The Notes That Saved a Life.

My name is Martha Drews, I write sci-fi novels, so when my professor assigned an essay about our hero, I was not intrigued. I’ve never had a hero before; no one’s really stuck out. There wasn’t anyone that instantly came to my mind. I had no idea what to write about until I met a middle aged woman. Her appearance was no different from anyone else; she would have not stood out if it weren’t for her awe-inspiring story.

I met Jean Roberts one morning after class. I sat in the local coffee shop inhaling the sweet aroma of coffee beans and chocolate. I was trying to finish my English literature assignment when the seat next to mine scraped against the floor. A woman sat next to me. She had brown hair and she wore a grey tracksuit. She oddly smelled like cigarette ash.

“You, my darling, look like you could use a good story.” Her loud voice woke the quiet coffee shop.

“Um, maybe another time,” I muttered; I was taken aback by her loud personality. “I’m sort of in the middle of an assignment.

“Come on, I won’t take too long,” She persisted, “Please, you won’t regret it.”

I reluctantly gave in. By the end of her story, through tears, laughs, and six coffees, we were no longer strangers, we were friends. Friends who experienced the same thing, who could help each other, who cried, and who laughed with each other. I imagined that she had that sort of effect on everyone she talked to, even though I only met Jean for two days and would never see her again. I saw her as one of my most trusted and beloved friend.

Her story began in 1986. She was sixteen years old when the first note came. It had been a hard couple months; her father’s job has transferred them from their small town in Maryland to Chicago, the city where dreams come true. For Jean, it was the exact opposite. She felt like her whole world had been torn apart. Her dreams, future, friends, everything, had been ripped from her hands in a matter of seconds. Being the new kid was nothing like the magazines made it out to be, no matter how much she tried “to be herself” or throw herself into different clubs to meet new people, she was still the “loser who sat in the front seat.”

Jean explained to me that her plan was to try every club, sit at different lunch tables every day, and even try to talk to every person she saw. Sadly her plan back fired. She was not only known as “the loser who sits in the front seat” but now “the clingy, pathetic loser who tries too hard.”

By the second week of school, Jean was bullied in the hallways, given notes with threats and insults written in them, and cruel jokes and pranks were pulled on her daily. Jean was living in her own nightmare.

“Every morning, I would wake up and fear the day ahead. I would go to school, and fake being sick more than half the day, just to avoid the bullies. I would come home, lock myself in my room, and cry. I would cry and cry to the point where I would get sick. I feared the bathroom, where pills, razors, all sorts of things that could potentially hurt me were stored. I wasn’t afraid that they would hurt me, I was afraid that I would hurt myself. That the urge to get away from the pain, the torture, the suffering would be too tempting.” She explained to me. My stomach twisted at the thought of suffering so much, that it would get to the point of wanting to harm myself.

The morning the first note arrived, Jean pulled herself out of her bed, pain and exhaustion overwhelmed her. She turned on the shower and hopped in, rubbing the dried blood off her wrists, from the small cuts she had made the night before. She winced as she accidentally washed her wrists with soap. Keep pushing, keep trying, things will get better, she thought to herself.

When Jean finished getting ready, she stepped outside a little earlier than usual; she decided to walk to school day. When she stepped off her porch, a soft crackling came from under her foot. She sheepishly moved her foot and picked up the note.

“Please don’t hurt yourself anymore. You’re worth it, I promise,” Jean read aloud. That once gloomy morning was now a morning full of new beginnings. Somehow the little note, with a few words scribbled on to it, barely eligible had given Jean a new look on the day, given her confidence and reassurance.

“I recall walking to school, a bounce in my step; a small smile accompanied me. As I entered the school, fear slowly started to take over me. I had to take a couple deep breathes, I told myself Jean. You need to get it together, some stranger believes in you. Now you have to believe in yourself. So I did. The bullies continued to torture me, but that morning, it didn’t hurt as much, and for once, I was happy.” Jean explained to me, I looked out the window and noticed that the sun had started to set; I looked at my watch and realized that I had spent three hours with her!

“Oh my gosh! It’s gotten so late! I have to go!” I exclaimed, jumping out of my seat.


“Wait, wait! I’m almost done!” She pleaded. I took a look at the door, contemplating whether or not I should stay.

“Okay, one more hour, and then I have to go!” Jean nodded slightly, we sat down and she began her story again.

For months, notes arrived once every week. The small slips of paper, with a simple word or phrase of motivation and courage, gave her the hope and motivation to keep on pushing. Then one day, the note didn’t come. Jean simply told herself, that maybe the stranger was running late or decided to deliver it later in the week. She went to school, hopeful that when she came home the note would be there. She was devastated to see it not there. Tuesday morning, no note. Wednesday morning, no note. Each day the note didn’t come, the bullying got worse and worse to the point where Jean could not stand it.

Thursday morning, February the 17th 1986, Jean faked being sick. She had a plan to get away from the stress, the pain, the hurt, and the exhaustion. When her mom left the house, she staggered into the bathroom, reaching for the door of the medical cabinet. She slowly brought down a bottle of pills and sank to the floor; the cold air coming from the vent blew on her bare shoulders.

Jean sobbed; she rocked back and forth, letting out strangled sobs. Slowly she opened the pill bottle, pouring the contents into her hand. She shakily brought her hand to her mouth, running her tongue over the round pills, just as she tilted her head back to swallow the pills a cold gush of air rushed over her arms. She felt something run over her arm; she poured the pills back into the bottle and picked up the piece of paper that had blown out of the vent.

Don’t do it, you’re worth so much more. Please stay alive.

“I never learned who the notes were from, or how the note had gotten into the vent, but after that night I stopped wondering and started accepting. I switched schools after that, and started a stop bullying club at my new school. When I graduated, I went to college for a few months but decided that it wasn’t for me. I bought a van and kissed Chicago good bye and I’ve never looked back. I traveled around the USA telling my story; just a couple years ago I stopped and have been living here since.” Jean explained, “I forgave my peers, believing that something horrible must have been happening in their life for them to bully me. That’s how I look at life now; I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Since doing that, my whole life has changed. I have such a better look on to life now, truly I thank the bullies, without them I wouldn’t be who I am today.”

Jean later died at the age of 53 from breast cancer, an anti-bullying foundation was named in honor of her and her journey. Jean changed many lives and brought people together. In her death bed, the bullies from her old school visited her. They expressed their sorrow and how bad they’ve felt all these years. They begged for her to forgive them. Jean’s last words were “You’ve always been forgiven, now forgive yourself.”

I believe that everyone should live the way Jean did. She took the worst things in life and found the good in them, learned from them, found a way to love them. She was and is a true hero.