Bloody Roses

I’ve never understood that phrase. A child is something wanted, desired and treasured. A child is created without their knowledge or consent, brought squalling into a world of frightening brightness and disorientating noise.

We are forced to grow up in a world of rules that make no sense. If you are lucky, you can fit in. If not, you are ostracised very quickly, the kid hiding under their coat hood at break time, wishing to be invisible. The one people kick, toss chewing gum into their hair, the one who dreaded going to school. Eventually you just stop going altogether. After all you’ve tried telling teachers what you are going through and they shrug. Don’t care.

But of course, the teachers care about your sudden absences. They don’t give a fuck about your suffering, but truancy? T]hat’s a big deal. Everything you do is wrong. You can’t escape this prison, this torture. But you are smart enough to pass your GCSEs. When you go to collect your Record of Achievement your’s isn’t there. The girl with a similar name clearly took it. One last kick in the teeth. They probably burned it in a field somewhere. They couldn’t help but take that every last shred of dignity you had and destroy that too.

That’s school. That’s what after 20 years I’m supposed to let go of. Let go of my distrust, my fliching at loud noises, my shaking whenever around strangers.

Do you think those former kids feel that way? Are they terrified of loud noises, paranoid of others, live alone because your company is the only one they can trust, do they take valium to cope?

Doubt it. Their lives are just fine. Mine isn’t. I am their shame legacy. Not that they even remember my name, let alone have any concept of shame.

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