Story about myself (might contain unconfortable topics)

[Airikita]

Hey guys,

 

So I started writing another book (wish me luck), this time with more thought-out information. I started on the first chapter. When I say "another book", I wrote some before, but just random stuff. This one is like a "memoir" of myself? But "memoir" is an incorrect term as I'm not old, but it's about my past going up to my current life.

 

I feel like my life's story holds value with the current issues with bullying, and I feel like I should seriously consider writing about it. Things that are going unnoticed, especially after the incident with the girl who died drinking bleach (yes, I forget her name... Amanda-something?). So yeah, I am not trying to insult Amanda Todd's (I just remembered) situation, but I need to put forward that I have suffered worse than Amanda has. I mean, given the situation, she flashed her boobs on camera, then tried to kill herself over it instead of handling the situation.

 

I mean, I knew some girls that that happened to, and they just give a "yeah whatever, the person posting that around is an idiot", and some will even chase after the person distributing them legally (although we know how THAT issue is handled by the police at times).

 

Again, her situation was terrible, but the coverage about her case was done more than a lot of other suicides, an inequality.

 

Anyways, I'll put a portion of the text I wrote here, and ask what your opinions are on it:

 

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Chapter 1

 

I look at myself today… not in a mirror, not on my medical card mug shot, but my old Elementary School portrait on the wall. Many thoughts come to mind, but one stands out: “beautifulâ€. I’m wearing a beautiful purple dress, frilled, my long and thick hair crimped to a shining ripple, and frills. Nothing overdone, or overbearing that out speaks my smile. I was my youngest then, at ten perhaps? No… must have been below that, but above seven. From what I recall, despite what I went through the first years in Elementary, I had my positive rebound as I have once again, but had to be strained out from my long years of suffering. I did not have to go through a horrible experience, such as rape or torture, but so much was going on, I truly believed, and still do to this day, that I could have become a victim of my bullies if it were not for my routines, habits, and curfew. Delinquents in my life that had no goals, other than to turn the school against me. For years I imagined it was because of my attitude, but I learned that my attitude became a result of that suffering. It was justified, as I never used my attitude against good Samaritans, but against those who only made good people suffer. In fact, I purposely made myself the target, to become the sufferer, but not to be the sufferer. I had a hero streak in me, a chivalry that I try to hang on to, but losing my grips with. That smile, is the person who I am, but not who I became. I never smiled to plot any wrong doings, as others had judged me for. I was a joker, a caring person, held the door open for others who would only push it back in my face. Looking at my picture, I see no reason for hate, but there are those who seek out egotism in their attacks, and there are others who suffer themselves, with or without common sense, or those who simply do it to protect themselves.

 

I refused to be a part of those “groupsâ€, the ones that would only hurt others. I even saw the good people buy into it, then they slipped my mind… forgetting over time. I forgot who they were, but I always remembered who they were. Some of them turned against me also. As one put it, I wasn’t “cool enoughâ€, however he/she put it. I never felt the need to stand out, because in later schools, I knew I’d be a beacon, and only asking for the current issues to blow up in my face. Perhaps the fear was confrontation, as I did not know how to think of the delinquents. I tried to understand, and I wanted to understand, but when I attempted to break their barriers, they always built new ones, irrational ones to send themselves into a system of their own rules. A lot like making up rules that are unfair, only to keep another person down, in the literal and general sense. To most of us now, this is nothing new, or unknown, but perhaps I can shed light on what I remember, as much as I come to it. I won’t be able to write a large portion of my life, because I had some circumstances in the past years that caused me to forget a large chunk of my life, but parts are coming back. The most painful/uncomfortable details are missing, but ones that are so deep my mind is unable to force those memories back. Some subconscious knowing that it would only dredge up my old self, things that would only distract me from my college life. Still, certain things are bothering me lately, and I have started to find a learning curve to those issues. Things that have happened in my first two semesters have gone unnoticed/recognized. Frightening things, terrible things, personal distress. Two, or three, things happened to me that could have devastated my very education, but I still gained an eighty-nine percent average. Two, or three things could have also devastated my situation into something far worse, a life expense I couldn’t spare from my current age. The one event that nearly devastated me altered my world around me, I lost my sense of who I was. To say the least, it was literal amnesia, or a stroke… I am unsure as I forced myself out to college, feeling as though I was just born an adult, told to go learn my Computer Science. I had to re-learn stuff I learned, which came back painfully, but back to me like instinct. I forced myself to do some old hobbies I enjoyed, programming hobbies, and things came back to me when it mattered. Still, my battles with it are incomplete.

 

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So those are just the first two paragraphs. I didn't proof-read them yet, so feel free to point out any errors, I'll read over it once I get back to it. I will need to proof read it before I continue the story anyways.

 

If you like what I wrote so far, I can post the other two paragraphs that complete this first scenario.

 

I also tend to make errors, but it's not grammatical corrections I'm looking for.

 

This story will hit harder later, because there are things I can't leave out of it, and will hit hard no matter what.

[Jason777]

Amnesia? 0.o

 

How long ago did that take place?

[Airikita]

Amnesia? 0.o

 

How long ago did that take place?

Ah yes, that was last year. It lasted for a few months. It was a scary time, and I'll highlight the details in another chapter. Very frightening.

 

That's just foreshadowing, that barely touches what actually happened.

 

I don't even remember the nightmare that caused it, but it was the most extreme nightmare I ever had... enough to cause amnesia. I remember bits of it, and perhaps writing about it will bring it back again, but I doubt it would cause me the same issue. The nightmare was hyper-lucid, and extremely disturbing.

 

I could base an entire movie off of that dream, but the subject is extremely controversial, and outright immoral.

[Airikita]

Alright, so I made it to Chapter 2, since Chapter 1 is just a summarization/foreshadowing. I wrote a little starter paragraph, something to start the story with:

 

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Chapter 2

 

As a child, I did not start with suffering. If anything, I was oblivious to it, the way things should be for anyone. Everyone should be free from suffering, and bullying. Whether you are a victim or a bully yourself, or anyone. When I started preschool, there was a lot of freedom, and a sense of peace. Today it has been converted to a location for condos, a lost icon of any memories I could regain from it. Not that it would matter, as it was already changed into a food donation building when I grew older, where things have changed either way from time. It was a good sized building for a small niche of children, and everyone got along well back then. I do remember the less bright kids, but at the time we were all snot noses, I wasn’t the exception. When we learned dodge ball, we didn’t throw the ball at the time, but someone brought it up, one of the girls. She told us the rules she learned from her other siblings, and wanted to try it. In fact, we all thought it sounded fun. Although, the teacher saw things differently. To us, we just wanted to throw the ball all silly, and we were pretty careful about feelings in class. But the teacher didn’t want anyone to get hurt. It was a silly notion, because it was a soft ball, and our little hands couldn’t rip a ball loose on someone. Not at five years old. Pretty sure I was five. We played by the teacher’s rules, because, after all, we were kids that obeyed adults because we were trusting. To us, not obeying meant not listening, which would only get us in trouble. Silly, to get in trouble over something that was going to be silly fun, and we knew it. In a way, it severed our bonding time, because we were going to be a social, collective group about it. The next best thing would be to give us a beach ball for us to throw at each other, it was big enough it would fell cushioned even if it hit as hard as a five-year-old could throw it. No, we played the silly parachute game too, which was boring. We were too far apart, holding a vinyl sheet with a hole in it in a large circle, lift it over our heads, and sat under it. It was not amusing to us, because we lost our free play opportunities. In fact, we would’ve enjoyed our company time more if the teachers asked us what we would like to play, but we only played by what they gave us. It’s great that they went out of their way to get us to play, but it was a lost opportunity for more. More creativity could have been developed. Also, boredom turned into a disconnect from each other. Eventually we did things with less fulfillment, and just were happy to go home after. It’s a small issue to talk about, but it could have been a precursor to other things that changed later on. Because, some of those kids I met again in Elementary school.

 

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It's all roughdraft, so I'm going to add some filler paragraphs before the real stuff happens. I might need some time to collect my memories. Might start after this chapter with smaller issues and build up.

[Airikita]

Even Elementary school became the waiting game to go home, not because of our boredom, I was excited to go to a new school, as were some others, but certain teachers just rubbed personalities wrong. As kids, you can tell when someone is faking it to pretend they like kids, even if you’re oblivious to how much some people can dislike children, or not think of kids much. Even I can be guilty of that, an instinctual reaction to not wanting to remember your childhood past by avoiding other children. Can’t be helped, and I am starting to realize what a problem that can be, and it’s more common than expected. Not that I want kids, I don’t, but at the same time those children want to matter, and rightly so. Although the Elementary school I’m discussing here is not the one I started in, no. I started in Sparks Elementary, in Aylmer, Quebec. I don’t remember the details of how I got there, or what the rest of it was like, but I have some memories from a few times there. I have a fond memory, one I found rather humorous, and still do. Perhaps, I think, one of the children was talking about penises. It was the first time I heard about that word, and asked a girl what it was. They explained it the way a child could, “it is their private part they pee out of, it’s like a finger†somewhere along those lines. I asked her to paint or draw her representation of it, because I was curious. I thought it would be like mine, no different. I thought a boy was just different than a girl because of their voices. Silly me, thinking we were all unisex. So she painted it, in the shape of a “Uâ€, nothing detailed, just a little drawing. I thought it was weird, but I found it funny the way she drew it. I thought she was being silly, making up a drawing like that. I didn’t doubt she didn’t know, but I felt it wasn’t accurate enough. Still, to my amusement, I would poke fun at her for the painting by bugging her in art class. I wanted to be her friend too, so I felt like I could win her over as a friend with humor. I started with a harmless thought, just draw a warped “U†that she painted, kind of like half of a peanut. I would paint it while next to her canvas, and wait for her to notice. I pretended to look at it, pondering, like I didn’t know what I was painting. In fact, I didn’t know, I just wanted to make fun of her drawing from earlier. She looks at my painting, and points at it, asking me “what is that? What are you going to paint?†I smiled, and said “it’s a penis!†I expected her to giggle about it, but to my surprise, her mouth dropped, and ran to the teacher to tell on me. Surprised and frantic, knowing I could get a call to my mother about it, I quickly made it a peanut. When the girl came back, with the teacher, she pointed at my painting saying “look at what <me> is drawing! She’s drawing a penis!!†The teacher was obviously confused at first, and she looked at me. She then asked me “<me>… what did you draw?†I looked at the girl, to see her face, she was crossing her arms, mad at me. I was sort of shocked by this, because I wasn’t expecting her to be mad about it. To me it was a silly drawing I wanted to poke fun at. So I looked back to the teacher within an instant, and told her that I was painting a “peanutâ€. The girl got upset. “No, no, she was drawing a penis! Not a peanut!†The teacher shook her head, “no sweetie, you misheard <me>. She was drawing a peanut, not a… a…. um… just go back to painting, and never mind <me>.†With resentment on her part, we locked eyes, and she went back to her thing.

 

A few times I tried it again, to see if she would laugh, but every time she went and told on me. Eventually I did it just to make her annoyed, because I started to get annoyed with her. The teacher eventually stopped coming over, and would say “no no, <me> is drawing a peanut, stop saying that! Go back to painting!†and eventually ignored the complaining. That’s when I stopped, but I think I made her a bit paranoid, because she kept checking my canvas. Sometimes waiting for me to paint something else that she could tell on me. I started painting puppies and cats, because at that point, the humor died off. That is a fond memory for me, because, in all honesty, I had fun that day, whether that little girl liked it or not.

Later on in the months or weeks, or days, somewhere along that first year I came across a school-changing situation. It didn’t seem like it would lead to the situation it did, but it wasn’t worth any concern to myself after. I was sitting in English class, at least I think it was English, listening to the lecture. The classroom was very spacious. Desks were not joined, by whole desks apart, almost arranged like a checker or a chess board with each desk centered in a nine by nine grid bordered by other desks beside, behind, and in front of each desk. As what I remembered, the chalk board was a big chalk board, but perhaps the whole classroom seemed bigger than it really was at the time. The teacher was lecturing, possibly writing ABCs on the board. Or perhaps it was basic math. How could I remember that when I had pressure building in my bladder at the time? In fact, I tried holding it in because I wanted to not miss anything. Although, at one point, drips were not holding back. With that urgent urge, I raised my hand. Teacher addressed me:

“Yes dear, what is it?â€

“May I go to the bathroom please?â€

“..No, you can sit there and hold it in.â€

Hold it in? It was the most ridiculous thing I heard, and I was confused. I was six or seven, and I wasn’t a bad student, I held it in to sit there and learn, but I couldn’t stay any longer. So I told her again:

                “I have to really go to the bathroom!â€

                “You can hold it in, you are not leaving this classroom!â€

                “But I can’t hold it in!!!â€

                “NO! You will stay here and learn, or else you get a detention!â€

Welcome to the first example, a teacher who can’t grasp the concept of a small child having the need to go to the bathroom. I argued again:

                “I can’t hold it iiiinnn!â€

                “Stop talking, sit down, and stay in this class! Hold it in!â€

I stood up when I said that, dancing with my legs crossed, probably had a wet leotard or something. No? Okay, so I sat down. I was so uncomfortable, it was unbearably painful for a child to hold it in. I couldn’t either, it was already dripping out! But I felt relief. I had a plan, at that point, that if I could just relieve the pressure bit by bit, I wouldn’t have to leave to the bathroom. Slowly I let myself leak. I thought I let out a little bit throughout the class, but I imagine it was dripping down the chair legs, because it was no small leak. I felt nothing as I sat still, not noticing my wet bottom. When the bell rang, I packed my stuff up, and stood up. SPLISH! Well… it was no small leak. A large puddle surrounded my desk, my seat had a nice little puddle, and my dress was dripping. I was shocked myself, I never imagined letting out that much. “What did you do?!†the teacher shouted, “You made a mess!†I looked at her, confused. “I said I had to go pee!†Which I did. My confusion was justified, because I was never addressed this way as a child, and I was never addressed that way when I transferred. She looked at me, with a scowl. “You will mop this up young lady, and clean it up!†I was offended, in a restrained way. I felt helpless for a moment. Then I knew I was being wronged. “No, I won’t!†I told her, looking her in the eyes. Her eyes went wide. “Pardon me? If you don’t clean this up, you will get a detention! Maybe I should call your mother!†Well, at that point I knew she was bat-shit crazy. I refused again, and well, she did call my mother. The complexity of the situation perplexed me so much. Then for a while, I believed she was faking it. From what I remember after that, the principal came over, after a pause. That time, I believe, my mother was called by either the teacher or the principal. The complaint she made was that I was “misbehaving in class, and did something terribleâ€, however she worded it. I don’t recall for at the time I was confused by the whole situation unfolding. She then walked to me after calling, and stood in front of me with her arms crossed. I wanted to believe, in that moment, that she would just give up and clean it up herself. But no, she stood her ground. So I stood mine.

 

Later the principal came over to the classroom. Every student left at that point, so it was just me and the teacher, standing there. The principal was confused, and asked why the teacher didn’t clean it up herself. She would say that she “told me to hold it in†and didn’t, so I should clean up my mess. Right, because a six or seven year old did it on purpose, okay lady. The principal asked me what happened, and he was formal about it, polite. Although, I don’t remember him being anything else. He wasn’t a bright principal, but I didn’t find him to have a problem with me. I explained that I couldn’t hold it, I was bursting, and it leaked out throughout the class. “I didn’t realize it would leak so much.†That’s where the teacher said I was lying, and making up excuses. My mother showed up at one point throughout that. I believe she came rather quickly after arguing on the phone with my teacher. “YOU CLEAN THIS MESS UP, MY DAUGHTER DOESN’T HAVE TO CLEAN THAT UP!†My mother was furious. In fact, her rage was a result of the teacher’s stupidity. “I’m sorry, but your daughter didn’t hold it in, and then-“ Mother cuts her off “MY DAUGHTER IS [sIX OR SEVEN] YEARS OLD! SHE CAN’T HOLD IT IN, AND SHOULD HAVE BEEN ALLOWED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!! CLEAN IT UP YOURSELF!†After a certain point, my mother took me, picked me up, and we left. I don’t remember if I had any other classes that day, or whether I went back after. I probably stayed in my room while she argued with the principal, saying that that teacher should not be teaching that class, and to fire her. I don’t blame her, the amount of stupidity that happened that day, to my knowledge, I’d probably throw the pee in her face back then. At least, it doesn’t matter even so, because it’s a past issue.

Moving on to the other school, before I do so I want to look back at some childhood memories, parts of what I remember, and parts of what my mother told me. When I was little, I was born in Nepean. This was about the time when I wasn’t in school yet, and just a child; younger than five. I remember a few memories that stand out to me. A fond memory of large candy canes hanging on a Christmas tree, in a simple living room with a TV screen. Apparently I was visiting an aunt, or a great aunt. The candy canes were large to me at the time, possibly because of my age, and my eyes were surely smaller at the time, still growing as my head was. I don’t remember the smells, but perhaps a cinnamon smell comes to mind. A casual, classic and simple Christmas. Then as I grew up, my first pet was a Gerbil. Some of you may be guessing that this is a terrible first pet for a child, and you are correct, it was terrible, but it wasn’t common knowledge at the time that Gerbils did not bode well with children. As much as it was the nastiest thing to have for a child, I felt horrible for the situation that unfolded. While my mother was busy outside spray painting something, I was inside. We had a lovely TV stand or shelf, one that was beautiful like an antique. My mother wasn’t rich, we were a lower income family (and was like this for a long time), but she was fortunate to find this on sale, or perhaps from someone’s trash. Either way, she got it rather inexpensively. The shelf was so beautiful, she was later judged by the welfare office for her findings as being suspected that she was getting money from somewhere else, and cut off her money. A single parent, without a job, ripped away from her welfare money from being judged by some prude who assumed my mother gained a lot of money to buy this shelf. It was the biggest load of shit, and this didn’t end there. In fact, this is only one of many cases, gone unreported, because who cares about the poor? Right? Who cares if my mother ended up homeless because she was given something nice, and it looked like she paid for it with lots of money? But, before I go on a rant about them, I will get back to my story of the Gerbil.

 

As I was little, and I thank the friendly cartoons for those animal characters for making me believe animals were snuggly and sweet, I picked up the Gerbil one day. My mother possibly warned me not to pick it up on my own, but I didn’t see the Gerbil as nasty. I was cute. I wanted to hug it. But, by the time I was pulling up the little Gerbil through the top door, the darned thing bit down and clamped its teeth on the webbing between my thumb and finger. I screamed, but my mother didn’t hear. I tried to shake the thing off, but it wouldn’t let go. “Stop it!†I cried, but the Gerbil wouldn’t listen or let go, turning the spot where it was biting black and blue. So, in desperation and fear, I got angry at the thing. I was afraid to hurt it, but it was hurting me, so I tried to squeeze it to get it to let go. I screamed at it to “let goâ€, but the Gerbil would not release its incisors. At one point, it didn’t let go, even though I tried to squeeze it. Then, the pressure weakened. I figured it was good to let go now since the Gerbil stopped. But, it went limp, and fell out of my hands. I was horrified. That Gerbil turned me pale, as I have killed it. It never stopped biting down, hard, until its final breath. In a panic, I sealed the lid, and paced a bit. I couldn’t hide it from my mother, so I did the next best thing. “MOM! THE GERBIL IS DEAD!†Mother heard me, but she was busy. “The Gerbil isn’t dead, it’s probably sleeping.†My mother replied. I panicked even more. I wanted my mother to save the Gerbil, and I didn’t know what to do. “No mommy, he’s not moving! Bring him back!!!†After a bit, my mother finally came in. She say the Gerbil, now lifeless, laying in the wood chips. She had to wash her hands off, but eventually it was already too late for the Gerbil. The poor thing got a trash can funeral, and the guilt washed over me like nothing else. I probably didn’t sleep very well that night, feeling horrible for what happened. Later on I found out my mother knew what happened, but she never punished me that day. She knew I was just a child that didn’t know any better. We didn’t get any rodent pets for a few years after that, not until I was 12 when we had Guinea Pigs and a few mice.

As I grew up, I was visiting my grandparents, my aunt, and my cousins a lot. I won’t name names, because I don’t want to tarnish their names at this point. While some people might know who I’m talking about, I do believe they are starting to understand things better, while I say that, I don’t mean they entirely understand, but they both changed to opposites of what they used to be. One was the caring cousin who treated me like his sister, and the other cousin bullied me like I was her competition even though I put up no fight and only wanted to care about everyone. Now I learned I shouldn’t care for everyone, as I can see that there are complete assholes these days, but let me say I was so caring in my childhood, the world corrupted my innocence and who I was. I was a very lady-like girl, with tomboyish habits. I didn’t see myself as a tomboy, but a kind girl. I was always loving, with long, wavy hair, and an unconditional affection towards everyone and everything. Whatever made my cousin jealous, or envious of who I was, is probably clear what it might be, but it was not clear to me at the time. At times I was pushed into the mud in the back yard, or tied to a chair in the basement and left me there. Whatever it was, I never did anything back, because I always just wanted to help others, not hurt people. I was the calm, gentle type, not knowing what to say at times because I felt like it was unnecessary. To me, I didn’t have to say anything, I figured people said things that weren’t what they thought, and I realize now that people will say things they believe themselves. The way I thought about the world, I felt like others felt the same way I did. Learning how messed up things were, and still are, has damaged my feelings and emotional connection to people and this world. However, because of who I am I still that person, and I have regained what I had lost years ago. But the bullying was relentless. At times, I wanted to look at something my cousin had, I’ll call her Sally. Sally didn’t want me to touch anything she had, so when she opened a present at Christmas, she wouldn’t share. My aunt did nothing about it. When Sally would say “NO!†my aunt would tighten her lips, and cross her arms, watching us and allowing Sally not learn to share. Of course, anything I had I shared with Sally, but that didn’t change how she was. Perhaps she just forgot, or was stuck to habits. Sometimes I would get to play with the toys, but if it was Sally’s, it was off limits. Of course, some things I wouldn’t touch if she didn’t want me to, but Sally still would refuse to even let me look at something.

 

This wasn’t the worst of Sally’s actions, it got more and more serious as she grew up. One day, both my cousins and I were in the back yard, without our parents watching us. In a shit-headed idea, my cousin, Sally, would say “let’s beat up Dorothy!†and my cousin, Greg, would reply “yeah!†By then, I was pinned down with Sally body slamming me to the ground. It was painful, especially for someone, like me, who didn’t fight. Her knees were in my back, and I was screaming and crying as she pulled my hair hard enough, as if she was trying to rip it out. My face was red, it felt hot, tears were streaming down my face, and my cheeks were tightening from trying to bear the pain. I screamed as loud as I could to try and get my mother, or my aunt, to hear me. To my shock, I did not expect what I saw next. My aunt heard me, and she looked out the window of the back door from the porch. She just… stood there, staring, observing me crying, in pain, looking at her. She had an arrogant, smug look on her. Her nose was up, and she quirked her eyebrow at me. After watching me, she walked away from the door dropping the lace curtain, and didn’t come outside. After a while of being beat up, my cousin, Greg, tried to stop Sally. However, this didn’t keep Sally from pushing down harder. In fact, she was hysterical at the sight of my aunt not giving a shit about what was happening to me. Did she want me to bleed? Did she want Sally to destroy me? My trust towards my aunt was destroyed that day. After that day, I resented my aunt, and she started to become more and more arrogant towards me. That day it was my mother who stopped the bullying. Sally would have ripped my head bald if she could, she didn’t seem to care. But my hair was so thick that she might have only got a few strands out, but I don’t remember much about that aside from the pain… I had no idea why she did what she did, but I whatever the reason I did nothing to deserve it.

Sally eventually became so wild, she grabbed a meat knife one day. When this happened, I don’t remember, but she was having a tantrum that day. She threatened to stab me with it. My aunt was there, but did she do anything? No. It is amazing to know how little my aunt cared about me, or Sally’s mental state that day. It was my mother who grabbed the knife from Sally’s hand, stopping her. I never remembered that day, but I vaguely do, and this is what my mother told me happened. I remembered that day I was pinned down, and how little my aunt reacted to it when she saw me being kicked down in the ground, so I believe my mother when she says she remembers this. I remember something like it, but it never stuck with me. Probably best to forget about it. Possibly, to me as a child, the knife didn’t seem threatening to me somehow. I remember my cousin Sally being so pissed at me, angry at me, hating me for some inexplicable reason, but I never remembered the knife, it seemed too unreal for me to consider she would have done anything that day. But, perhaps, something might have happened. To this day Sally may not be wise, but she has grown. Sally and I get along better now, but we don’t see each other very often. As it goes, we still have our tiffs, but I have learned that it’s nothing major coming from her, it’s just who she is. It’s possible my aunt didn’t believe my cousin, Sally, was going to use that knife that day, but I don’t remember that day enough to say what might have been. I will take my mother’s word for it, because she is not the type to forget such a profound incident.

 

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[Strati]

That's the non-native speaker talking here:

 

I'm a bit confused by this line: Not that I want kids, I don’t, but at the same time those children want to matter, and rightly so.

 

First, I'm not sure if you meant I'm not interested in descendants or just I don't want kids (to matter).

Second, who exactly were you referring with those children.

  

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To a degree, I identified with this last paragraph. Back then - on 2nd grade I guess, well, it's a different grade system anyways - there was that stuck-up, negative teacher who shouldn't really be allowed to work with kids in the first place and would find a way to pass her frustration to us.

I also recall this drawing of a "naked woman" on my notebook I had to turn into a smiling face mid-way through while the over-touchy kid decided to delate me to the teacher.

Can't say if there were any shreds of life lessons that day, but if yes, I would put on the sack of "Don't trust people.".

[Airikita]

That's the non-native speaker talking here:

 

I'm a bit confused by this line: Not that I want kids, I don’t, but at the same time those children want to matter, and rightly so.

 

First, I'm not sure if you meant I'm not interested in descendants or just I don't want kids (to matter).

Second, who exactly were you referring with those children.

  

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To a degree, I identified with this last paragraph. Back then - on 2nd grade I guess, well, it's a different grade system anyways - there was that stuck-up, negative teacher who shouldn't really be allowed to work with kids in the first place and would find a way to pass her frustration to us.

I also recall this drawing of a "naked woman" on my notebook I had to turn into a smiling face mid-way through while the over-touchy kid decided to delate me to the teacher.

Can't say if there were any shreds of life lessons that day, but if yes, I would put on the sack of "Don't trust people.".

I'm implying that I don't want kids myself, but that I still recognize that kids should matter, and that they yearn for caring to feel important in this world.

 

I'm glad you pointed it out, because I can see it doesn't sound clear enough.

 

EDIT:

How about: "Not that I want kids myself, which I don’t, but at the same time children want to matter, and rightly so.", does this sound better? I have yet to proofread it myself (been writing another story, and doing homework) so expect some odd/awkward sentences.

 

I proofread some parts, but I keep getting busy.

[Strati]

Sorry for this late reply, I maght have missed the edit.

 

Joining your own words, what about:

"Not that I want kids myself, which I don’t, but at the same time I recognize that children want to matter, and rightly so."

 

Are you still writing this? I'm looking forward to see where this story will lead into.

[Airikita]

I wish I was, but I've been busy. I don't know what to do during my holidays, but maybe I'll contemplate on this story seeing as I'm at a deadlock for other things. My concern is the flashbacks I might get, so I'll wait and see what I can remember.

 

I remember an incident in Kindergarten, something really perverted. You think 10 year olds are having sex? There was a boy in my class touching girls under their skirts under the desks during class. I'm trying to remember when certain events happened, and how to word them properly.

 

EDIT: I updated the other part of chapter 2, you can find it added to my previous post from where I talk about the little girl I met in Elementary School.