Uneasy

I glare down at the paper in front of me, none of the words seem to make sense. Numbers? Those don't make sense either; in fact, it makes it incredibly more confusing. My eyes divert from my blank paper and to the many others who are looking at each of their personal papers. 

All of the others have the identical paper I have, except with their own responses in the form of each of their individual and unique handwriting, most of which were scratchier than the kids who left the school with lice in their hair. 

Not one person struggles to answer the questions that were typed and handed out to the entire classroom. I lightly sigh and move my head downwards, resting it within the palm of my delicate hands. No one would notice my struggles, despite it being so frustratingly obvious. We are a classroom full of oblivious first graders after all, except for the teacher, who seems to be just as oblivious as the rest of the classroom. 

Why do I struggle with something that must be so simple?

I let one of my hands fall from my face. My fingers wrap upon the empty mechanical pencil. I knew that I have no choice but to ask someone for a pencil and to get to work on the blank sheet in front of me. I glance at a digital clock, the one hanging on the farthest wall at the door is too difficult for me to read clearly. I squint, making out the numbers and slowly calculating how long it's been since I have been sitting here aimlessly. My eyebrows scrunch inwards, fifteen minutes. 

It's too late to ask for another pencil. How would I explain just sitting here and doing nothing, especially in front of each of these childish first graders? I try going back to inspecting the paper in an attempt to mentally understand and answer the questions. 

I perk up when I feel a presence behind me, someone who casts a shadow upon my desk. Definitely not the shadow of one of my fellow classmates. I continue to look at the paper, swallowing the fear that drenches me all of the sudden. A voice in the back of my head tells me that I have only caused more problems and could have avoided this all from the very beginning. 

I had no desire to ask for help or a pencil, especially among the silence of the entire room. Of course, there were the occasional whispers but even they stuck out like a sore thumb. 

Startled by a movement, I mentally shake myself from my thoughts. An arm reaches from behind me to rest against the desk, propping the teacher up from above my shoulder. I could feel her disappointed glare piercing the top of my head. 

"Do you need any help?"

I shake my head furiously, my cheeks beginning to heat up when eyes veered over at me. It is none of their business, but every first grader didn't care about that, everything and anything is their business. 

Attention seems to be on me, which is exactly what I had first sought out to avoid in the first place. 

Maybe this is where it all began, or became worse. Maybe as a kid, I wouldn't realize how much internalizing everything would do in the form of mental harm, leading to unintentional physical harm. Little me wouldn't understand that the constant daydreaming would become a daily coping mechanism. Maybe saying nothing is better than expressing my thoughts and feelings, especially since they are all unimportant, idiotic. 

Maybe if I had somehow avoided becoming my own therapist, less introverted and a stress ball then I wouldn't have to deal with what I have today, something so built up that it seems impossible.