When I was little, I was a shy but lively child who loved playing outdoors. My neighborhood friends and I played Tag and Cops and Robbers, leapt off swings to see who could fly the farthest, rode our bikes down small hills, and built secret bases in grassy mounds.
Growing up in a comfortably rural area, I also spent time fishing, catching crayfish with dried squid, and digging a small pond in our yard to house swarms of tadpoles I collected from nearby rice paddies. Whenever I got tired of those things, I created new games—like sharpening the tip of a long, stiff grass stem into a makeshift spear and competing to see who could hurl it the farthest.
I was the kind of kid who could run wild and free when it came to play, but the moment I set foot in school, I’d clam up like nobody’s business. School just wasn’t a comfortable place for me.
I did have friends, and we got along fine—but I absolutely hated lessons, especially when I had to get up and present something. I never liked being the center of attention, and I’d get so nervous that whatever I tried to say in front of people came out all wrong.
Those moments felt like torture. Because of that, I skipped school a lot during those elementary years. Teachers, friends, and of course my parents were all doggedly worried, convinced something awful was going on at school. But I never told them the real reason. I was too embarrassed to admit I was ducking out simply because I couldn’t handle standing up and talking like everyone else.
To be continued...