⚠️ Content Warning:
This entry discusses childhood distress, loss of control, and a physical incident between children. It includes themes of fear, confusion, and emotional impact. Reader discretion is advised.
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The Day I Blacked Out
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I think I was in third or fourth grade...
It started like any other day — normal classes, the same routine. Back then, we had “blocks”: Block 1 was reading, Block 2 was math, etc and that day our elective was computer class.
We were playing Jeopardy, divided into small groups. My team had three people — me, a boy named Luke, and a girl. Each group had a button to press when it was their turn to answer. Ours was the “No” button — the kind that shouted “No, no, nooo” every time you hit it.
It was supposed to be fun.
Until it wasn’t.
Every time we reached for the button together, Luke slammed his hand down on mine. Of course it hurts.
At first, I tried to be okay with it, but it hurt — a sharp sting that made me pull my hand away.
I asked him softly, “Please stop. Please don't do that again.”
He didn’t.
He did it again — harder.
And this time, when he slammed his hand down, he balled it into a fist and pressed it into my hand with all his weight.
It really hurt.
Then the third time it happened again...
Something inside me gave out and snapped.
Then everything went blank.
The next thing I knew, I was standing in line with my classmates, waiting for our teacher.
Everyone was staring at me — silent, wide-eyed.
The computer teacher looked shocked.
And Luke was crying.
When his mother came, I saw a bruise on his chest. He was hunched over, holding himself and sobbing.
I didn’t understand what happened. I just knew everyone was looking at me like I’d done something terrible.
Classmates were afraid of me.
I apologized — because that’s what you’re supposed to do when people are upset — know what I was apologizing for.
Later, at recess, I sat alone, going up and down the slide. I remember the sound of kids laughing around me, but it felt far away — like I was underwater.
I was trying to think, to remember what happened.
A teacher came over and asked gently, “Why did you do that to him?” coming down at my level, looking eye to eye.
I looked at her and asked, “What did I do?”
She said I had punched him hard, right in the chest, and hurt him badly.
I told her the truth — I don’t remember.
I remembered his hand hurting mine.
I remembered telling him to stop more than once.
And then… nothing.
No punch.
No sound.
Just that blank space where a moment should have been.
After that day, some of my classmates looked at me differently.
I think they were afraid. Things eventually still went back to normal.
But the truth was, I was afraid too — afraid of what had happened inside me, afraid of how something could hurt so much that my mind just shut off.
Like what happened to me. I didn't understand.
I didn’t know what blacking out meant back then.
I just knew I had lost time — and I didn’t trust myself for a long while after that.
Home was never safe.
It wasn’t just messy, or strict, or unstable. It was dangerous.
A lot happens…
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Reflection
Looking back now, I have a better understanding of what happened.
My mind still goes back to that day sometimes—and to other moments like it.
I don’t see it the same way I did back then.
At least, I’m trying not to. I’m giving myself time and learning how to trust myself again.
At the time, I thought something was wrong with me.
Like I had done something terrible without even knowing it.
Like I couldn’t trust myself.
But now I understand it differently.
I remember the pain in my hand.
I remember asking him to stop—more than once.
I remember trying to handle it quietly, staying soft, the way I had learned to, and the way I naturally did.
And when it didn’t stop… something in me didn’t choose to react— it just couldn’t hold it anymore.
It wasn’t control.
It was the loss of it.
My mind didn’t know how to process what was happening, so it shut the moment out completely.
That blank space wasn’t me being violent.
It was me being overwhelmed past my limit.
I was a child who had already learned to endure too much without being heard.
And when my body finally responded,
my mind wasn’t there to witness it.
That’s what scared me the most— not what happened to him, but what happened inside me.
Because I didn’t understand it.
And when you don’t understand yourself,
it’s hard to feel safe in your own body.
Now, I can see it for what it was.
A moment where my body reacted
after being pushed past what it could handle—
after asking, after trying, after enduring.
It wasn’t random.
It wasn’t because I was “bad.”
It came from something deeper—
something that had already been building long before that classroom.
And maybe that’s the part that matters most.
Not just what happened that day, but what led up to it.
Something I’ve come to realize now is that I don’t always trust myself.
And I’m learning how to change that—
learning how to use my voice,
before it ever has to reach that point again, and without second-guessing myself.