Chapter 2: The Wrong Trajectory
It started out with forming an association with going to science class. Most of my classes took place upstairs, where the upper elementary and middle schoolers had homerooms. The gymnasium and science lab were downstairs on the main floor, which was where the rest of the elementary classrooms and administrative offices were also located. I could manage my morning classes, but right after lunch I had science class and I found it increasingly more difficult to make it to class. At first, I just held my breath as I walked down the hallway, until I got through the doors to the science lab. If I made it that far, sitting through class was an ordeal. It was near impossible to pay attention, because my mind immediately went to anxious thoughts like, “What if I feel sick? What if someone in class throws up? What do I do if I need to leave?” These thoughts consumed me. Adding to the fact that I often had pain in my abdomen, I was fixated on the idea of being stuck at school not feeling well.
I went home for lunch pretty much every day. Knowing I had science following my lunch break, I started to become so anxiety ridden that I genuinely felt ill. I began to miss class, until my parents caught on that there was something more to what was going on. It caused a lot of difficult conversations with my parents, and arguments about whether I was going to go back to school or not. Clearly, I was on the side of “no.”
Given my mental health struggles, I was assigned to a lady named Mrs. Crane, who came to the school to work one-on-one with kids who needed some gentle guidance. She was kind and drew me out enough to open up about what was going on in my life. One of her approaches to helping me process the world around me better was to give me a journal. I would leave it with her at our sessions, and she would respond to my entries. Aside from my struggles at school, I was also facing a lot of potential upheaval at home.
The journal was a good place to express the emotional rollercoaster I was going through with my parents attempting to become missionaries in Guatemala. It was an intriguing proposition, but it also scared me. My parents were stressed out by the rigorous process that involved several interviews. It left them drained and distraught, which didn’t go unnoticed by me and had its own impact on my mood. It also didn’t help my mindset about trying to make new friends or care about the teasing enough to do something to feel better about myself, because I reasoned there was a good chance I would be leaving everyone behind anyway.
Toward the end of the year, I did start to befriend some of the other girls in my class. Mrs. Crane suggested I invite a few girls to join me and her for an activity. I am not sure how excited they were to hang out with me, but who wouldn’t appreciate the chance to get out of class?
My teachers were understanding about my mental health woes and worked with me to help me progress to eighth grade. I had an incomplete on my report card for one quarter of science, but I was able to make up for missing so much time in class in the following quarter. It was by the grace of God that I had support and was able to rally, and move on to eighth grade, despite all of my setbacks. I said goodbye to my teachers and the few friends I had, though, because it was looking all the more certain that we would be moving to Guatemala.
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