đ§ Chapter 1: School Was My First Trauma
âI wasnât afraid of school at first. That came later. But once the fear arrived, it never really left.â
đ The Missing Memories
I donât remember much from grade school. Most of those years are a blurâfaded colors, half-formed faces, recess and noise. But what I do remember arrives sharp, specific, and painful: the fear of being asked to multiply or spell in front of the class. Times tables. Spelling tests. Simple things for some, but for me, they were public traps.
It wasnât just that I didnât know the answersâit was the shame of not knowing them out loud, in front of everyone. I felt stupid. I thought I was stupid. And that belief, once planted, grew fast.
When kids made fun of me, I lashed out. I was big for my age, strong, and when I hit backâit hurt. I didnât mean to. But it happened. I remember the principal telling me, âYou donât know your own strengthâyou could really hurt someone.â My parents got called in. Again. And again. I didnât have words for what I was going through, but my fists were fluent.
đ Misunderstood
I remember getting glasses in grade school. I didnât really understand why. I didnât wear them long. Later, I found out I was partially color blind, though no one ever explained what that really meant at the time. I think the adults were grasping at anything that might help me âdo better in schoolââhoping maybe vision correction would fix whatever invisible thing was holding me back. It didnât.
The truth is, the problem wasnât my eyes. It wasnât my attitude. It wasnât even my ability. It was misunderstandingâby adults, by teachers, by a system that didnât know what to do with kids like me. This was Pocatello, Idaho, in the 1970s and early â80s. Back then, there was little understanding of Specific Learning Disabilities, and even less of what we now call ASD or neurodivergence.
They didnât see a misunderstood learner. They saw a problem. A disruption. A kid who couldnât follow the rules and sometimes hurt others when he was scared or ashamed.
But I could read. I could comprehend. I just couldnât always perform in the ways school demanded. That gapâthe one between what I could actually do and what the system expected me to doâbecame a canyon of self-doubt.
đ When the Fear Took Root
Fear really took hold in junior high.
Thatâs when the humiliation became institutional. I was pulled from regular classes and placed in special ed trailers, painted bright to look less like punishment. But I knew. We all knew.
I started hiding my report cards, even from my parents. I didnât want anyone to see how bad I was doingâor what the system thought of me. I just wanted to be home, away from it all. All I wanted was to fit in. But every schedule, every hallway, every locker combination I couldnât remember was another reminder: I didnât.
I started living by a single rule: donât get caught being stupid. That fear ran everything.
The only place I felt okay was the football field. Little league footballâthat was mine. My strength wasnât a liability there; it was an asset. On the field, I wasnât broken. I was powerful.
đŞ The Long Goodbye
High school didnât help. It deepened the shame.
By then, Iâd learned to perform just enough to scrape byâbut the truth was, I was drowning. I counted down the days until I could legally quit, and when I turned 16, I did. I was ready to trade classrooms for construction, report cards for real work.
But my dad had rules. If I was going to drop out, I had to join the military or Job Corps. I chose Job Corps, thinking it would be different. But when I realized school was part of the dealâI walked again. I didnât have the words for it then, but my trauma with school was deeper than anyone knew.
I tried returning to high school once moreâbut I only lasted a few months. I left for good not long after. No diploma. Just fear, frustration, and a deep conviction that my mind wasnât made for learning.
âď¸ What I Wish They Knew Back Then
That I wasnât lazy.
That I wasnât stupid.
That I wasnât dangerous.
That I was scared. Confused. And desperate to belong.
That I could read, really well. That I noticed things others missed.
That I was trying so hard.
That all the labelsâslow, bad, disruptiveâwere adult guesses.
And they were wrong.
It would take me nearly four decades to realize I was never broken. The system was. But back then, all I had was silence, shame, and strength I didnât know how to use. Thatâs where this story really begins.
