Last day of school typing


I feel like I’ve been in a cage for the past 12 years, being force fed these facts… random knowledge being shoved down my throat forever. And while I tried to stay upbeat and not break… I’d eventually be free right?… but those facts that you didn’t want in the first place, the ones they tried to make stick to early in the morning before you’re even coherent, they then damn you for not remembering later.

This was my last year, I tried to take comfort in the fact that I was almost gone, I was almost free…

I’m intelligent, no really. At least, that’s what every teacher has ever told me.  “You’re a brilliant, creative, interesting, unique young woman.” But the way school was structured, it never allowed me to be what I could be. My friends are all brilliant too—and they fit into the educational system so naturally. They were all good with school. They all wanted to do what the school wanted from them—the grueling, spirit breaking work was their forte, the perfect niche. Their grades exceeded the “perfect” hundred, A++. I could scrape by with eighties, with B’s. They all have something “right brained” that they were good at too. Art or Music, and for some of them both! I love to draw, and with a pen I could draw cartoons that, if anything, were cute, sometimes funny. But those who were good at art were great, perfect. Even when I won a contest statewide for my “Beauty is…” Reflections piece, one of my friend’s pieces was right there too. And they were able to use paint as a medium, I’m stuck with pencils and pens. Or they had prowess with digital art—something I myself cannot afford or use without feeling like, somehow, I’m cheating. Forget music. When it was a required class I did well, surprisingly. But without someone making me practice and encouraging me, music does not stay with me. I’ve relearned how to read music about three times in my life, because I forget it so quickly.

This was my worst year. I was at my limit; I was at my breaking point. I knew I couldn’t survive this torture called school much longer.

With that in mind, I tried to take classes that could make me want to come in, and at the same time not be too difficult to do the work for or to get to. A cooking class was a good idea—and a great class to be in. Doesn’t matter that I was the only student there who actually wanted to learn how to cook—everyone else looking for an easy A, which wasn’t even there anyway. Automotive Technology was a complete waste. I went in to learn about the theory of cars, but nobody stopped to teach me anything, instead giving me little jobs that I was capable of doing—charging car batteries, pushing the cars outside, some computer jobs like typing, sweeping, etc.  Psychology was a good idea too—I loved it and was one of the few kids to both participate and pretty much know all of it before hand. The little projects in that class were fun… when I wasn’t stuck with a group, that is. The groups never really let me contribute. Taking a morning class was a stupid idea, but I have a reason. First, it was Shakespeare. I know I hate that old dead writer/actor man, but at least I knew stuff about it. And my friends were in that class. I missed a lot of that class, from being absent to just being too late to make first period. Because of this my second semester had me in an ordinary regents English class. I hated it. The students were frightening and mean and loud. The subject itself wasn’t bad, but I couldn’t even think about it because of the class atmosphere. Even the teacher was mean and not encouraging at all. In Mythology most of my friends were there, and the teacher was one of my favorites, and it was a nice class to be in. … At 7:30 in the morning, however, almost impossible for this 8-AM-waker. There were also no exams in this class, we were instead graded on a million assignments. Assignments I couldn’t really do, because the second I got home I crashed, my mind done for the day, refusing to reboot. I could only get work done on the weekends or holidays, when I had the ability to rest, meditate, and eat a good breakfast.

I knew I couldn’t do it.

I tried anyway.

I’m free, but I think I’ve broken.

It’s a little too late.

This is the feeling that I should take a year off. This is the feeling people get when they want a year off.


I’m only going part-time to college

And not until after the summer

I think I’ll be okay.

I have the summer.

To find myself.

To re-connect myself with the energy of the world and what-ever-else.

I feel broken

But I’ll survive.

And use this season

Of heat

And sun

And freedom

To glue myself back together.

… If my teacher simply can’t pass me, and I somehow have to go to summer school because I’ll be short


I’m not sure I’ll survive.

Today was the last day. At least an entire school year after my breaking point.

All the girls and teachers are crying. Because they’ll miss the classes together.

I’m crying because I think I was there too long. I broke. And even after I glue myself together

There’ll still be cracks

Obvious lines that show

Just how I broke.

If I have one of those 9 to 5 office jobs in the future, if I become a pencil pusher…

I’ll completely and utterly lose any bit of sanity and self I have left.

I think this summer

I need to be free.

I need this summer

I just need it.

Please don’t take it away.

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