Moving, but slowly...

My life has been ever problematic. When I take the time to sift through the memories that almost elude my reach, memories of childhood, I remember the difficulties I faced even though I did not immediately realize that I was most certainly different.

Pre-school. I remember very little. I remember I had one friend, the epitomical opposite of myself. Outgoing, brash, and never stopped talking. From my parents account, if a teacher said my name, I often closed my eyes and frose in whatever position I was in at the time, not moving until the teacher got fed up with me.

Elementary school. The nightmare begins here. Not really any isolated moments, but the entire duration of elementary was in a constant nightmarish state, which only got worse with each passing year. Second grade was a profound leap forward into the abyss. My dad got a new job in York, PA(about a 3 hour drive from Allentown, PA). He would commute to work every monday, and would come home every following friday night. This continued into the 4th grade. During that time period, my homework and class participation went from almost none to absolute zero. I do not remember much, but I do remember not being happy.

4th to 8th grade. The nightmare ended; The reality of the nightmare began. This may be the worst section of my educational experience. This section is devoted to my peers. Family changes may have been the catalyst of my previous nightmare. In November of the 4th grade, we had moved closer to York; Mechanicsburg, PA. New school. New peers. New Horrors. It is incredible how much of a difference in attitudes that you see from inner-city kids to suburbians. That kind of stuck-up attitude. "You're drawing that wrong", "you don't know long division?", "what do you mean you don't know how to play baseball?". Kids yelling at me. Constantly being punished for not doing things I didn't know how to do. Never being explained anything to me. And most of all, being dragged out of the all-purpose room, clinging to the door, whilst the principal tugs at my feet and the entire gym class is laughing at me. All becuase I refused to play an activity I did not enjoy nor even see the purpose of doing.  1 year over, 4 more to go. I almost didn't make it.

6th to 8th grade was the most helpless struggle I have ever experienced in my life. And it was helpless. So many wrongs existed with so little rights. Always being the first to get blamed, always being accused, fucking ALWAYS doing something WRONG, even when I was trying to do everything in my power to do something RIGHT. Always singled out, when they knew that is exactly what I feared the most. And none of the teacher ever got my name right!! How hard is it, seriously? Jordan Cain. What is it again? Jason? Jared? Jordon? Jordan Rink? Jason Coin?  What the heck, people!

Highschool. Reality settled in, the hellhole brought its teeth to bear. Just to clarify, these comparisons of diabolic proportions are not to overdramaticize my experiences. When I say highschool was a seethingly hellish experience, I'm not joking. If anything, that is a terrible understatement. The antagonist here had a role reversal from the last section. The teachers and the school administration were the enemy here. I made quite a few friends in highschool than I had in middleschool or elementary(though my friends I made in elementary did save my sanity at least). The teachers were really out to get me here. Perhaps only 2 or 3 of them were of any help, and saw my plight for what it was. The rest saw my quiet nature as defiance. As if I may be undermining their roles as the authority figure in the classroom or some crap. I spoke when I had something to say. When I didn't have anything to say or didn't know what they were asking, I usually just sat in silence, which seemed perfectly logical to me. Apparently, it doesn't work like that. If you talk too much, they look to you as disruptive. If you hardly ever talk at all, they look to you as disruptive. The teachers purposefully called on me even when I didn't have my hand rasied. I would have figured that they'd learn that when I knew the answer I'd, raise my hand. If I didn't know, I wouldn't. So calling on me when I didn't have my hand raised seems a little pointless, I think.

9th grade signaled the year of my nervous breakdown. It took me 'till mid-11th grade to recover from that. I broke down 2nd week of 9th grade, I didn't attend a full period of a class until 10th grade. I had to take summer school for the 11th grade, during which time, my summer school teacher asked my parents if I had down syndrome. O_o 12th grade was horrid. A torrent of nastiness directed squarely at myself. Graduation was THE MOST happiest day of my life. But for all of the hardships I endured during my time in school, I have no doubt it was as hard or harder on my parents.

4 years since I graduation from highschool. I am a long-time attendee of Pennsylvania's largest LAN group, in which I am very active in. I just started going back to school at the local community college for a couple classes. Hell, I deserved a 4 year break after my foray with the public school system. I am no longer as shy as I used to be, and my social skills have gone up dramatically. I am, in essence, a new person.

Things are moving, but slowly.