It’s often said that one is the loneliest number, and on many occasions, it can be. The number one can also be associated with the pressures of limited chances; “You’ve only got one shot. Make it count!” However, while only having one of something desirable, or being the “only one” can be nerve-racking and lonely, there is such a sense of power in standing on your own, or being the single person who stood up for a lonely soul. To be the leading reason behind why someone didn't give up or why they started is something to be extremely proud of; but sadly, many people use this power in such a way that is hurtful and detrimental to others. I believe in the absolute power of one person because while one can be the loneliest number, one person and one action are also all it takes to change or save a life.

I have always placed kindness and treating others with respect at the top of my list of importance. That's not to say that I am the best person I can be all the time, but I try to be conscious of the way I treat others. Unfortunately, I haven't always been returned this courtesy. Going into my freshman year of high school, I had three really great friends. I was 14 years old and so ready to take on the world (starting with William Chrisman High School). My gusto for the year was dampened, however, when my childhood best friend revealed that she would be attending our rival high school instead. Now, this was not her fault, and I don't blame her for it. But I will admit that I was heartbroken and scared. Vulnerable, even. However I still had my two other friends, and nothing could ruin my excitement for the next 4 years of my life: Or so I thought.

Soon enough, the pulling hands of high school — and life in general, for that matter — got between another one of my friendships. My friend had always confided in me that she found our band director attractive, and she had apparently been having inappropriate contact with him. Somehow the school administrators found out on Friday, August 20th, 2013 (also known as my 15th birthday), and both she and our teacher were extracted from school. Since I was good friends with the minor involved, I was called in to see the School Resource Officer on Monday, August 23rd, to answer some questions, and he made it very clear that no matter what was said to me, I was not to talk about this situation to anyone but him and the Child services workers from the State. Word still got out, however, and the band director got fired, and my friend thought I was the one who’d spilled her secret and “ruined her relationship.” Now, had we just left it at that — a broken friendship with awkward glances in the halls and the occasional glare — then I probably wouldn't be sitting here writing this piece about the power of one right now. Unfortunately, however, we didn't leave it at that. Things escalated so much further. I began receiving text messages from unknown numbers. At first, it was just one or two a week. That number slowly grew into three or four, then to every day, and eventually to multiple messages a day. Initially, I wasn't sure who it was. The messages just read things like “slut,” “liar,” and “I hate you.” Very hateful, yet so vague. It wasn't until the physical harassment started that I pieced it all together.

My friend (or ex-friend, I suppose) and her new boyfriend (not the band teacher) were both in band with me. He was in the pit so he often stood on the sidelines while we marched. The taunting began about 3 weeks into school. At first, it was just harmless banter. He would say my name repeatedly, talk about my outfits, and make fun of “that stupid trumpet player.” I tried to just shrug it off, but the insults got worse. He started shaming my body. He called me every name in the book but his favorites were fat and ugly. My old friend would just giggle like she thought it was cute, and I'm sure she did. She hated me. He hated me; and soon, they started convincing everyone else to hate me, too. They spread absurd lies about me. People began asking me if I was the reason our teacher was gone. I wanted to stand up for myself, but the SRO had made it very clear that I was not to speak to anyone about this, so I just kept taking the hits. My life had become something I honestly thought you only read about in books and saw on TV. The messages kept coming, and now that I knew who they were from they seemed to cut deeper than before. I couldn't understand how someone who had once called me a friend could treat me so terribly, as if I was worth absolutely nothing. I started deleting the messages before I even read them. I felt guilty and ashamed, but most of all I felt scared: Scared that I was beginning to believe the words that were typed in them. Scared that I was beginning to hate me, too.

Now, I took the hits, but I would be lying if I said I didn't try to tap out multiple times. I went to the counselors and the principles about the harassment and the messages. They told me they were sorry, but that they couldn't do anything about it without proof, and that I'd have to save the next messages and bring them in “if I wanted something to be done about it.” If I wanted something to be done about it? Were they kidding? I was crumpling. I was suffocating. I came to them, a 15-year-old girl, broken in a time of absolute destitute and vulnerability. Why was that not enough for them? Before this moment, I didn't think anyone had any power over me except for myself. I never even thought about power, or influence, or destruction. But after this moment, that seemed to be all I saw, and all I knew. The power of one girl’s actions had turned me from an open-minded, innocent and happy high school girl into a person I no longer knew. A person I couldn't face in the mirror, and one who I was beginning to despise. I had given into the absolute power of one individual, and that power was looking as if it might be enough to break me.

I tried to be optimistic. I tried to remain the happy girl who played all the sports and had the perfect grades. I hardly let on to my own mother the things happening at school. I acted like I was shrugging it off like it was almost humorous to me. I didn't want her to worry, or call the school, and I thought eventually they would get tired and give up the act. I was so wrong. No one would sit by me at lunch at the band competitions. People would whisper as I walked by. If you want to know the truth, nothing about it was humorous. It was hell: In absolutely every sense of the word, high school was hell, and to think that only mere months prior I had been so giddy to begin was an abominable thought to me at this point. There were some mornings when I literally could not bring myself to get out of bed. I told my mom I was feeling sick, but really I was just exhausted. I was tired of fighting. Tired of acting like I was okay when I was, in fact, the furthest thing from it. People hated me for something I hadn’t even done, and I couldn’t stand up for myself and correct them because it was punishable by law. I was hopelessly trapped.

By early October of my freshman year of high school, I was beginning to believe that things would never get better. I couldn’t see an end coming anytime soon, and there is not a word in the English language to describe the absolute dismay and devastation I felt upon this thought. I was nothing. I was worse than nothing. People hated me. I was like a disease. Someone even etched “slut” on my band stand in pencil one day before class. I couldn’t believe that this had all come about because of one person and that that one person had once been my best friend. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was at my breaking point. I had decided that after one more smart comment or malignant insult, I was done. I was going to self-destruct…

And then I met her. Well, officially, anyway. Lindsey is the kind of girl that even if you don’t officially get introduced, you could never possibly forget. We had crossed paths over the summer at weights, soccer, and basketball, but her fall sport was volleyball and mine was cross country, and she was a senior and I a freshman. I knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t a serial killer, but I was still a little concerned (and so was my mom) when she all but kidnapped me one day in October after practice and took me to a park. However, no matter how disconcerting this situation may have seemed at the time, I believe that it was truly the moment that saved my life. Lindsey and I sat in that park for two hours and she just talked to me. She asked me what was going on and when I told her she listened. Suddenly I didn’t care about what the SRO said, because if I had kept it in any longer I would have imploded, and it was so alleviating to have someone actually look at me as a person again. Lindsey looked at me and she saw ME. She didn’t see the girl who hated herself more than the people who had made her feel that way, or “the girl she’d heard about”. She asked me about my problems and she offered me solutions. She believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself. She didn’t have to care, but she did. She didn’t have to stand alone but she did, and that may be the leading reason why I am able to sit here today and write this piece about it. That day at the park, Lindsey saved my life. She didn’t even know what she was doing but she did it, and out of all the moments of “ones” and “standing alone” from that semester, I thank my lucky stars every night for that day and that moment, and when I count my blessings I always count Lindsey twice.

You see, many people say that one is the loneliest number. And I can wholeheartedly attest to that from personal experience. But one is so much more than that. One person, carrying out one action, in one moment can change everything. It only took one person to make me have no value for my life, but it also took only one person to save it, and I think that’s a true display of what the power of one can do.