School- 3rd, 4th, and 5th Grade
Third Grade
I was very excited to start a new school, with a new beginning. I had not been popular in Colorado and thought that this was the new start I needed.
I tried to lose weight that summer but nothing worked. The first day of school I remember being introduced to the other kids. They did not look excited to see me. There were sneers and snickers, and the word fat audible even though the voicing was shielded by their hands as they leaned toward their mates to assess me.
I sat by myself at lunch, without a single offer to join other kids. At recess afterward I decided to step out of my comfort zone. Hanging out with the recess aids wouldn’t earn me any friends.
There was a tower on the playground, with a different obstacle on each side- rope net, fireman’s pole, etc. I climbed the tower not really thinking about how I would get down. I stayed up there all recess, and as the bell rang, my time ran out.
All of the other kids were running back to class and I had to get down. I panicked at the idea of getting my body to cooperate in getting down and I jumped.
I sprained my ankle pretty bad, and got sent home. Mom was not impressed that I couldn’t make it through the first day. That year never improved.
Fourth Grade
The next year we moved out to the county school. Grades K-12 all rode the bus together. The Elementary School was right next to the Jr./Sr. High School, which had a pool where they taught 4th graders water safety.
Somehow, I won the teacher lottery. I got the teacher that everyone wanted, and he himself was overweight, so people didn’t go after me as much because they didn’t want their fat shaming to get back to him. He read to us, and gave us brain puzzles. He was so gentle and warm and bright.
About two weeks into the school year, we had all rode the bus in like we normally do. We parked in the front but they didn’t let us out.
Soon, all kinds of emergency vehicles arrived with lights ablaze. They weren’t telling us anything, and we weren’t allowed to leave the bus.
When we were finally allowed to go to class I found out that my teacher had had a heart attack and collapsed in the hallway. We had other teachers in and out of our room until the “Sub” arrived. She had taught 1st grade there, but had retired.
She became our new teacher. She didn’t do anything like our previous teacher. It was a difficult adjustment. She gave us poems to memorize each week. It didn’t feel like she wanted to be there.
Fifth Grade
My fifth grade teacher was a little nicer than our forever sub from the year before, but she was still pretty old school. I didn’t mind old school. I liked rules. The other kids hated me for liking rules. I can’t imagine how we didn’t know I was autistic.
I joined the gifted and talented program. Mom didn’t want to let me, and I begged her. I never did particularly well in the program. I was fine with the content, but I lacked the study skills and organization necessary to do well.
When I think back now on the other students in the program, they were all from more affluent families than mine. One student was the son of one of the 4th grade teachers.
Nevertheless we did some pretty cool stuff in that class. We got to write books and submit them for publishing. We made exhibits that were displayed at the Children’s Museum. I can honestly say the teacher of the GT program worked her butt off to give us opportunities.
When Dad committed suicide in early February of that year, she had no idea what to do with me. It was a fast-paced environment, and I was mentally not very present all of the time. We thought I had been distracted before with the ADHD, but this was a much deeper vacancy in my presence. She tried to be nice, but it was always accompanied by the pressure to get back on the horse and get over it.
I went back to school 2 days after my dad shot himself. I was going nuts at home. I wanted something to feel normal. It still didn’t feel normal.
The night of the suicide we stayed at Dad’s boss’s house. I slept on his daughter’s floor. All of a sudden, these girls who had always made fun of me were being nice to me and nothing made sense. I hated that THIS was the reason they would be nice.
If the problem is you, there are tools to help!
I went back to school, but I wasn’t really there. There were all of these placating tones and widespread concern from people who couldn’t care less about me before- people I didn’t even exist to before.
In each interaction, I found them assessing how messed up I was, and how well I was taking it. People voiced their expectation for me to fall apart. People voiced their shock at how well I was doing. People say all kinds of things out loud.
When recess came I stayed by myself, meandering around, close to the building. That didn’t stop one of the 6th graders from excitedly informing me that my dad was going to hell. He wanted to know what it’s like having a dad go to hell.
I became hysterical and was throwing up and they sent me home. Mom didn’t say much about having to come out and pick me up. I felt bad I couldn’t make it through the day. I felt bad that I didn’t love my dad enough to keep him alive.
I felt bad that I brought death to anybody who was gentle to me.
Operation **Reclaim** Loveland 
What do you think?