toothlxsss

no rylee sucks i would never be her

no.. rylee sucks

buddy you ARE rylee. YOU are the sounds

??? what

no. that is a blatant lie; i pour my heart, my soul, my being into my writing. YOU BASTATD you hack me

poopymcpoopster is you and you are rylee....

im not rylee, i am poopymcpoopster.

ok

Stories are meant to heal. That is a truth I have come to carry after a long time spent searching for a place to stand. For many years, my life has been defined by the sound of packing tape and the unfamiliar smell of new hallways. Thirteen times I packed everything I owned into the cardboard boxes, navigating the new neighbourhood, trying to make new friends at six separate elementary schools before I even really knew what a home was supposed to feel like. When you move that much, you start to believe that you are just a shadow, passing through places without leaving a footprint, always wondering when you’ll leave next. But life isn’t about the miles you travel, it’s about the moments that force you to stop running. The moments that come from sudden pain, from when I almost pierced my foot due to a pool shower room seat. From finding something new that helped you figure out who you are as a person, like saving a dying cat behind the dumpster. Or even just the laughter of those important to you, like my nine and twelve-year-old niece and nephew who helped me with finding where I belonged in this city, or in this world. There is a unique kind of isolation that comes with being the “new kid”. Across thirteen different moves, my childhood was a blur of cardboard boxes, taped edges, and unfamiliar streets. While adults often view moving as a simple logistical shift, a child experiences it as a complete breakdown of their universe. For me, the true, heavy weight of this displacement happened within the walls of six separate elementary schools. Walking into a new classroom in the middle of the school year is like stepping onto a stage where everyone else knows their lines, and you haven’t even been given a script. You stand at the front of the room while a teacher introduces you, feeling every eye on you, acutely aware that you do not belong. This instability was so profound that I even found myself looping backward, returning to one of those six schools a second time after a separate move, experiencing the strange whiplash of trying to fit into a past that had already moved on without me. I watched through windows as other kids laughed with friends they had known since kindergarten. It felt safer to protect myself with quiet isolation than to risk building a connection, only for it to disappear a few months later when I moved next. In One Native Life, Richard Wagamese speaks beautifully about the heavy burden of displacement and the deep human longing to find a place where your spirit can finally rest. This is within the chapter Wood Ducks. My childhood directly answers the questions of how we learn to be human by showing the reverse. When you are stripped of a community, you realize that humanity is naturally cooperative and relational. We learn to be human by anchoring ourselves in a collective history with others. Without that anchor, we feel like ghosts rather than people. The significance of this period is that it taught me the survival value of a protective shell, but it also taught me that hiding in the shadows is not true living. A turning point arrived in grade seven when I received my first phone. To a kid who had survived 12 moves at that point, it was like a lifeline to permanence. For the very first time, a future move did not have to mean a forced and painful goodbye. The friends I made in 2021 are people I am still closely in contact with today, serving as my first proof that I could leave a footprint, stay connected, and finally belong. While this digital permanence was purely emotional, I had already learned about human fragility and how the human body is magnificent with its ability to heal physical wounds. Physical fragility is something that many people ignore, denying that humans are vulnerable creatures who can be easily hurt. When I was eight, a sudden, violent accident in a place that should have been completely safe occurred. I remember the heavy, humid smell of chlorine burning my nose and the slick, wet sensation of the cold tiles beneath my bare feet in the pool shower room. It was almost entirely empty in there, the large space consisting only of me and two of my sisters, our voices echoing quietly against the concrete walls. I used the designated seat to sit on while I quickly showered before entering the pool, completely unaware of any danger. As I was sitting and washing off, my foot suddenly got caught underneath the heavy metal seat leg. The world seemed to slow down as the heavy structure shifted. As it fell with immense force, it nearly pierced straight through my foot. Thankfully, by some stroke of luck, it pierced through the side of my toe and not straight down the middle of the bone. I remember the sharp, blinding white flash of pain that went up my entire leg, the cold echo of water continuously running down the drain, and the terrifying sight of dark crimson blood pooling on the wet floor before it, too, swirled down into the drain. The shower room, which was supposed to be a simple, routine step just before having a fun afternoon, instantly transformed into a site of trauma. The physical scar left on my foot became permanent, a daily visual reminder of how quickly the world can break open, and how easily our bodily safety can vanish when we least expect it. This experience connects back to Wagamese’s exploration in One Native Life, specifically in the chapter titled "Scars". In that chapter, Wagamese reflects on how the physical and emotional marks left on our bodies are maps of where we have been and what we have survived. We learn to be human not by pretending we are invincible, but by confronting the harsh reality of our physical fragility. Experiencing sudden trauma forces us to understand that our time on this earth is delicate, requiring us to process intense fear, survive unexpected pain, and recognize that our bodies shape who we become. It taught me that pain can arrive entirely unannounced, leaving marks that we are forced to carry forever. However, carrying a physical scar also taught me about human resilience. The body possesses an incredible ability to heal itself, even when a piece of it is permanently changed or disfigured. It showed me that surviving a fracture, whether it is a broken home or a broken body, is an essential part of the human condition. Just as a sudden accident could inflict unexpected trauma,

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that is such an atrocious LIE

you are rylee bro