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Date Posted: 20:21:04 04/27/10 Tue
Author: Garen
Subject: Something kinda random that spit itself out when I was supposed to be writing a paper... Apparently I have anger management issues
Still not entirely happy with the final line. It needs to be shorter, but I'm not sure what to put.
A Portrait of the Author at Age Twelve
When I was twelve years old I was an awkward, temperamental bookworm with very few friends. I had a sandy-red ponytail, wire-rimmed glasses, and a fierce temper. I took Prozac every morning for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a diagnosis that was later changed to Asperger's Syndrome. I was an indifferent student-- I paid almost no attention in class, didn't bother to do most of my homework assignments, and got A's and B's on tests with no effort. My parents were always much more excited about my test papers than I was.
I liked tests. Unlike a lesson with a homework assignment that would bore me in the short term and eat into my free time at home, a test could be finished quickly right there. I would bring a book to read when I was done with the test, openly on top of my desk rather than surreptitiously during a lesson. Most of the books I read were fantasy and adventure stories. I went through three or four paperbacks a week.
I read during recess. The fact that other kids were running around playing barely registered with me, apart from having to dodge the occasional ball that strayed into whatever corner I'd stuck myself in. I hated sports, and regularly plead sick to get out of gym class.
I was desperately lonely.
The other kids thought me odd, crazy, possibly dangerous due to my temper tantrums when I was younger, before the Prozac. I thought them stupid and petty, and myself superior. I mostly ignored them, as befitted a superior being. I didn't cry when they stole my books and ripped out pages, or made of fun of my good test scores, or made jokes about my surname-- kids will find anything to make fun of. I'd scream at them, and go tell the teacher, and bask in vengeance when my tormentors were punished by the arm of authority. I may have cried later, at home in my room, burying my face in my teddy bear, but I don't remember.
I was angry.
I didn't understand why I had to go to school, where I learned nothing and no one ever talked to me except to tease and bully. I talked to the teachers, who found me charming and eloquent, if a bit quirky. They didn't understand why I never did my homework, and offered to help me with it if it was too hard. It wasn't too hard. It was too boring. I felt it wasn't worth my time, not when I was so clearly a superior being.
I created friends for myself, alternate personalities with whom I would have conversations. I don't remember their names. I built a tree house with my group of selves, my army of one. No one else was allowed. It was invaded twice, as I recall, and we were forced to abandon it. There was a clubhouse in the bushes, with a ready food supply of wild raspberries in season, and plenty of thorns to keep out intruders. It was never taken successfully, although it was briefly occupied by my brother and cousin in exchange for offered tribute of ice cream.
I didn't like summer camp. There were lots of wild raspberries, but I weren't allowed to eat them because the counsellors were too stupid to know that they weren't poisonous. The other kids in my group were always stupid and petty just like the ones at school. It should come as no surprise that I was sullen and uncooperative. I didn't see the point. “Hiking” meant staying on a paved road or clearly marked trail, not getting to see the much more interesting things that lay off in the woods. The guide would point out a maple tree, or hold up an acorn, and explain them as though divulging the secrets of the universe.
I was bored.
My father had taken me on real hikes, had taken me fishing and berry-picking with him since before I was old enough to walk. I knew what poison ivy looked like, and I knew I was immune to it. I knew what berries were edible and which ones were poisonous. I knew very well what a maple tree looked like, and I knew how to make a whistle out of an acorn cap or blade of grass. I knew that moss grows thicker on the north side of trees because the winter sun doesn't hinder it, and I knew I probably had more wood-lore and forest knowledge than all the groupmates, counsellors, and guides put together.
I hated being treated like I was stupid, like the rest of the kids.
When I got tired of showing off my knowledge, I would become sullen, refusing to respond. I wanted to learn things that I didn't already know. The group went too slowly, so I ignored it. I slipped away on my own, following a different trail than the group. It was much longer, and more difficult in places. There were dried-up stream beds to climb, and rocks to scramble over. I pretended that I was an adventurer, going off to do battle with an evil wizard. I found myself a stick to serve as a weapon when I arrived at the wizard's castle. I found woodland flowers that I didn't know the names of, and picked one of each so I could look them up when I got home. I finally reached the parking lot, where the rest of the group was waiting. I'd been missing for forty-five minutes, and the park rangers were combing the woods looking for me. Nobody cared about my mysterious flowers, or the wizard's castle, or how much more fun the trail I'd found had been compared to the one the group was on. When my mother came to pick me up, the counsellor said I had gotten lost, but it was a lie. I had known where I was the entire time, even if the counsellor hadn't. I thought it was awfully presumptuous of him to tell my mother that I had been lost, simply because he didn't know where I was, and I said as much. My mother said nothing.
No one ever seemed to know what to do with me. They still don't.
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Nice work! -- Debi, 06:11:40 04/28/10 Wed
I really enjoyed this! It's an honest, unflinching observation on youth. Everyone can relate to having felt similar emotions growing up, yet this young lady is an entity unto herself. Her opinion on school and tests is great.
Hey, writing is one of the ways anger can be managed and it makes for an excellent story.
Debi
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I agree! -- 
Page, 20:48:54 05/06/10 Thu
I totally love the way this flows, the eloquence, the way it explains the feelings as well as the bewilderment of why this young lady with the ponytail was so misunderstood. Like Debi said, I think everyone can find something in this with which they can identify. Reading about the voracious reading, losing yourself in books, made me nod in understanding, for I did the same thing.
So glad you shared, Garen!
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Re: Something kinda random that spit itself out when I was supposed to be writing a paper... Apparently I have anger management issues -- Promise, 19:08:52 05/08/10 Sat
I very much enjoyed reading this and found myself very sympathetic to you, finding our 12 year old selves had much in common!
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Erk, and thanks -- Garen, 13:30:52 05/09/10 Sun
I suppose I should try and work it in that it's a twelve-year-old -boy- with a ponytail...
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LOL -- debikm, 19:00:09 05/09/10 Sun
>I suppose I should try and work it in that it's a
>twelve-year-old -boy- with a ponytail...
Good to know... ;-) Still good, powerful work.
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