I Can’t Believe You’ve Done This

I remember that day clearly.

Too clearly.

Everything from that day is burned into my memory, forever embedded into my mind until I die or I lose it along the way.

It was barely a month ago.

To think all this anxiety and stress started from a math class.

I walked into my third period math class on Wednesday— or maybe Tuesday? I can't remember anymore. All the finer parts of the day have become fleeting memories. I can only remember this.

Graphs. We were learning about X and Y intercepts. It was going to tie into systems of equations. I liked math so there was no problem in the subject or the lesson. Nothing was wrong— except that my teacher insisted on her fast pace. I can still hear it. Her dreaded cry of "faster! Faster! Faster!" It brought sickness to my stomach and hatred in my mind especially with tests. How I hated her tests. She never gave us enough time to finish— for we were supposed to have it completed to perfection by the halfway mark of the period since we were honors students and could handle unrealistic deadlines no problem.

I never liked going fast. What was the point? Rushing was how you made mistakes. So, why were we forced to rush in math, the most direct of all subjects? One mistake and you were doomed. This was the subject that represented the saying "slow and steady wins the race". I think I'll never know why she chose that method, but I do know it was ineffective. Not just for her students, but for her as well.

I noticed the mistake clearly. She plotted the y intercept on the x axis. So, I raised my hand. I told her, not unkindly, that she had made a mistake with the x and y axis. She didn't quite understand. OK. I rephrased it. It didn't work. OK? I tried again. Nothing.

OK...

People with power know how to make things hurt. I learned that quickly, considering she immediately assumed I was the one who wasn't understanding. It was humiliating to the point that if I were to go back now, I would tell myself not to say anything even if she said "If I make the mistake, correct me" because it was just a lie.

My throat closed up as my eyes watered. Frustration burned inside me, but I could not scream. From anger or fear of authority, I can't say. Emotions seem to fog everything up.

I could barely breathe as I heard snickering. I saw the face of the boy I hated as he silently wanted this go on. It was like a stab wound. This was not funny! I wanted to say. Stop laughing! But I couldn't. I was all alone as people stood bystander, offering no help at all until someone else managed to get her to understand. It makes my blood boil to this day because we said the same thing, but they said it with a louder tone.

"I am a moron. A complete and utter moron."

That's all I could tell myself. Until class ended. I was a moron for noticing, and I was a moron for trying to explain. She had never listened to me before. Not many do. I was too quiet. Too comfortable being alone. Too comfortable not being loud, or flashy, or fast.

Yet, my torment did not seem to be over for her. She had stopped me after class, asking me if she had made me cry.

"Yes."

"Ah! You are just being too sensitive!"

It stunned me. Not just the words— but the realization they gave me.

I was alone in this. The class could be filled to the brim. Other staff could be in there— our superintendent could be their and I'd still be alone. Despite a crowd of people, I'd be isolated in this class.

I wasn't fast enough on the tests.

I wasn't loud enough to be heard.

I wasn't apathetic enough to ignore being hurt.

I wasn't like the rest of them. Yes, I was an honors student— heck. Even in that class, I'd be the one my peers asked for help. But I was alienated. We had stuff in common, sure, and most of them never publicly tried to differentiate me, but the effect that class had on me showed the difference. No matter what happened, I'd be alone. They were able to find ways to cope. I could not.

But dear reader, do you want to know the worst part of this story?

The worst part, the part that always sticks with me when this memory creeps back in, is that everything I've written was not a horrible dream made to demonize someone. This was not a story made up for the prompt. This story is completely true.