My childhood years… And how they made me who I am.

Okay, okay, I’m procrastinating, but that’s not the important thing here.

I was going though random Daily Post prompts and found this one, that is quite intriguing. It’s also a bit old, and there will definitely be other, better responses, but I wanted to leave one myself. I mixed it up with today’s Daily Post prompt after I realized I could mix them up! 😀

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My childhood was nice, in fact, I was happy when I was with my family. I was this energetic, social child that was always so eager to learn, read and meet new people.

I remember begging my parents to go to school. It was my dream to be on a learning environment, and finally hang out with other kids my age. I may have thought they would be as nice as the others. So I was able to get in a year before I should have. As I already knew how to read, I was accepted. It was heaven. I don’t remember Kindergarten that much, but I loved it.

My primary school years, though, were another different story altogether. That is what I wish I could change. I wish kids realized how much damage they can do to someone that doesn’t have the support I had. I wish my future kids don’t go through this, that their childhood years are as happy as they should be.

I was not accepted as I was. I remember the older kids calling me to say random trivia I knew because I read a lot. (Things I don’t remember now…) I was their entertainment… but I liked the attention. I always hung out with older kids that were willing to put up with me. The kids my age didn’t want to, and I never understood why. I remember crying, asking my mom. One of my mom’s friends then told me she cried when I wasn’t there.

Anyway, I changed schools, but nothing changed. In fact, it got worse. I mean, it was nothing physical. No one ever hit me or anything… But it was more of the emotional bullying. Kids can be cruel, you know. I was basically ignored all the time, I was the last one to be chosen for group work, etc. My inability with sports accentuated this.

My family never stopped supporting me, which was nice. I was even offered to skip a grade but mom didn’t want to. (Which, in retrospect, was the best idea.)

I tried, again and again to be accepted. I changed so many things about myself and even lost some of what was good about me. Years passed, and then I realized nothing was ever going to change. That I’m different, and it’s basically their loss. Some people would want to be with me, and some wouldn’t. Some did. I was finally part of something. When this happened, I was happy. And all was right in the world.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompts: “Childhood Revisited.” and “Easy Fix”

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