The Diary of a Shrinking Violet


Someone had to tell her to stop. Enough was enough.


"STOP!" I yelled. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

But it was already too late. I heard a loud crashing sound and a ear piercing scream. Very slowly I uncovered my eyes and was greeted by another ear splitting scream-only to realize a second later that the second scream had escaped from me.

Never before in my life had I seen so much red!


So maybe I should back up a little-or a lot. I began my freshman year of high school as the super quiet girl in the corner. The wallflower. The shrinking violet. A mouse. The plain-Jane. (Ha! ironically, My name is Jane!)

Anyway, I slipped through those days fairly easily. I went completely unnoticed. Literally. The most common sentence I heard was a sincere, "Oh sorry. I didn't see you there," as yet another person completely overlooked me, resulting in a collision. Uggg! Life was completely awful then! Not that I can say it's any better now.

It was during my freshman year that I was given this diary as a gift from my crazy aunt Xandra. It all began a few years ago when my fifth grade teacher described me as "quiet" and "introverted" during conferences. My mother went INSANE! She forced me into relentless therapy sessions to "heal my mind" and "find the key to what's locked inside". Eventally the therapy sessions proved themselves to be worthless and my dad finally convinced my mom to pluck me straight out of them. (The GREATEST day of my ENTIRE life! if you ask me!) It was then that my mom called up Xandra to ask for advice...as if her kids had turned out so well. Ha! Ever since then, Xandra has completely devoted her life to buying me a diary for every special occasion possible: Christmas, My Birthday, Halloween, St. Patricks Day. Even holidays we don't celebrate! Kwanzaa, Chinese New Year, and even the Equinox's! Last year, I got a diary on father's day. Seriously, father's day?!?! I'm not about to become a father unless I get some major surgery, which is scheduled for NEVER.

Nearly every holiday imaginable, Xandra insists on sending me a diary. Each one comes with the same attatchment. A neon orange sticky note reading, "Feel free to let your mind escape! It's best to let it all go. Let it flow on to the papers of your brand new diary. Kisses, Xandra". I have a stack of about 34 of them, complete with the neon sticky notes, sitting in the corner of my room right now. There would be a lot more, but I've managed to slough them off at every party I 've heard of over the years.

Contrary to my mother's beliefs, I talk. She doesn't seem to get it though. She and I are a lot alike, but when it comes to talking, we're almost opposites. I swear nearly every thought she has she says. My dad is the total opposite of my mom. He is a fairly quiet guy. I don't mean the awkward creepy kind either, just the one that thinks. A thinker-that's how he describes himself. Yet, I'm wouldn't say I'm totally that way either.

My dad delivers the paper for fun. He arranged to do so fairly early in the morning as his "wake up ritual". He believes it allows him to connect with our small town. Every few Saturdays I decide to go with him to escape my terroizing little brother, Damien. And almost every time I get the exact same lines from my dad.

Him: I know how you feel with your mom and Xandra overwhelming with you with all their talking. It can get a little crazy at times.

Me: Yeah.

Him: I think you're a lot like me Jane. We're thinkers.

Me: A thinker. Maybe.

Him (beaming and reaching his arm around me to give my shoulder a squeeze): I always knew you'd turn out just like your old man.

But really, both my parents are wrong. The problem isn't that I don't talk. The problem is people don't listen. No one ever stops to listen until it is already too late.

As my freshman year dragged on, and my diaries stacked up, I got sick and tired of not being noticed. Looking back now, I think I could have died my hair a glittery neon green and spiked it into a 9 inch mohawk, and still wouldn't have been noticed. One day it finally happened though. I got noticed! A girl, not much older than me, was partnered up with me in Psychology. Sheena was a junior. She and I were to create a survey of our choice to quiz our fellow students. As she and I worked together on our survey, we began to develop a friendship. Pretty soon we started running around and hanging out together. We made quite the odd pair. She was the crazy, outgoing, slightly on the edge girl. She introduced me to sooo many new things.

My parents did not approve. Looking back now, I understand. Yet, I also understood then. I knew she could be dangerous, but that didn't matter. I was living in the glory days. I was no longer the wallflower. Someone had finally noticed me and paid attention to me!

Sheena was 17. She was funny and edgy. She could drive, and we went nearly everywhere. But she also smoked...and drank (I don't mean Coolaid either!) ...and occasionally stole from the local convience store. She was constantly trying to convince me to give her "alternate activites" a try, but I always refused. We were the best of friends, but I felt like I was betraying her to say no. I didn't want to lose the one and only person that had ever noticed me. I felt like my refusal began to drive a wedge between us.

To make matters worse, my parents often refused to let me go with Sheena anywhere. As I continued refuse to participate in Sheena's alternate activities, and my parents refused to let us hang out or ride around, Sheena and I grew apart.

But one day, neither of my parents could get off of work to pick me up when I had to stay late afterschool for extra help on geometry..YUCK! Depressed and ride-less, I dropped down onto the curb in front of the high school and moped. Eventually I gave up and got up, and began walking home. I had only gotten two blocks from the high school when Sheena came barrelling past and slammed on her brakes. She offered me a ride, and foolish and selfishly, I accepted-ignoring all of my parents' warnings about Sheena's driving in the back of my head.

A few hours later, Sheena was flying down the gravel backroads to my house after having been driving around town carelessly for a couple of hours. I was trying to be cool about it, but she was scaring the crap out of me. I had a death grip on my seat beneath my thigh so that I could hide my fear, and I kept trying to reach for my seatbelt before I could stop myself.

As the looming object so called my home neared, Sheena didn't show a single sign of slowing down. The beat up car was so lightweight and our tires had no traction. I could feel the car fishtailing constantly, but Sheena just laughed and drove faster.

"You'd probably better slow down some," I managed. "My house is right there at the top of this next hill".

"Oh, don't be such a buzz kill Jane!" Sheena responded as she shrugged my comment off.

Suddenly, I got a terrible sickening gut feeling. It was six pm...the exact same time-. That was my only thought. Someone had to tell her to stop. Enough was enough.


"STOP!" I yelled. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

But it was already too late. I heard a loud crashing sound and a ear piercing scream. Very slowly I uncovered my eyes and was greeted by another ear splitting scream-only to realize a second later that the second scream had escaped from me.

Never before in my life had I seen so much red!

I slowly peeled back my fingers one by one. Damien was lying in a bloody mangled heap 25 yards from the front of Sheena's car. I bailed out of the vehicle and raced over to my little brother's side. I yelled his name over and over, but he never responded.

After that, things became a blur. I remember my parents were suddenly by Damien's side with me. And soon after them, there was alot of flashing lights and sirens as my baby brother's limp body was loaded onto a stretcher and then into the back of an ambulance.


Damien ended up okay. He had a pretty good concussion and quite a few stitches in his arm and forehead. Once he became fully reaware of his whereabouts again, his first question was "What happened to my soccer ball?"

I couldn't stop the tears after that outburst. They came rolling between big sobs as I wrapped my arms tight around my little brother. Only he would be sitting in a hospital bed with tubes of all sorts hooked up to him, a bandaged head and arm, and still be wondering if his soccer ball was okay.



Sheena and I don't talk anymore. I think the whole accident slowed down her driving some....but not enough. As for me, I learned a huge lesson. As much as I hate to say it, my parents were right. But all in all, my family is now closer than ever before. My parents finally listen to me. They've decided that I do talk afterall. Things are looking up. I am finally a blooming violet!