The second and third grades.

The second grade went smoothly. I don't recall any extreme highs or lows. My teacher's name was Mrs. Knight. She was an older lady, also, but she wasn't small. She once told us a story about a kid she had taught. She had admonished him, telling him that he couldn't even spell "cat." At the end of the year, he could spell C-A-T. And that was the only word he could spell.
The 3rd grade started out fine, but about half way through the year things began to fall apart. Something traumatic happened to me. Whatever it was, I have suppressed it. I starting having full blown panic attacks at the thought of going to school. I threw fits - screaming and crying. My stomach would hurt. I would run away from school. My dad beat me. My mom prayed and tried to reason with me. Someone from the school system suggested I see a child psychologist. I did. I remember, once, my parents took me to the parsonage to spend the day with our preacher. We talked, read bible verses and prayed. He gave me a quiver full of arrows.
My dad beat me some more.
Nothing worked.
I have talked about this elsewhere in this blog. I just wanted to emphasise the effect this period (of nearly 3 years) had on my life. Kids made fun of me. People knew me as that boy who ran away from school. Of course, all of this exacerbated the problem. I was traumatized. Something had happened to me. I was a child, it wasn't my fault, but the shame and guilt I felt shaped me. It affects me to this day. I can't stress that enough.
I sometimes think about undergoing hypnosis, but I'm not sure I really want to know what I've buried.