So y’know, my doc has asked me multiple times now about whether I was in special education. I remember before kindergarten going in to the room across from the nurse’s where I did a few block puzzles, y’know, make a staircase with blocks, yadda yadda. I scored pretty well. Side story: I remember scoring 40/40 on the entrance exam to the Syracuse Academy of Science after I was effectively expelled from Solvay for a bomb related incident. 98 on ASVAB; 450+ on extended APFT. But y’know, early on, teacher aides would pull me aside frequently and sometimes take me to two different classrooms. One was the special ed room, the other was an activity room (?). Like, ESL met there. Everybody went there at some point at every grade; it was a specialized room.

But, I remember telling my mom about this once when I was in first grade and my mom got super pissed, but not at me. I remember that. Realizing my mom was getting angry. It often led to a chain reaction where my dad would get angry. Weird how I’m damaged and differently abled. But y’know, my mom got on the phone, bitched at the school for a hot minute, and I didn’t see those rooms again except for the normative discourse and routine of the moment, meaning when it was "nornal" to go there.

I remember when I was two or three, I wrote a greentext about this before, but my mom took me to the place that was bought by Sylvan later on, and I fucked up by getting stuck in a tube, and my mom was angry I didn’t get into that program so I had to go to the one around the block.

A random memory: the last day of kindergarten, all the parents were there for their kids. Mine were. I insisted I go home on the bus to ride with my imaginary friends. Literally the only kid on the bus. The fucking sperg child I was!

I tried relentlessly to learn to ride my bike to make my mom proud. I finally learned when I was nine, a ways before she died. Little league was hell, with my dad being the coach who got kicked off the field permenantly for screaming death threats at the kids (me especially). I was kept in minors with the third n fourth graders when I was in sixth grade because my dad insisted that I was not good enough, and I wasn’t good at hitting the ball - I literally did not understand what “keep your eye on the ball” meant - but I was fast and did ok in outfield and short stop.

This reminds me of a memory of me making a meal in sixth grade to be graded by our parents. I chose hot dogs and beans. I did nothing wrong. There was nothing wrong with the meal. I didn’t perform like Gordon fucking Ramsay manning the grill top on the stove. He gave me a 75; literally every other parent gave their kid a 100.

I remember he took me out for driving. Nonstop belittling. Everything I did was wrong. It was like I was going ninety around corners. Like, I’m analyzing all these old memories. This is insane! And the direction I wanted to take this was to first/second/third/fourth grade, where I was in the accelerated math and reading groups, but then from fifth on, I was in the regular ELA classes because the teachers didn’t understand why I was having problems.

Likewise, y’know, the reason I was originally being taken to the other classrooms was because I didn’t understand how all the kids knew all the rules. No one explained the rules ever! Other kids had telepathy and just instantly knew shit! And when I was in the one classroom, they would ask me all sorts of questions about my imaginary friends and how I solved this n that problem and how I felt.

I never received any therapy for my mother finding out she had HIV two months after I was born and dying up until I was nine when she finally passed in horrific fashion. That is insane to me. I had no mental health skills whatsoever while I broke myself down to perform for my negligent, narcissistic abuser! And I forgive him, but this is the shit my homonid ass be processing while I’m going through this spell of healing from my traumas. It ain’t bad, but it as fucked more in the head than Ed Kemper’s victims, that’s fer shur…