Teacher, Leave Them Kids Alone

Just a quick recollection and regret that I have.

My abuse was perpetrated by a female school teacher. Probably coming from a family line full of educators, I had great respect for teachers, their authority, and their knowledge. A combination of factors led me to become the perfect target for this particular teacher's grooming, which led to abuse. Age 12-18 were chock full of this abuse and it continued much longer than that. But after high school, I did go to college. Several hundred miles away, at a prestigious school, in the discipline that my abuser taught.

By this age I was a complete train wreck of a human being, barely holding it together. Again, perhaps because of the educators in the family, I was able to push to excel in school. I was again a success on the outside and a dying child on the inside.

When I went to school, I was floundering for direction and guidance. That direction could have come from the teacher that was my mentor, who I will call "Bob" for this blog. Bob tried to help me, but I was so gun shy from any attention. I remember several times talking to Bob after a class and feeling absolute panic when he asked if I wanted to walk with him to his car to continue the discussion. This was normal, but I felt it was grooming. I remember him asking if I wanted to grab something to eat one day, that he would pick up the tab. Again...normal, right? But in my reality, his buying lunch could mean anything...

I, after reaching my senior year, crumbled for the first time (and not the last, but that's for other posts). I quit school suddenly, returning home to my parents house. I told Bob that I was taking a semester off so that I could really "get" all of the teaching from my time there. I was going to work and work and work so that I could finish my school career as a superstar. This was a lie. I really just couldn't get up from bed each day and prayed that I would have the courage to die.

The image that stings, still, came a few weeks later. Bob sent me a text to work on, that he had written. In the front he wrote, "I miss you! Love, Bob". I felt like throwing up. This was normal, right? Or was the panic that I felt right? Bob never tried anything, never wanted to. He wasn't an abuser. He did love me, we had a teacher-student relationship. He wanted to be my mentor. But my past wouldn't let me be a student. My abuser did take that away from me. To her: damn you!

I'm actually very happy with my career (not in the original discipline) now and my life (which has potential to be amazing, which is why I have to heal!). I do wish that I could call Bob and explain everything, but that wouldn't make a lick of sense to him. Not really fair to him either. So I won't and I won't live with this regret ruling my life. It's just an example of something I've uncovered. Something that abuse affected. A scar that I run my finger over, remember the past, and realize that it is, truly, the past.

To Bob: Thank you for helping me...thank you for your mentorship...thank you for your friendship. I'm sorry I couldn't play the role of student...I wanted to! But I couldn't. I hope you know, somehow, that your efforts weren't in vain, that they helped shape me and I still talk of you often. Love, Matthew.