When I was in eight grade, I spent a lot of time staying after school to talk alone with my history teacher. I was a lonely and depressed kid who had started hooking up with boys because I was desperate for any kind of attention, and being able to talk to an adult and feel like he cared about me and was looking out for me was amazing. A few years later, people started telling me that this teacher had told them I was in love with him, and I just laughed and shrugged it off. I actually saw the teacher when I was in 11th grade, and we laughed at him thinking I was in love with him.
I don’t know what reminded me of all this today, but as I walked to the train after class it was on my mind, and I realized how massively fucked up it all is.
- Rather than recognize that I was lonely and miserable and in need of someone to give a damn about me, this adult who taught children was so narcissistic and ignorant that he thought I was talking to him because I was in love with him.
- He told this to other children.
If I saw him now I’d have something very fucking different to say, and none of it would be pretty. Instead of being someone from my past whom I could remember fondly and with respect, he’s another person who’s taught me that people don’t care about me and can’t be trusted. I would love to stop being so cynical, but my experiences continually reinforce my reluctance to trust anyone.