I can I know

I stood in the stairwell of my school, shouting. My mom, next to me, exasperated and at her wits end from this daily event, pleading with me to just go inside.

I was late. I was not going to go in.

She was late. Her kindergarten class was waiting for her downstairs.

I’d scream, cry, refuse to budge, fight any attempts to be dragged, and eventually, often enough for me to keep on doing it, I’d get my way and spend the next few hours in my mom’s kindergarten classroom.

Mornings weren’t my thing. While my sister hopped out of bed at the crack of dawn, dressed herself, and always made the bus, I was the complete opposite.

My mom would wake me up several times each morning. I would go right back to sleep each time. I wasn’t a fan of being awake.

As the wake-up calls became progressively more urgent, and with the school bus long gone, I’d eventually force myself up, at the very last possible second, and allow my mom to dress me in my uniform. Navy blue pleated jumper, navy and white gingham shirt. I didn’t want to do this, and I wasn’t going to participate any more than I absolutely had to.

Breakfast was nonexistent.

We’d get in the car. We’d get to school. We were late. What a surprise.

One day, after a couple years of this on and off, I was called out of class and into the school counselor’s office. Adult me says, about time. 9-year-old me said, absolutely not.

The counselor set up a game of Sorry for us to play. She asked me some questions.

“Why don’t you like coming to school?” “I don’t know.” My tried-and-true answer to everything.

She asked me why I didn’t ride the bus like everyone else. I shrugged and looked away.

“Does anyone bother you on the bus?” “Is that why you are scared to ride it?”

Seeing an opportunity to end this conversation, I agreed.

Sure. The bus can be super scary. That’s definitely it.

She ran with it, setting up a buddy system with an older student who would supposedly keep an eye out for me as we rode to school.

My mom was surprised, she didn’t know anyone had been bothering me.

She also knew I’d been on that bus a total of maybe 5 times all year, so I’m pretty sure she saw right through my bullshit. But why rock that boat when imaginary problems are so much easier to solve.

I never got on the bus.

The next morning, I was losing my shit in the hallways again.

For a kid who didn’t speak much at school, everyone in a 2-mile radius sure heard a lot of my voice.

Some days, after a good 20 minutes of shrieking, I’d give in, go silent, and allow myself to be walked to my classroom. I’d crack open the door and  move quietly to my seat, acting as if everyone didn’t just hear me out there. Avoiding all eye contact, I’d sit down, and effectively disappear.

I learned the art of dissociation at a very young age. It was the only way for me to exist when I was forced to do things that I could not otherwise handle. I would simply go dead inside.

To this day, I have no idea how the situation was allowed to continue for as long as it did.

The year I entered 4^th grade, my mom’s kindergarten classroom was moved to another building.

I stopped screaming at school.

I stayed in my own classroom.

Problem solved.