I
had my first panic attack when I was eight.
All the third grade classes were squished onto old risers in the gym, practicing for our holiday “performance”. I was doing my best to show off my vocal skills and land a solo, while everyone else was inaudibly mumbling the few words they knew. So of course, being in my own little world, I was the last to hear the loud chorus of “Troy’s throwing up” and the screeching of the girl who just happened to be standing in front of him.
As I witnessed the chaos that followed I felt my stomach creep up my throat in an all too familiar way. I leaped off the risers (as only a ballerina could do) and landed my face in the nearest trashcan. I hung there for a few minutes waiting for the inevitable.
Nothing happened.
The mean teacher from the room next to mine came over to ask me if I was okay. I told her I had lost my earring in the trashcan when I threw out my tissue. I didn’t even have my ears pierced.
All the third grade classes were squished onto old risers in the gym, practicing for our holiday “performance”. I was doing my best to show off my vocal skills and land a solo, while everyone else was inaudibly mumbling the few words they knew. So of course, being in my own little world, I was the last to hear the loud chorus of “Troy’s throwing up” and the screeching of the girl who just happened to be standing in front of him.
As I witnessed the chaos that followed I felt my stomach creep up my throat in an all too familiar way. I leaped off the risers (as only a ballerina could do) and landed my face in the nearest trashcan. I hung there for a few minutes waiting for the inevitable.
Nothing happened.
The mean teacher from the room next to mine came over to ask me if I was okay. I told her I had lost my earring in the trashcan when I threw out my tissue. I didn’t even have my ears pierced.
I
heard somewhere (possibly from my mom) that being an 8 year old is tough.
Somehow that year of life is one where we uncover the truth about our
mortality.
This was the year where I woke up one morning from a dream I had weekly since I was in kindergarten to the realization that If someone came in to my room and dragged me out the window at gun point, there would be nothing my dad could do. Everything I had believed up to that point seemed absurd.
It was the first time in my life where I remember feeling out of control and unsafe; a little girl in a big big world.
This was the year where I woke up one morning from a dream I had weekly since I was in kindergarten to the realization that If someone came in to my room and dragged me out the window at gun point, there would be nothing my dad could do. Everything I had believed up to that point seemed absurd.
It was the first time in my life where I remember feeling out of control and unsafe; a little girl in a big big world.
Third
grade is also the first time anyone ever told me that I was annoying (the first
of many such remarks), and the first time I was completely rejected by the
hottest kid in gym (who also happened to be Troy the puker). It is no wonder,
that after the puking incident, I dug in my heels and refused to go to school.
And I don’t mean didn’t want to but went anyway. I mean kicked and screamed the whole way there and made quite a scene. Which really encouraged some nasty remarks thrown my way by the cool kids. Although, in their defense, I probably looked ridiculous.
And I don’t mean didn’t want to but went anyway. I mean kicked and screamed the whole way there and made quite a scene. Which really encouraged some nasty remarks thrown my way by the cool kids. Although, in their defense, I probably looked ridiculous.
The
one day I actually bucked up and decided to go to school without a fight, we
were reading the book Ramona Quimby age 8, which is a terrifying book that should not be read to children.
Anyway, Ramona throws up at school and all the kids are so mean to her and
she’s super embarrassed and it’s awful. I had to stay home for like a week
after that chapter.
When the book was finally over, everyone had to bring in a tangible representation of the story. I brought in a school bus I had made out of clay that I had spent a week on. Everyone else made puke. Literally; In various creative forms.
And that was the end of school for me. I’m pretty sure I never went back to 3rd grade.
When the book was finally over, everyone had to bring in a tangible representation of the story. I brought in a school bus I had made out of clay that I had spent a week on. Everyone else made puke. Literally; In various creative forms.
And that was the end of school for me. I’m pretty sure I never went back to 3rd grade.
And
that my friends, is where it all began. Stupid Troy and his stupid inner ear
issues.
