Third Place: Anna Wirtjes, 12th, Forest City High School, (Non-:iction Honorable Mention: Madeline Taylor, 12th, Nashua-Plain:ield High School, (Fiction) 30

Third Place: Anna Wirtjes, 12th, Forest City High School, (Non-fiction)

"Statistics Journal"

Statistics was arguably my most boring class. The professor reviewed examples of the same concept over and over again. Since one or two examples were usually sufficient for me to grasp the core ideas, my imagination could run wild during the rest of the class. I would sit there and enjoy getting lost in my own thoughts while drawing in the margins of my notes. My boyfriend, CJ, would always joke around with me about how I would only ever doodle mountains. They were easy to draw, and are my happy place, but I decided that stats class would be my time to stretch out of my comfort zone and draw something new each day. One day, CJ suggested that I try drawing a dragon. It was and still is the worst dragon I have ever drawn. I would look forward to the times in stats when I could let my thoughts wander freely and doodle silly little pictures. It was fun to let memories that I didn’t know I even had flood my brain. It was like a breath of fresh air for my mind, and I loved it.

Well, I loved it until I got dumped.

For days after the breakup, I couldn’t pull myself to draw or doodle anything. It felt too painful. Everything felt too painful. I felt numb to any ideas, and it was as if all creativity had been sucked from my soul. It was so frustrating because a pen and blank sheet of paper are usually my escape. Sometimes my brain and mouth feel so disconnected, but even when I can’t form the thoughts to verbalize my ideas, my brain and hand feel connected.

When I write, it is as if I don’t even have to think, but the pen just puts down my thoughts and feelings all on its own. It’s not difficult. It’s freeing. So when that connection between my brain and hand felt severed, it was like I had no escape from my internal reflections. Instead of loving the moments that I would have to sit and let my brain wander, I dreaded it. It felt like I

was caught in a prison that I was creating for myself as memory after memory would replay in my head. I couldn’t stop them.

One day I was sitting in stats with the vicious cycle churning through my brain when something in me clicked. Earlier that morning my cousin and I had been talking about going rock climbing. It was something that I was greatly anticipating. The idea of it felt like an act of independence from the person who broke my heart. Rock climbing was something that CJ and I had put on our bucket list, so having the chance to rewrite the experience without him involved felt freeing. I could make it my own. So, that morning,

the excitement over the prospect of the planned adventure interrupted the painful memories. It was a pleasant interruption - like a small ray of sunshine. For the first time in days I got the inspiration to draw something. It was a little man climbing up a rock wall. Beside the drawing I wrote the words:

CLIMB

CLIMB

CLIMB

CLIMB

CLIMB

CLIMB

CLIMB

CLIMB

When I finished the doodle, I sat there staring at that word that I had written eight times in all caps. Obviously, the word “climb” correlated with the drawing, but in another way, I think it was one of my first acts of pushing myself to heal internally. The imagery was a reflection of my thought that there was nowhere to go but up. I was ready to start fighting my way out of the hole of grief that I felt buried in.

It was October 3rd - my birthday. I felt so surrounded by family and friends throughout that entire day. It was eye-opening for me to visibly see the strong support system that I have through all of the texts and messages I received. It was like my phone couldn’t stay silent. My fingers felt tired from typing the response of “Thank you so much! I’m so grateful for you!”, but I truly meant it from the bottom of my heart. Then around five o'clock that night I saw a heart-wrenching notification on my phone. My heart jumped and my anxiety spiked. It was a snap from my ex-boyfriend. It simply said, “happy birthday”. I stared at the snap for probably three minutes. I didn’t know what to say. I had slowly been letting go of my anger, and I didn’t want any bitterness to come across in my response. I said, “Thank you! I hope you had a good homecoming!”. He simply responded, “I did”. I read that response and it struck me that the person who was my best friend only two weeks prior was now so distant that I only got a short, cold, twoworded response. I couldn’t comprehend it. In my brain he still was my trusted confidant. I could not just let two years of memories go, but it seemed like it was easy for him. The response made me angry. I was trying my absolute best to be friendly even though I was the one who got heartbroken. I didn’t do anything to him, but it

almost seemed like saying happy birthday to me was an annoyance.

The next day I was sitting in stats class pondering the exchange that had encountered when something in me snapped. I suddenly had so much I wanted to say. I was a volcano that had just been waiting to erupt, and all of a sudden, it was time. I quit writing the stats examples and shifted to tiny cursive words above my notes.

The heartbreak hurts, but it’s starting to heal. The ropes that entwined my heart to yours are slowly being cut. I’m letting go. You have your life. I have mine. I’m starting to feel more free than hurt. I’m free from the confusion that your actions erupted in my brain. Somehow you still confuse me though. You act as if I’m the bad guy. I’m not the one who inflicted the pain. I’m not the one who ripped your heart out, rather you ripped out mine. I chose to start cutting the ties because I had to, but there’s no need to be cold. The memories were sweet and it’s ok to remember them that way. My heart felt lighter than it had in several days as I walked out of class that morning.

Even though that first entry helped me so much, I still went to class the following days and felt like I was watching a television screen play some of my most painful memories on a loop. One of the most prominent and vivid recollections that played on the screen was the phone call that broke me. The memory has been replayed in my head probably thousands of times. It started out as a refreshing conversation. I hadn’t talked to CJ in over a week. He had been busy adjusting to college. Double majoring in physics and engineering with a minor in biology seemed crazy to me, but it was what he wanted to do, and it was proving to be a large academic load for him. I was just recovering from Covid so I was still extremely physically weak. I had been planning to talk to him about some stuff that had been on my heart with doing long distance. I wasn’t upset, but in my opinion it was important to communicate my needs and any confusion. I would want him to do the same with me. So when we had finished catching up, I

brought up some of my questions. Instead of getting a response and working through things, he broke up with me.

“I still really really like you, but I’m so busy right now I don’t have any free time. I feel like we are in two different places in life right now.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“Yes.”

That was that. The highlights of the conversation. No more explanations. In fact, in my mind none of those statements sufficed as an explanation. Just two weeks beforehand he had been telling me how much he was going to miss me and how we would make it.

Holding your hand. Feeling so loved. Gazing at the stars. Feeling so special.. Laughing until my stomach hurts. Feeling so understood. Hugging you tight. Feeling so wanted. Then an eruption. With a little bit of distance I’m not worth fighting for? Short responses. Feeling confused. Sudden lack of effort. Longing to talk to you. Hardly any communication. Feeling hurt. Then a phone call. Excited to hear your voice. The end? Why? Let go? How? Heartbroken.

I continued to pour out my thoughts in my stats notebook almost every day. It was healing. Some of the entries were like my words thrown up all over the page. The tiny cursive letters weaving around the math problems were just trying to find their space to be expressed on the page. Other entries were almost poetic. One day I was so overwhelmed by memories, but could only write several simple sentences.

Memories are weird. Some feel like they haunt me. Like a recurring nightmare that refuses to leave. Some feel like a sweet aroma that I never want to stop breathing in. Almost all of them hurt as they feel like a constant and bitter reminder of times that will never return.

Throughout the weeks following the breakup, one of my most dreaded questions was, “how are you?”. Especially when it came from someone that I didn’t know well, I just had no idea how to even begin forming a response. I was grieving. I felt like someone had died. But then there were moments when I felt relieved. Words truly felt insufficient to describe the rawness of my emotions. Even when I would make a meager attempt of giving someone a glimpse into my pain, it seemed to throw them off. I think people are too used to passively responding that they are good. Society is pushing people to be perfect. Perfect is impossible. Rawness is real. How am I doing? I don’t really know. There are moments or days that I feel fine. I feel free. I feel

motivated. Then there are moments or days that are painful. I feel lonely. I want to talk to you. I want to hug you. It’s a roller coaster of hills and valleys of emotion. Even though my heart and brain are traveling a bumpy road, my soul is at rest. Even when it hurts, I have a deep peace. I

credit this to the unwavering love of Jesus. I’ve realized that He is the only constant thing in my life. When nothing seems good, He is always good. How am I doing? My heart is bruised and my brain is confused, but I am overwhelmed by the sweet goodness of Jesus.

You see, I felt so alone in those moments of writing. But without even realizing it, each one of those entries was like a little piece of my soul being poured out to the Lord. The thing is, He knew all along. He didn’t need the stats entries to understand my heart and pain, but I did. I can now look back and see so many tiny blessings throughout the past few months. The ability to write is one of them. So, I continue to write during my statistics class. The tone of my writing is a little bit different than it was at the beginning of the entries. The anthem of gratefulness and of the Lord’s faithfulness is proclaimed in my words. One of my latest entries is not my words, but the words from Leanna Crawford’s song “Truth I'm Standing On”. I wrote them when I realized that I had a choice on how my pain would shape my perspective. I am choosing to stand on truth. “This is the truth I'm standing on

Even when all my strength is gone

You are faithful forever

And I know You'll never

Let me fall

Right now I'm choosing to believe

Someday soon I'll look back and see

All the pain had a purpose

Your plan was perfect all along

This is the truth I'm standing on”

My statistics notebook began as a simple place to take math notes. Through boredom it became a place of freedom and creativity. Through sorrow it became a place of release. The many entries that nobody will probably ever read proved to be a tool to help myself let go. To process. To understand.

Honorable Mention: Madeline Taylor, 12th, Nashua-Plainfield High School, (Fiction)

"Choices"

I woke up violently, her screams still echoing in my mind. The lifeless body of hers haunts my eyes. I'm sweating, yet numbingly cold. My throat aches, my skin is rough. It's dark, very dark. For a second I feel dead as if my soul is here but not my body. My eyes dry, I blink and the second my eyes reopen I'm walking down my street. I must've fallen into one of my lucid visions.

I was walking down the street and I saw the trees sway, and the leaves tumble past my feet but I felt nothing. I looked up to see rain drizzling from the sky, hitting the pavement around me but yet I still felt nothing. Something must be wrong with me. I'll mention it to mom when I get home. I really hope she's not too angry with me, I've misplaced the time and I know it's past curfew. She hates it when I'm late, always talking about how I'm a terrible role model for my little sister as if she truly cares about my curfew. Mom always pressured me to be this picture-perfect daughter, to lead the way for Jenny. Of course, when I was assaulted last year mom blamed me, always mentioning how skimpy I dressed. I can never be perfect for my mom.

I approached the yard and saw no lights on. Maybe they went to bed, realizing I'd be home soon. I walked into the entranceway greeted by silence, odd silence. As I began to walk down my bedroom hallway I could hear crying, silent, muffled crying almost as if whoever was crying didn’t want others to know. As I approached my room I caught a whiff of mom's perfume. Oh, how comforting that smell always was. I stood in my doorway waiting for mom to look at me, to realize I was standing here fine, ten toes ten fingers just like how I entered this world. Oddly, mom didn't realize. Instead, her head lay in her palms as she was sitting on my bed. The tears overflowed out of her palms and onto my comforter, the soft whimpers of air escaping her lungs made the silence less silent. I whispered to her, no response, not even a budge. I spoke to her in a normal tone, yet still no response. Very weird. I screamed at her. I screamed so loud it should have echoed down the hall and stolen her attention, but she didn't even flinch, not a single tear missed her cheek. What is going on? I walked out in anger and headed towards the living room. I thought if I'm going to get treated as if I'm invisible I might as well take advantage of it.

As I passed by the fireplace room, I caught a glimpse of myself. A picture of me above the mantel. When did this happen? I walked into the room and just stood there, in shock. Jokingly I thought, am I dead? My picture was hung high with all my trophies and other odds and ends sitting on the mantle. Then reality hit me like a brick shattering a window. Did I do it? Did I actually do it?

I was fed up with all the harassment and mom was ashamed to have some whore of a child in her house. She was so head high on believing my sexual assault was my fault, all because I wore a skimpy outfit that day. My best friend was the only one who believed me, or at least I thought she did until I found out she had a whole Instagram dedicated to me and my supposed false accusation and how it wasn't fair I ruined Tyler’s football career. A year I fought, a year of endless tears and restless nights. A year of night terrors reliving the incident. I was tired, physically and mentally. That day at school I was the talk amongst everyone, even teachers. Why? You may ask. Today marked the year anniversary of my assault, the assault nobody believed. All throughout the day, I was shoved, slut shamed and had “whore” whispered into my ear. All this, all this because I was attacked and had the courage to speak out about my attacker. All this because Tyler is a star football player with a big future, a big future I ruined. I went home that day crying, running into the house dodging mom and all her stupid questions. I ran straight into the bathroom, locking the door quickly before mom could catch up. She pounded on that door for what seemed like hours, but in reality, it was only about five minutes until she gave up and went back to doing whatever she had been doing.

In silence, I cried for hours. Thinking, and rethinking. Contemplating all possible solutions, endings, a way to make this pain go away. After being alone for a while, nobody to talk to, nobody to trust, I befriended the voices in my head. My voices were quiet and hardly came to mind but when they did a happy ending came to mind, solutions, and plans. The ins and outs, the consequences all came to mind. The voices that were so silent began to lurk in my head; they began to speak so loud they muted everything else. They spoke of a way to be happier, to be free of suffering. I loved the thought, and only for a second did I second-guess their solution. I began ransacking the medicine cabinet, finding all the medications you can overdose on.

I may seem stupid for wanting this “easy way out” but I wasn’t too stupid. I knew if I took just pills mom could easily strip me of my opportunity of escaping and I didn’t want that to happen. I wanted to give mom that final “I always knew she'd be my disappointment, child”. I sort of began craving her whole “I told you so” spew. After finding multiple medications I started to run a bath. I sat at the edge of the tub watching the water rise and started thinking back to my memories prior to the incident. I was once a young blonde, who enjoyed swinging, singing, braiding hair, and making friendship bracelets with my best friend. I used to have a contagious laugh, making the room brighter with the positivity I emitted. The steam began merging from the water, it was a welcoming sight. I had grabbed one of dad's shaving blades and stripped. For a minute I stood and stared into the mirror, looking at myself, thinking. What was so important about me? What was so attractive about me that he so direly wanted to steal from me? Why me? I put one foot in the boiling water; the tingling sensation of my skin

burning ran through my legs and sprinted up my body as I submerged myself into the boiling hot bath. I lay there rethinking everything. I went through the consequences, the trauma I'm about to create, and the pain I'll be relieved from. I laid there, my body numb from the hot water being soaked in. I took a shallow breath and swallowed handfuls of each medication. With each handful a thought went down with the pills, regrets got swallowed like screws, but I still didn’t care what was about to happen. With so much medication flowing through my veins I grew dizzy but I knew I wasn’t done. It's what the voices insisted. I sat there with the blade trembling in my hand. I shook so much but I didn't want to back down and anger my voices. As I raised my blade gripping hand I woke up in a dark room, an empty thoughtless room.

My mother found me only after my little sister complained that I was still in the bathroom. Mom pounded and pounded on that door, waiting for me to magically unlock it, but it was like she knew, within a few hammering pounds on the door mom kicked it in and saw what was done. Jenny stood in the doorway, eyes glued to my naked body being dragged out of the tub. She watched mom beat on me for minutes until the medics came bursting through. On that day Jenny and my lifeless naked body heard those curdling screams escape mom's mouth, those screams that still haunt me in my grave, the screams nobody wants to hear come from a mother. Nobody believes you when you mention the friends inside your mind, the voices that tell you what to do, how to do it, and when. Nobody believes you when you say you're not doing well, that you're struggling. Nobody truly understands the way trauma affects one person. Nobody understands how it takes only 10 minutes to find medication, and only a matter of hours to die from your choices.

On that day, mom didn't just lose one child, but she lost two. Jenny never came back from that horrific experience. Mom threw her in therapy, and forced medications down her throat, fearful she was going to lose her last child. Jenny had strict rules now and high expectations to meet, but little did Jenny know that mom was only this way because she was losing herself.

I sat above the mantel for months, watching mom sprint past the room I sat in, avoiding eye contact with me. I heard her cry, yell, and scream every night. For months, I watched mom through a picture frame losing herself like a madwoman until finally one fall morning mom sent Jenny off to Memas and Papas for a day out. Mom was perfectly normal the whole day. She dropped Jenny off, went shopping, and just simply enjoyed herself until night fell. Once the sky grew black mom sprinted past me like usual but this time in a different direction, she was going back into her office where we kept a gun safe. I was trapped in a frame of oak. Knowing what was about to happen, I couldn't do anything but watch. Mom came back into eyesight with something in hand. This time, she slowly walked into my room where I hung in my frame. She knelt before

me, barrel in mouth, and before I could look away… BOOM!

I woke up startled, flung out of bed, and sprinted down the hall. I burst through mom's door only to startle her from her sleep. Mom panicked thinking something was wrong, only to be told that her seventeen-year-old had a nightmare. Mom was quite upset but was not hesitant to let me in her bed. I crawled beside the person I just dreamt about blowing her head off and snuggled in tightly, too afraid that my dream would become reality. I kissed mom's cheek and closed my eyes. When morning bloomed, we woke to terrifying screams. Jenny had come home from Memaws and Papas, only to walk into the newly painted fireplace room.

For the rest of Jenny's childhood, our portraits hung high. We watched our little Jenny grow into an amazing woman. She was smart, beautiful, and a big troublemaker. On her eighteenth birthday, Jenny finally came home to us. Above the mantel we all sat, forcing relatives to stare at our beautiful features, with years of our achievements and odds and ends sitting on the mantel below us, we watched generations of the family pass and grow until we became forgotten about and shoved into a tiny box. We became nothing more than oak wood frames with unfamiliar faces. We weren't offended because we were a happy family, finally.