It’s easy to tell when someone has been hit, and it’s easy to understand why that might result in distraction in the classroom. The bruises you don’t see can have far-reaching consequences, and you might never know about them, because these kids often don’t know they’re being abused. That’s why teachers need to look for the glimmer of hope in each “misbehaving” or distracted child. Because almost always, there’s a reason for their distraction.

I was one of those students not paying attention in class, because I was thinking about the time my father called me a slut for talking to the boys before class. Or the time he scolded me by calling me fat. Or the time he punished me for reading poetry. Or the time he told me I was a sick individual for drawing a hand coming out of a butt. The picture was actually of a bum farting. He never asked for clarification. He just told me I wasn’t good enough. I was 12.

Teachers need to look out for these students—the ones who can’t concentrate but seem to have “the perfect home life.” Those of us who were raised with consistent emotional abuse often seem to have the perfect home life, and even we start to believe in the façade. Even as our fathers scold us for accidentally hurting ourselves, nickname us “tractor” because of our delayed development, and bully us with songs about our habit of wetting the bed. We know the way they treat us isn’t right, but we can’t put it into words. We often believe we deserve it.

And at school, we burst into tears while sitting on the steps, and the world keeps turning, and no one notices. Maybe if I had a teacher who had looked deeper, who had asked me how I really felt, things would have been different. Maybe if my school had clubs I could join, where I could show my strengths while avoiding more time with my abusers, things would have been different. When I moved to yet another school and met teachers who were deeply interested in my success, things did change.

The emotional abuse didn’t stop at home, but now I had people who encouraged me in my interests and passions, who told me I was worth listening to. One teacher didn’t reprimand me for writing poetry during his class—instead, he invited me to join the poetry club, and told me I should consider competing in a poetry slam. I did, and won prizes every time. Another teacher recognized my ease with learning languages and encouraged me to skip to the next level of my English as a Second Language class. Yet another saw the potential and pushed me to an advancement placement English class—less than two years after I learned the language. These teachers probably didn’t know about the abuse. But they knew that when you encourage kids and believe in them, they believe in themselves, too.

And slowly, the bruises that no one sees started fading. They’re still there. They’ll always be there. When you grow up being told you’re worthless, it’s hard not to believe that message. When I receive an email telling me I’m a bad mother—from the stepmother who raised me with just as much emotional abuse as my father—I still wonder if she’s right. When I meet with family and the criticism starts, it still hurts. When a stranger is confrontational, I have a hard time responding. But it’s easier than it would have been if I had never met the teachers who helped me through that difficult time. The difference my high school teachers made still has an effect today, and I remember. I remember that I was smart enough to help other immigrant children learn English. I remember that I won awards for being a hard worker. I remember that I have it in me to be the best that I can be.

But before I met teachers who believed in me—and showed me they believed, there were risks I simply wouldn’t take. Meeting teachers who realized there was more to my distraction than simple disinterest in schoolwork helped me to do my best, and to realize I had a best to give. And I went on to not only thrive in high school, but to earn two Bachelor’s degrees and a professional degree, too.

I still sometimes wonder if I really am the worthless person I was made to feel like when I was a young girl. But I look back at everything I’ve accomplished since that time, and I know that whatever I was told was not a reflection of who I was, but a reflection of my abuser’s unstable thought processes. I thank my teachers for giving me the confidence to recognize that.

Sarah Prato is the pen name for an author who enjoys exploring multiple niches. Sarah has been published across the web on topics as varied as bicycle sales and meal planning software. She strongly believes that creative people should experiment in various niches to stay inspired. She writes about her family life under a pen name to protect the (often times not so) innocent.

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