You want to see your parents, so you go to their room. They're mad. They tell you that it's too early to get up, and ask you why didn't you wait until your clock says 7:00am like they've told you to so many times before. You feel shame, because you forgot...again.
You try hard to wait for breakfast, but boredom starts to creep in right away: the boredom that's always one step behind you, waiting to overtake you and suck the joy out of every moment of your life. You're an expert at avoiding it, because don't we all avoid what's painful to us? Movement helps, so you start jumping on the bed. Your dad, still trying to sleep, yells at you to get out of the room.
You play alone in the living room until your parents finally get up. It seems like forever. Your mom calls you for breakfast, twice, but you don't hear her because you're hyperfocused on the awesome lego robot you're making. All of a sudden she's in front of you, looking angry and telling you to sit at the table right now. You feel awful. You think your mom is the prettiest, most wonderful lady there is. Why can't you ever make her happy?
When it's time to go to school, your dad notices that one of your mittens is missing. It's the third pair we've gone through in a month, he says. You'll have to get the other one from school. You nod, smiling, knowing there is no chance that you'll remember to check for the missing mitten, and wincing inside at the thought of how cold your hand is going to be later.
You enter your classroom with dread. It's been a tough year so far, and it started not that long ago. Your last teacher was really nice, and actually kind of seemed to understand you, but this teacher is new and you don't think she likes you at all. She starts teaching about science - you love science - and all of a sudden a million interesting thoughts fill your head at once and come pouring out of your mouth. You ask her why people's hearts are in their chests instead of their heads, and why grass is green instead of purple or blue, passionately joyful and grateful for this moment when torturous boredom is gone and you feel fully alive.
The teacher glares at you, and tells you to be quiet and to raise your hand before you speak. It's a slap in the face, and it's come so many times before that something inside you dies a little bit, and you decide not to try asking questions anymore.
You don't stop trying to be good, though: you'll never stop trying, even though failure is always guaranteed. So you hold yourself still, still, still, still, still, until you can't take it anymore and you just have to move, and then you end up having to stay in for recess because you were disrupting the class. You sit at your desk, screaming inside the whole time, with boredom winning again and again and laughing in your face, until everyone finally comes back. At least you didn't have to freeze your hand, you tell yourself.
You don't hear the bell at the end of the day when it rings, because it's free choice time and you're playing with your friends and all your attention is on the funny one who makes the jokes you like. Your bus leaves first, and your teacher tells you to hurry up and get it to it. You grab your backpack and run out the door, never realizing that you forgot your lunch bag, and your hat. You remember them on the bus and start to cry a bit, knowing how mad your dad is going to be. A bigger kid laughs at you and calls you a crybaby, so you stop crying.
You get off the bus and your mom is there, smiling. She asks you how your day was. Good, you say, but I just lost my recess a little bit. Your mom's face falls. Her disappointment sinks into your heart. You need to try to do better at school, she says. I know you can do better if you try. You nod. OK, she says, it's time to do your homework now. I'm going to wash the dishes. You stare mutely at her back, not knowing how to get started on your homework; knowing it will be boring and so, so hard to focus on.
You feel like an alien, and a failure. You wonder what's wrong with you, why you can't ever do what you want to do, and why you aren't like everyone else. You wish your parents got a different kid, a better kid, instead of you.