One thing my mother did when I was little was read to me. I can’t stress to you enough how important it is to read to children. It’s not just a time to bond, but also helps them to learn to read.
I remember teaching myself how to read the P.T.A. notices and everything else that was sent home with me in first grade. I did such a good job, they moved me up a grade, which was a blessing and a curse.
It was a blessing because I was challenged more academically, and a curse because I read everything that I could get my hands on, and I read quickly. Maybe if I had read the dictionary, I would’ve learned more words, but man oh man the places that I went to when I read a story!
My home life was difficult. A step-father who couldn’t seem to stop himself from hitting me and calling me names like stupid and asshole and a mother who treated me as if I were a piece of crap that she couldn’t get off of her shoe.
School though was my saving grace for 6 years-until we moved to a town who’s school system was two years behind the one I came from and then the trouble started there too.
I used to have nightmares that someone was trying to kill me (flashbacks of when my biological father drove my mother and I off the road while trying to kill us). They were bad enough that I was in counseling in first grade. The same grade that I used to beat up this girl named Debbie almost everyday because her hair stuck up like a beat up Barbie doll.
I wish I could remember her last name so I could apologize. What an ass I was back then and so so angry.
I was hell on wheels, but a straight A student until seventh grade. That was the year that I discovered drugs and people who were just as angry as I was. I was 11 years old.
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