3rd Grade. Cool, I leveled up. I made my first asian friend here. Forgot his name though.
Got a new teacher, Ms.XXXXXX. Kinda fat with a round head. Anyways, she had a punishment where students would get notes to their parents. The notes signified that the student was a bother to the class.
On the second week of school, I was just talking to my friends and buds for lols.
All of a sudden, she gives me a note. For Talking.
I was surprised.
"Wut? But I was talking to my friends in group study time!"
"Nope. Take this note and get it signed by your parents."
And when I gave it to my parents, I got hit.
The next day, week, month, trimester, I constantly got notes. Every single one of them, for "talking". No matter how I pleaded to my parents I didn't deserve it, they didn't listen. Ms.XXXXXX even sent some over the mail. I brought back every one of them with my parents signature, and you know what that meant for me.
Around Febuary of my 3rd grade year, Ms.XXXXXX overheard me talking about being hit. But, for some reason, she decided to step in there and call the school about it. My parents didn't hit me anymore. But instead, I got yelled at and threatened. This didn't stop her from giving me more notes though.
My parents' threats included:
-Im going to break your gameboy with a hammer
-Im going to throw you out of the house
-How stupid are you you must not be my son, I'm going to disown you
You can imagine the rest. Keep in mind I was, oh, 8 years old at the time.
In March, my parents realized something. Yelling wasn't enough! So to punish me even more, they decided to take away the only thing that kept me sane. My Pokemon game. I simply broke apart there.
At school, I kept quiet for a few days, giving her no reason to give me a note.
Several days later, our class had a special day, where we would pick someone from our class to participate in a certain game. I cheered along with the rest of the class and lo' and behold, I got a note for shouting. Not having pokemon for several days, my mind was brittle and easy to shatter. So I cried. It was unfair. It was simply unfair. Why did she hate me so much? Why only me?
At home, my parents told me to get out of the house. They held the door open and demanded I leave. I was so miserable, wanted to die.
At 8 years old, I wanted to die.
The notes continued, and my life was growing worse. All I could do was live.
Finally, third grade ended. And I cried tears of joy.
For throughout the year, I had received 71 notes.