Starting School
“When you’re feeling anxious, remember that you’re still you. You are not your anxiety.” ~Deanne Repich
While one might think with all I’ve said about the isolation and loneliness of my home life that I would be excited to get away and start school, my anxiety had other thoughts. The first day of school each year, I would get so sick to my stomach. I would get to school and just put my head down on my desk.
My second-grade teacher was the only one I remember coming over to me and trying to relax me. She told me she got nervous on the first day of school too and asked if I would be her friend for the day to help her get through the day. I will never forget that, and I’m always amazed that she was the only one out of 8 different teachers before high school who even approached me.
What is difficult for me to understand as I look back is, starting from third grade, I moved to a small catholic school that had one class per grade. So, I went through all of grade school and middle school (minus one nightmare year) with mostly the same people. Yet, still, first day every year, my nerves were so terrible; I was never sure if I would vomit or faint.
I went through 3rd-6th and then 8th grade with this class. I’d thought I was an accepted member of the group. It wasn’t large, maybe 25 kids each year. I learned what betrayal was in this group. I wouldn’t say the class was “cliquey” like larger schools are, but I would have “friends” say one thing to me, then turn around and do the opposite with the class, leaving me high and dry.
Even still, I thought I was an accepted member of the group. I was forced to change schools for 7th grade which turned into a nightmare I will write about next, but I could return for 8th grade. I thought I’d been missed. I thought they’d be happy for my return. In the first week back, they were talking about a party in 6th grade. I said, “I don’t think I was invited.” The response, “Well, you weren’t really liked back then”. Calling that a gut punch understates how hard it hit me. Once again, I no longer belonged anywhere.
While I have some great friends from this school, I also learned not to trust people. I expect those around me to use everything that happens against me. I expect the rug will be pulled out from under me at any moment. Thirty years later, that is an exhausting stance to maintain. A part of the reason I wrote my history to the public is to get past this.
This was what I would call strike two in my psyche. Strike three comes up next and the best way to describe how I end up is, think coyote — anvil… I’m the one flattened under the anvil.
