How Did I Get Here Part 1-A: Clarification

My first year experience with school was a nightmare.    My teacher was never nice to me, and I truly do not know if it was because I was tall and skinny with cat-eyed glasses, or if I was bratty.   If she treated anyone else as badly, I never noticed it.   Things she did to me included: 

When I wrote my spelling words backwards on a test, instead of explaining to me what I had done, she sent me to the principal’s office, who also didn’t try to help me.   He told me that if I did that again, I was going to get a paddling.   I don’t know of any six year old little girls who wouldn’t be very afraid.  She also gave me a 0 on the test, with no suggestion of being able to make it up.  (To complete this story, my teacher then told her co-workers about it, one of whom knew my mom, and that lady told Mom what had happened.   They thought it was funny, that I had written my words backwards.   They didn’t know that I had been terrorized about it.   Mom asked me about it later than night, and I lied because I was afraid about this “bad, bad” thing I had done.  Lying was my mom’s biggest no-no.   To top off my lovely day, I got a spanking for lying.)

When my table-mate (and I still remember her name) dropped her pencil and broke the lead, for some reason, she told the teacher that I dropped it.   I had no idea what was transpiring.  I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.   She came up behind me, and before I knew she was there, she yanked me up by my arm and paddled me in front of everyone.  I had no clue why, until she was finished, and she told me that would "teach me to break pencil leads."   Seriously.   Even if I had broken the pencil lead, it only needed to be sharpened.    As I was typing this, my heart was grieved for the little girl that I was.

When a boy threw up near my seat, she wouldn’t let me get up and move.   As I was gagging, and she made me sit there.   Yeah, too gross to read, yes?

I didn’t tell my parents what was going on at school because if I got in trouble at school, I got in trouble at home.   I do not believe my parents would have stood for what was going on, but how does a six year old know that?

The name calling was from my brothers.    Typical big brother bully stuff.   

The unpleasant meals were because I was such a picky child, but I was still expected to eat what was put before me.   That’s the way things used to be.   My parents were raised by parents living in the Great Depression.   You didn’t waste food.   I understand that now, I didn’t then.

Any or all of the above may or may not have contributed to my feelings of inadequacy.   In my earliest years, I don’t believe I had reached “self-loathing” yet.    I had just accepted the fact that I was liked less than others, for whatever reasons.   I remember asking my sister when we were small children, very matter-of-factly, why our grandparents didn’t like us as much as they did the other grandchildren.    I remember her being a little surprised, because she had never felt that way, and she told me they didn’t love us any less.  I didn’t believe her, and it’s a feeling I carried into adulthood.

When I was younger, I felt unloveable because of something I couldn’t change:   The way I looked.    I was bigger than the other children, both in height and weight.  I’m sure it affected the way I acted.

As I grew, the feelings grew.   When other kids starting catching up to me size-wise, the feelings of inadequacy persisted.   By that time, a food obsession was in full force, and my self-loathing was in part due to a fluctuating size I didn’t want to be, and the obsession I seemingly couldn’t control.    By the time I reached 12 or 13, possibly younger, I had a chip on my shoulder.   I wore the chip in the form of rebellion and made lots of wrong and bad choices that only added to my feelings of worthlessness.    

At this point in my story, it is important to again stress that I am not as pitiful as all this sounds.   I have a great family, and I am blessed beyond words.