STORY TIME
My story.
I'm 14.
And I want you to know more about who I am.
The very first time I can remember being ashamed of who I was, was in second grade. I was only six years old.
We were doing a project, an autobiography about ourselves. We had to draw a picture of ourselves for the cover and I worked really hard on mine. I was proud of it.
I used a special set of markers with lots of great colors and I used a mirror so I could get it right.
The moment I stepped up and showed the class my portrait they all started laughing at me. I was so upset I threw the book away and wouldn't let anyone look at it.
The second time was the summer after third grade. I was eight.
My third grade teacher's husband died of a heart attack. Something no one could predict or control.
But I blamed myself. I cried and was terrified to go to the funeral or even go to mass at all. I can clearly remember thinking "It's my fault. God is punishing me by hurting Mrs. Herndon and her family I'm a bad person."
I. Was. Eight.
Then in fourth grade, we did another "self discovery project" and I found out the meaning of my name.
In Greek, my name means pretty or beautiful. When I announced that in my report, the entire class laughed. Again.
In fifth grade, I started to realize why they laughed. They were all beautiful skinny little pretty girls. And I wasn't.
In sixth grade, I was the teacher's pet, the geek, the loser. And I only had two friends.
SO I left the school district for private school where I found friends. But after two years I had to go back to public school and my new friends from private school ditched me.
And so I'm back to square one.
Just so you know.
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