The Yellow-Rumped Warbler ~ MENNA DELVA

The Yellow-Rumped Warbler

MENNA DELVA

Getting out of bed that Monday morning was difficult. I wasn’t confident that my routine of faking a smile and pretending everything was ‘okay’ was going to work. I knew my eyes told another story; my spirit was deflated, and my body felt heavy. But as I lay on my bed with my curls spread across my pillow and eyes studying the tiny cracks that covered my ceiling, I remembered an important math test I had to take. Like always, my old middle school not only provided me with an incentive to get ready for the day but also an opportunity to dismiss my emotions. I managed to lift my head from my pillow, swing my two feet off the bed, and walk to my bathroom. But as soon as I took my hair out of its bun, everything fell apart. I didn’t sleep with my hair scarf, as I accidentally slept on the couch finishing homework, resulting in dry, flat curls. I didn’t have enough time to rejuvenate them. In a desperate attempt to control the situation, I told myself to pay no heed to my appearance, knowing my perception of my worth shouldn’t be contingent on how I looked. But the problem wasn’t my ugly appearance, but rather my inability to control the way my curls looked. I had an anxiety attack. These breakdowns weren’t unfamiliar to me; I’d had one a few weeks prior when I was reminded of the anniversary of my friend’s death, and another one when I had performed poorly on a quiz. These breakdowns usually occurred in my bathroom; a place where I gradually found safety. I threw my brush against the wall and collapsed on the cold, white tiles of my bathroom floor. It was a silent cry. Silent because I was embarrassed I wasn’t able to control the hot tears flowing down my face and frustrated that something so minuscule, like a bad hair day, could affect me so painfully. I wanted to embrace my tears, and understand why I was feeling so exasperated, but as I heard the sound of my brother opening the door to leave the house, I knew I didn’t have time. I frantically wiped away my tears, stuffed my notebooks into my backpack, and grabbed two blue pills to soften the loud pounding of my headache. I had studied for my test the night before. Those closest to me know that I take my grades seriously. I view my academic performance as a reflection of my intelligence, and my intelligence as a reflection of my worthiness as an individual. It’s worrisome that my happiness is dependent on arbitrary numbers and percentages, but attending a prestigious middle school programmed me this way. I also view my grades as the one thing in my life that I have full control over. But as I came to school, I knew I lacked the mental focus to sit in a room and make algebraic calculations for an hour. I knew performing poorly on this test would be an example of my emotions eroding my control over my academics, which would also represent my lack of strength to prevent it. Plus I hated math. So, to avoid a second breakdown, I asked my teacher, an individual whom I viewed as sagacious, to postpone my test. They had no sympathy. They told me I didn’t have any credibility regarding how I felt that day. Yes, those were their exact words. Their response triggered an internal frustration because as sappy as it may sound, I longed to be understood. Looking back at the situation, I don’t blame my teacher for their insensitive comments, but rather their lack of education on the topic of adolescent mental health disorders. I think if my teacher knew that about 20% of high school students suffer from depression, they would have been more sympathetic to my situation. Or if they knew

that about 60% of adolescents with depressive episodes don’t receive treatment, there would have been a slight trace of warmth in their eyes. I wished I had control of the words that came out of their mouth; to twist them to become commiserating. Obviously, I didn’t have the superpowers to do that, so their eyes remained a dark, cold blue, and her words continued to feel like hot daggers puncturing my skin. I exited her classroom with a feeling of desolation and embarrassment but relieved I would soon be in the comfort of my home as the school day had ended. The beauty of nature and the tranquility of journaling were my coping mechanisms, so when I arrived at my house, I grabbed a cup of warm, clove spiced tea and my brown paperback journal and went outside. I began to fill the pages with ink as I felt a subtle heat from the sun, and heard broken leaves softly abandon their branches and fall onto the cold grass. I watched the mailman make his way around my street delivering his standard white envelopes, and I saw the two inseparable black and gray cats that always bathed in the sun whenever the weather was warm. Everyone around me seemed to go about their days normally, even though, in my head, it felt as if the world was moving aimlessly and mundanely.

As I drank the last of my tea and began to shut my journal, a yellow-rumped warbler, a brown bird with patches of bright yellow feathers, landed a few feet from me. She stood elegantly in a silent serenity. There wasn’t anything fascinating about the bird, but she was what I needed at that moment. When she noticed I was there, she glanced at me with a beautiful kindness-a wordless acknowledgment to my struggle. In that brief, silent exchange, I understood the importance of not always being in control. I wasn’t in control of the bird’s decision to land next to me, yet she did, and I was glad I experienced that moment with her. Her free-spiritedness made me aware that I was forcing myself to carry a hatred for my teacher when all I wanted was to forget the situation. I longed to feel the same peacefulness the bird was emanating. So, emulating the bird, I allowed myself to choose how I wanted to feel, liberated of my excessive control. And as the yellow-rumped warbler lifted its gray, black-streaked wings to fly away, just as the loud anger occupying my body lifted, I not only forgave my teacher but also myself.