Become a Fighter, Not a Victim 💕

First off, I just want to say that Jennette McCurdy’s memoir inspired me to write this article as soon as I heard the news. So, Jennette, thank you so much for the idea of writing this from my own personal experiences and heart.

To begin with, this morning while I was reading the NY news online, I found out that one of my teachers from elementary school died. One of my abusive teachers to be exact, so this is where the title of this article came from.

As soon as I heard the news that my elementary school teacher died… I am glad that it happened.

Before you jump into any conclusions, you truly need to read my own perspective with this teacher. So, keep reading this if you want to know why I’m elated when my teacher died.

I don’t know how to begin with this story. I’m only saying this from my heart and from what I personally experienced from having this teacher. I won’t go into a lot of detail about this, so I will try to be as vague as I can to protect this teacher’s identity and history.

It started off when I first had her for my assigned class. When I first took a glimpse of her, I knew instantly that she was mean judging by her facial expression, her tone of voice, and her body type. Even the freckles all over her skin brought me fear of what she would become when I had her.

My teacher started the class by getting to know her students first. She put on her fake smile and fake sense of humor. I could sense the artificial facade on her, which brought me a lot of trepidation from her. That was when I knew instantaneously that this year of school with this abusive teacher would be the worst year of my school life.

As the school year progressed… this was when something happened throughout that time changed my mental wellbeing. This was one of the reasons why I suffered from multiple mental health issues.

Somewhere around mid-September or early October, my teacher started abusing me, both physically and mentally.

During lectures and doing classwork, my teacher began screaming at me for no reason. She screamed at me for doing things that are not right, even though I was only trying my best. She screamed at me for getting one answer wrong that was inadvertent. She screamed at me just because she thought that I wasn’t doing any work, even though I was only thinking of the right answers for questions she assigned us with. She actually screamed at me just because I mispronounced the word “what” with “white,” in which I was actually dyslexic that time. To sum everything up… my teacher abused me just for being dyslexic.

At every lecture during rug time, she abused me nonstop. She humiliated me right in front of my classmates whenever I accidentally get an answer wrong. She screamed at me just for not answering anything, even though I was just thinking. I was mostly mute during that year of elementary school because of the trauma I had received from that teacher and all the physical and mental abuse I received from her caused me to be a selective mute throughout that entire year. I was too afraid to open my mouth because of her. I couldn’t even report it myself because I was naive that time and didn’t understand the term of abuse yet.

The abuse from that teacher didn’t stop there. There are a myriad more of the torment I received from her.

During rug time lectures, she called me names. She called me “retarded,” “slow,” and, worst of all, “bitch of disgrace” right in front of my classmates. These terms remained fossilized in amber within my mind.

She even allowed my classmates to abuse me. My classmates would pull my seat down to make me fall off my desk. My teacher never disciplined them or helped me. My classmates would push me down the stairs. My teacher never helped me or disciplined them for doing that. I nearly broke my arms and legs when my classmates pushed or pulled me down the stairs and my teacher never did anything about that. She just allowed my classmates to join her to abuse me throughout that entire year. To make matters worse, neither the principal nor vice-principal were aware of all this. They just allowed this teacher and these classmates to get away with it. I was too afraid to open my mouth to report any of these to the school authorities. I was scared that the teacher and classmates would lie to the principal, so that they’d be off the hook. No matter how many tries it took me to report them in person, it was never enough. Nothing is ever enough for me.

The abuse from this teacher didn’t stop there.

She even physically abused me as well. She pulled my arms all the time. She nearly broke my arm from her force; it didn’t exactly fracture, though the force was enough to leave noticeable bruises on my arms. My teacher once almost gave me a concussion when she hit my head with her fist, just for either not doing anything or for not paying attention. The hits I received from her left me bumps on my head. When my parents asked me about the bruises and head bumps on me, I had to lie to them that I fell. The reason why I lied about that was because I still didn’t know the meaning of teacher abuse yet that time; I was that naive and didn’t know the meaning of it all. Also, I worried that once I reported to my parents of what my teacher and classmates have been doing to me that year, I worry that the teacher would lie to them that she didn’t do anything to me, as well as her classmates. Lying to my parents about the teacher abuse I suffered from was the worst and, not to mention, the most terrifying experience I’ve ever had. I couldn’t open my mouth about the truth because of the doable consequences I would receive if I snitched on my teacher and classmates. Not even the police or any other type of authority were involved as well.

Aside with it all… this teacher would also make me skip lunch and snack time just for failing a test or a classwork assignment, in which I starved throughout the day until I got home. She would even make me stay afterschool to do extra classwork or punish me some more without notifying my parents.

Worst of all, from the middle towards the end of that school year, I improved myself with reading, writing, and math as I methodically fought my dyslexia. Unfortunately, my teacher never noticed this and she continued to verbally and physically abuse me towards the end of that year. She never believed in any of my improvement and she actually threatened me to have me held back a year… and she did. She never noticed any of my improved reading and writing skills, and, still, she made me get held back.

That was how much my teacher hated me when I had her.

Due to the abuse and torment I received from this teacher, along with the rest of her class, I suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder because of her. Whenever I hear laughter, I get reminded by my classmates abusing me with her joining in. Whenever I fall down the stairs, I get reminded of my classmates pushing and pulling me down while my teacher didn’t save my life. Worst of all… whenever I get screamed at by anyone… I get reminded by that teacher. It gets even worse when I had more abusive teachers, as well as bullying classmates, later on in elementary school, and the reminder of their verbal and physical abuse brought me many PTSD triggers that I still have a hard time overcoming with.

Nothing will erase those traumatic memories; they will never fade away into the dark depths of the abyss.

That’s not all. All the abuse I received from both classmates and teachers throughout elementary school may have been the source of my main mental illnesses: borderline personality disorder and bipolar disorder. I became emotionally borderline, manic, and hostile because of them. Hence the reason why I don’t trust anyone outside of my family. I remained forever alone because of them.

Now that I heard the news that my teacher died… I am now glad.

After all that name-calling, sadistic humiliation, physical torture, and being screamed at just for trying my best… I am glad this teacher died.

I can finally move on. I can finally be liberated from everything she put me through when I had her.

As of now, I can finally write about this personal experience I endured. I can finally express myself pertaining to this whole ordeal without her judgmental reactions. I can finally spread awareness against teacher abuse, so that no student, such as I, will go through this kind of ordeal. I want to help prevent and ban corporal punishments in elementary schools. I want to help prevent and ban all types of abuse in schools, that goes for bullying from both students and teachers. I want to make sure that all elementary schools, along with all types of middle and high schools, are safe spaces for every student there is. I do not want any more school abuse from both teachers and students. I want all schools to be safe spaces.

Should this former elementary school teacher of mines be cremated…

I’d throw her ashes in the fire as a way to symbolize her going to hell for putting me through all this.

Every dollar you donate will go to Love Our Children USA to help prevent more child abuse from happening ever again.