, I hope it inspires you to pick up a pen and doodle, or paint, or do whatever creative thing brings you joy. These students made me smile so brightly even on my bad days (and God knows I have a lot of bad days), and I have faith that they will be able to brighten yours.

Beauty School – by Leanne

The first day I wore mascara to school was for good luck. I was competing in the regional math Olympics and I wanted to feel like I didn’t belong there, like I was one of the pretty girls who sat in the back and nonchalantly pressed gum against the undersides of the desks – a gift for the suckers like me who routinely scratched their fingers against the metal surface before coolly raising their hand with the right answer. I was never sure I had the right answer.

I placed fourth that day – not high enough to medal or travel with the team to Science North in Sudbury and compete in provincials with the other winning losers. Instead I was designated as “substitute,” a position that I could only imagine being useful if someone broke a number two pencil.

The next morning, I snuck into my mom’s bathroom while she was letting the dog out and pinched a small eyeshadow palette from her makeup bag. It was called “Champagne” and despite being a uniform colour, it was more glamorous than anything my biracial genes had ever produced. The first swipe across my lids was magical – although I wasn’t quite sure if I liked it because it drew attention to what I had, or away from what I didn’t.

I survived the school day without any negative attention – or positive, really – but my quiet confidence was quickly shattered at a family dinner later that night, when my French grandmother asked me why my eyes were so sparkly. “Do you have a boyfriend now?” I most certainly did not.

“Cute,” he replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

I remember the first time I attempted a cat eye. Some boys in my Grade 9 science class had spent the back half of the period discussing the difference between girls who were “cute” and girls who were “hot.” “What am I?” I asked my lab partner, gnawing at the inside of my lip. “Cute,” he replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “But that’s not a bad thing,” he said, noting the practiced deflation of my chest, “Guys don’t want to settle down with a girl who’s too hot.”

The drugstore was on my way home. I carefully read the pitches for every brand – all of them promising the smoky, sultry, sexy eyes that I wasn’t born with – then chose the hypoallergenic, dermatologist-recommended everyday product. I understood my limits all too well.

The eyeliner experiment was a disaster before I started crying. And once I started crying, I lost all hope of ever being that pretty girl in the back of the class. Because it wasn’t just because she was pretty – lots of people are pretty. She knew that she was pretty and therefore belonged there, trimming her split ends and not giving a fuck about her gum. At the age of 23, I’ve finally mastered a subtle cat eye, but I will always spit my gum into the garbage. It’s just who I am.