In elementary school you’re taught what to do if someone brings a gun to school, but not every situation is the same. It might not seem like a big deal; a kid brings a gun, a student reports it, no shots fired, no big deal. But I was the student who reported it. I was that kid. People say I’m brave, but they don’t understand the fear that ran through me. And the months that followed were almost as bad as that day itself. I struggled with depression, PTSD, and constant what-ifs.

October 23, 2013. I remember that day better than I remember my own cell phone number. That was the day that ruined my freshman year. My biggest fear had always been a school shooting. I always told myself, Not this school. Not this town. Not these people.

I had left the lunch room so excited to go to my Eastern World class. About halfway through the period we had free time to study for a test the next day. I was sitting at my desk when a friend walked up and said, “He has a gun. I saw it, and it was loaded.”

My heart dropped, and numbness ran through my legs. I couldn’t breathe. I left the room, ran to the bathroom, and just looked at myself in the mirror. It was probably only two minutes, but it felt like an eternity. I remember I wasn’t looking at myself like I normally do, pointing out my flaws. I was staring into my soul. I left the bathroom, shaking so hard I felt cold, and then I saw him. He showed me the loaded gun and reality hit. I’m going to die.

But he didn’t pull the trigger. As I walked away, I felt like a hostage who just survived the negotiation.

Now for the hard part: telling someone. The life or death part – but it wasn’t just my life, it was everyone else’s. I walked up to my teacher and said, “Can I talk to you in the hall?” After I told him, he couldn’t do anything except call for help. We had to wait.

Waiting was hell. It was slow-motion, teeth-chattering, goosebumps waiting. The whole time I wanted to scream and tell everyone, but I couldn’t. The class slowly ticked by, and finally the police came. Finally, I could breathe. Nobody died.

“You should feel proud of yourself. You’re a hero.” Those words spewed out of people’s mouths like spitballs I was trying to avoid. I just wanted to be left alone. All I could think was, I didn’t mess up, but I could have. I could have easily gotten my entire class killed with one wrong word. Maybe that’s what scares me the most.

For the rest of freshman year, all I heard was, “Yeah, she’s the gun girl.”

Gun girl.

I didn’t know that being called “hero” could hurt, but it did. It was a constant reminder of what happened. I began having flashbacks, and then I spiraled out of control. I learned what it felt like to drown while everyone else around you is swimming. I was diagnosed with PTSD and depression a month after the incident.

Not a day passed that I didn’t think about that day. Every day I reevaluated the situation and thought about what I could have done differently. The what-ifs haunted me the most. What if I see him? What about junior year, when he comes back to school? What if it happens again? What if he kills me next time?

I cried myself to sleep every night. I remember fighting with my body to stay awake because the night terrors that woke me every night made me shake. I got to the point that I didn’t want to leave my room because I was scared that I might be on his hit list. I was his victim without him even knowing it. It turns out that he had been planning to shoot himself that day. Not me, not my class, himself. I had spent months fearing a kid who feared himself the most.

As time progressed, I learned that sometimes living is the best form of revenge. And I wanted to live, not just survive. Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t getting me anywhere. I got a therapist. I felt crazy. I had let this one event get to me, ruin me. When I think about freshman year, I think about wasted time.

Then one day I gained the courage to go on a run. About halfway through, I saw him. I could have walked right up to him and his friends and told him how much he had put me through – the night terrors, the flashbacks – but something held me back. It wasn’t fear. It was that he looked at me like I was his hero. He was alive because I had told the teacher that day. Finally I thought, Maybe I am a hero. After all, I rescued him, right? And eventually I rescued myself too.