Ch. 2- Junior High is Hell on Earth.

I could easily have stayed home, but I wanted to go to school the next day. The house felt so dull and empty without my dad's energy, his presence, to motivate me, so I made the decision to give education a shot that day. I probably just wanted to be anywhere but home.1

When we arrived at the school, I opened the door and stepped out onto the asphalt, with only silence to greet me. Usually my peers were clustered together in little groups, chattering on and on about last night's game, or the upcoming test. You know, the usual elementary subjects. The cliques would seperate themselves from the croud, rarely mingling; jock with jock, geek with geek, girl with girl and guy with guy. Today, however, everyone was quiet, scattered across the lot in ones and twos. The air was heavy with tension, and the schoolyard seemed more like a graveyard, cold, dead and sad.2

Those who saw me approached me slowly, gathering round this quiet little kid who was the nice one, always smiling, always trying to show other kids little bits of kindness whenever he could. The poor kid with cerebral palsey, that funny disorder that they could never quite understand. The guy who was always nicely dressed, looking like he just came from Sunday school, his hair parted to the side, his arms hanging to his sides, his front teeth protruding a bit. The kid who was today quiet, frownig slightly, his head down, almost as if he was a different boy today. The first to speak was John, a popular, handsome guy who was known for his sports prowess.3

"Hi, Clay..."4

That was all anyone said. My dad had just died, and no one here could ever understand. After a few moments of absolute quiet, the bell rang and we headed in for first period. I don't remember much from the rest of the morning. it all runs together. The only thing I remember that was at all important was that I ran into my principal in the hall at one point. Apparently, she was making a point of informing all the students what had happened. Many of the kids had known Dad since kindergarden, and he was well known for his outgoing and gentle nature, his generousity and approachability. She asked me to come along to a few of the classrooms, but I didn't do much. I guess I was just supposed to stand there and look sad. I dunno.5

Eventually I went home, tired, confused, and upset. Almost all the time between that Friday and his funeral is gone from my memory.6

We had the funeral at a relatively small church, but when I got there I realized that there were more people there than I had ever seen in one place since. My teachers, relatives, and more strangers than I can count were lined up outside that building, waiting on the steps and queuing up on the sidwalk. More were joining the crowd every second, it seemed. I don't remember much from the funeral, except that one of his brothers didn't come. I had always resented him for that. My mom's brother drove all the way from Houston, TX, NON STOP, just to be there for her, and my dad's brother couldn't be sussed to show up to his big brother's funeral service. I could never understand that.7

At some point, I went to a child phsychologist to help me cope with my father's death, but it didn't last long. Eventually, we stopped talking, and I opted intstead to draw pictures. It was decided that I had, for the most part, bounced back, and so we stopped making appointments. From 4th to 6th grade, I felt fine. I was baok to normal. My biggest challenge for two years was to learn those mathematical processes that would prep me for Algebra 1 in high school.8

It occurs to me that you, dear reader, know almost nothing about my friends and family, and so I think it would be good to fill you in.9

Joel Turner has been my best friend for 9 years now. I met him in 1rst grade, and we just clicked. We hung out constantly for years, my house becoming a second home for him. 10

He's quiet for the most part. We don't have that many deep discussions. He's rebellious in his own way, with a sort of 'fuck you guys' attitude. He's a really great person, though. He's outgoing, active, and has a great sense of humor. He likes to skate, play bass guitar, and generally screw around. I remember when we were REALLY young, we listened to Backstreet Boys tapes(gag), but we had fun all the time. We would spend our time watching Bruce Lee movies and pro wrestling, pretending to be martial artists, beating the shit out of eachother in my basement.11

Eventually, we caught on to GOOD music, trashing the boy bands and pop artists in favor of Nirvana and System of a Down. He eventually took up bass guitar, and I planned to take up drums. However, my mother insisted I take lessons from my uncle, and so I did. By now, I've stowed my practice pad and 'set' (a dog cage, pot and plastic box) and replaced them with a real drumset, a Pearl five piece with black finish and all Pacific harware. Hell yeah!!!12

Jesse Gooseman is one  of my other best pals. Can't remember when we met, but we eventually became fast ftiends. hanging out with Joel and causing trouble in the classroom, and, more recently, the neighborhood. As time went on, we hung out more and more. He's another of my house's weekend residents these days. While I just mess around with Joel, wandering the streets or playing video games, I do a lot of talking with Jess. He's incredibly intelligent, with a gift for deep thought that few possess. He shows his sensitive, delicate side to me more often than Joel does, and I think that because of that, we have a different kind of relationship.13

He's been playing guitar for years, and compliments Joel and I very well when we play music. Together, we form the three piece, the Freudian Slips. We got a deal recently, so watch out, corporate radio!14

For a while, I was close to Steve Walker, a perfectionist with a unique sense of humor and a somewhat nihilistic world view. In the beginning, he was nice, and fun to be around. In time, though, he showed a knack for lying, a cold, sometimes cruel intellect, and a haughty and self-centered personality. He was smart, and he knew it. His opinions were right; everyone else is an idiot. He told me I was overweight. The basis for this statement? A medical standard several years old. Of course, he didn't15

say, "Clayton, you're a bit overweight." He prefered expressions such as "You're a slug." Suprisingly, he apparently made friends this way. He always seemed mildly popular at school. 16

I remember his penchant for bragging, and fibbing. Sometimes his stories were complete fiction. I, of course, believed him. I had no reason NOT to. Of course, this meant I was "Gullible and weak."17

Steve was always convinced he knew what was best for me. He called me alot about joining the Boyscouts.18

"Why do you keep asking me to join Scouts, Steve? We've talked about this before. 19

"Because it's what you NEED, Clayton." I was convinced I'd hate it. So I succumbed to pressure and actually joined. Ironically, I was right. I hated it. It was probably the worst experience of my life.20

The made little or no accomidations for me as a handicapped person. Many times I was forced to stand in the hot sun, in an uncomfortable and unreasonably heavy Scouts uniform, my legs aching horribly, and my face drenched in sweat while the scout leaders went on and on about trivial things. 21

On Sundays, when we were camping, I was forced to hear a Christian sermon, about the importance of Jesus in my life. Jesus on the Trail. I hated that fucking book.22

Needless to say, I left scouts after a few months.23

My life was pretty normal up until 7th grade. One day, second period, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to kill myself. Nobody loved me. Everyone just puts up with my presence. No one would care if I just up died. My life seemed like a living Hell, a curse, and a burden suddenly.24

"Dad? Dead. Everyone else has a dad, it seemed, except for me. Grandma? Died from diabetes when I was still young. I had a brother, child of my father's previous marriage, but I never knew him. He died from a brain tumor when he was seven. My sister Shawn hates me. She MUST hate me. Whenever something bad happens, she blames me. She yells at me all the time. If I stop to pet the dog while I'm coming upstairs to do homework, she yells at me. I'm a criminal in my own house when she's there. I'm scared of her. She's so hard on me...I'm not making any friends here at this school. I'm struggling with my grades. I have cerebral palsey to deal with...25

If there is a God...he hates me." That was the focus of my life for two years. 26

I went to the counselor, and broke down completely. She called my mum, and had her pick me up. 27

Once I was home, I calmed down. I didn't go back to that damnable Jr. High for nearly a month. I felt dead, every day. Completely out of touch. I often felt like I was an elderly man in the body of a thirten year-old. I started seeing a social worker named Mrs. Schneider, different from the one I saw a few years before. I was diagnosed with clinical depression and was put on a daily dosage of 30 milligrams of the anti-depressant Paxil. 28

Of course, my suspicions about how much other people cared for me seemed confirmed. No one but my very closest friends even ATTEMPTED to contact me in that dire month. It would have meant so much to me, just to have someone from school call to see if I alive, let alone in good health. It seemed to me, however, that wether I came back or not was of no consequence to them. They didn't give a damn if I lived or died. The funny thing is that when I got to the point where I could actually function on a day to day basis and began attending school again, suddenly everyone was so fucking glad to see me. Where had I been? Oh, they had missed me so! How glad they were that I was all right.29

All I could think was "Fuck you. You didn't care when it mattered, lying bastards."30