I don’t remember
too much of my grammar school days. I was an outcast. I was picked on. Whatever
I did wasn’t good enough. I was always striving at perfection because I wanted
my parents to be proud of me.
I slowly sank
into depression. I never showed it. If you ask anyone: I was the
happiest-go-lucky kid. Deep down inside, I wanted to feel that way.
I remember lots
of therapy appointments. I hated each one. It was always someone new. I hated
repeating my stories. I hated how I was treated. I was treated as though I wasn’t
normal and I was a freak of nature.
If I ever opened
up on how I was feeling; ‘You’re not supposed to feel like that.’ Was what I
was told. I was told I was too young to have such strong feelings and emotions.
How do you think a child is supposed to respond to that? I withdrew from the real world, even more. If no one could
understand me, what was the point of wasting my breath?
So, I stopped
talking. I sat there, silent, for each hour I had therapy. In my mind, I vowed
that’s what I was going to continue to do. And, I did. I refused to open up to
anyone.
There were times
to where I dreamed about how I would kill myself. I tried the extreme, I failed.
Imagine my surprise when I failed at it. I felt even more horrible. I became
lost in books and dreamed of a life that I only wished existed.
I remembered
being bullied. I remembered being picked on. I remembered what I wore, where we
were, what was said, what was done, and who picked on me. That was my entire
childhood existence.
All I remember
in grammar school is I had my best-friend. He lived right down the street and
we did everything together. He leaned on me and I leaned on him. I did have a
boyfriend in third grade (I think). We dated the entire school year. I was
bullied out of being with him. Why? I felt like I wasn’t good enough for him. I
felt he didn’t deserve to be teased, because of me. It killed me inside when I
broke up with him because I really did like him.
That was my grammar school.
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