I often hear myself saying that the stories sent to me are so much more tragic then the ones I shared here. But there is much commonality between them, such as the sensitivity of the victims of bullying and how that is exploited by the bullies. Last week’s news about the death of Robin Williams affected me deeply due to learning of his battle with depression. Now that the proof is coming to light that bullying leads to anxiety which can lead to depression and then what can be the end of that for some breaks my heart. For Lisa below to start by saying she doesn’t have the happily ever after story continues to show that we must share and connect through these stories. We are not alone and I, for one, understand what Lisa talks about here. As usual, thank you, Lisa, for sharing it here. ~Alan Eisenberg
My bullying story doesn’t end with a clichéd happily ever after. I drown in the depths of despair each and every day as a result of my experiences, and I share this story in the hope of schools stepping up to their call of duty and combating this pressing issue.
I was an intelligent child and started school a year earlier than everyone in my class. Although I was smarter than most of them, my emotional maturity was not at par with them and they picked up at this from my third year in school. Isolation was the first ingredient in, what was to be, the crucial cocktail that would shape my life forever. My whole class refused to speak to me for about a year. Coming from a country school with around 100 pupils in total, this meant that I spent each and every school day with no human interaction, maybe a few words with a teacher. To this day I have social anxiety as I never learned how to socialize properly and make friends.
Summer came and went, and it was back to mental anguish for me. This time they spoke to me, but maliciously. I was referred to as a “fat lesbian” and a “diseased creature”. The latter one certainly hurt more, as some of the girls made up rumors stating that I had a disease and that it was contagious. This illness made a person morbidly obese and hideous looking, transformed them into a depressed loaner and made them a general failure in life. At eight years old these crude, low comments made me try to make myself sick on numerous occasions. Luckily I sucked at that and could never really get much up. Nobody would sit with me in class. At lunch I was but a solitary enzyme, willing each painstaking millisecond to conclude. This year our PE class, for 10 weeks, were brought swimming. I loved it as it offered an escape and wasn’t exactly a team sport, I was no longer the last to be chosen for a team. I enjoyed the relief of the cool water and the release of negative energy that this sport offered.
Towards the end of the term, a boy deliberately held my head under water with the cruel intention of drowning me. I spluttered, struggled and inhaled water. No lifeguard came to my rescue, no knight in shining armor saved me. Like I said, this is not a fairytale. Time no longer matters when one is in excruciating pain, but for arguments sake I was under water for a full minute. My consciousness began to slip, but somehow I mustered every joule of energy within my battered being and pushed him away. The sweet oxygen filled my lungs when I returned to the surface. This memory makes me appreciate life each day. I am so glad to still be alive.
Another incident that particularly opened my eyes to the beauty of life and living occurred a year later. The emotional bullying was still happening each and every day, and it was mixed with this facade of physical bullying; I was beaten up regularly, punched, stoned and kicked. Bruises painted my skin in splatters of terribly beautiful black and blue on a permanent basis. I still have my battle scars which decorate my knees and shins, earned in the warzone that the teachers named the playground. This was, admittedly, somewhat tolerable. I know this is an insane declaration but I had become somewhat accustomed to torture and the feelings linked with it.
However, the day two boys brought a ten inch butcher knife to school with the intention of using it on me was the day I knew change was required. And fast. I was standing against a wall, the two pathetic excuses of human beings directly in front of me, one holding the handle of the shimmering blade, the object that would shape my destiny. I ducked down low, he swiped, and I ran so quickly that those who watched were a blur. I told the teacher, and, you guessed it, all he did was confiscate the weapon that had the potential to conclude my existence. Neither a punishment nor a repercussion was mentioned. Those boys got away with their harrowing actions, as it was just as easy for the staff to conceal the incident and hope I’d forget about it.
I should probably mention that I informed many teachers of the torment that I faced each day. Nothing was ever done in an attempt to combat the actions of these cruel individuals. Infact, on numerous occasions, I was called a “stupid child” by the staff for reporting incidents.
The anxiety attacks didn’t stop by the time I got home, so I decided to tell my parents about the days events. They knew I was facing trouble in school, but they didn’t know the extent of my misery and just how much danger I was in. They decided to meet with the school principal, which shouldn’t have been a problem but our class had our annual school tour the very next day. I was keen on going so my mother arranged a meeting with the principal immediately after the school trip. Unsurprisingly, it was the outing from hell. The name calling got worse that day and I was left alone on the bus. One girl was asked to sit with me and she cried hysterically as she believed she would catch the disease I spoke not so fondly of earlier. Predictably enough, I spent the day alone. The principal and my teacher seemed to enjoy the fun of inflicting emotional damage on me, they watched and laughed as the days activities of humiliating me unfolded. I laughed and joked with them, because it was that or sit in silence. And that was far too awkward for my persona.
Tears wouldn’t caress my soft blushing cheeks as I had become so numb to life and it’s ups and downs. Nothing really mattered to me anymore. Broken heartstrings bled the blues to a dark tune that I had grown far too familiar with. I was no longer upset, I was destroyed.
The day ended and it was time for my mothers scheduled meeting. I departed the bus and stood beside my her. I no longer even possessed the ability to speak. I hadn’t found the power and bravery to enunciate one single syllable before we were approached by the third teacher who was on that wretched automobile. I couldn’t even look at her, she stopped nothing. She informed my mom that she had witnessed a horror unfold in front of her guilty eyes. She had heard stories before but seeing was truly believing. She apologized, and explained that she didn’t have the authority to intervene during the school tour as her boss, the principal, was present. She advised us to tell every single detail at the meeting and to sugar coat nothing. My life needed to be transformed, and she knew it.
The first thing the old witch said at our meeting was that there was no bullying in her school, and that I was lying. She tried her best to convince my mother that I was a lying child who craved nothing more than drama and attention. I recalled my version of events, the mental and physical torment of the years before this particular moment in time. I was still lying in her eyes. My mom left the room and came back with the teacher who was on our side of this battle. She agreed to act as a witness and backed up my statement. It was getting late and it was agreed that the talks would continue in the morning whilst I was at class.
Both parents attended this meeting, and another teacher decided that she was to give an account of what she saw over the past couple of agonizing years. Incidentally, her story also matched mine. The principal could no longer accuse me of lying and the truth was slowly to come to light. She told my parents that this would come to an end, not that she formulated a plan or anything. My parents then informed her that they knew about her efforts to hide a knife attack and various other serious incidents, and that they had the power to report her if nothing was done about my case. Both teachers nodded in agreement and in that second she was forced to put an end to my long and painful journey through the deepest pits of hell.
I repeated that particular year in school so as to escape the morally corrosive class. I made some good friends and I began to enjoy life. I still do lead quite an exciting and fulfilling life. However, it’s not a completely happy ever after conclusion to this series of unfortunate events. I still have self image issues and question my worth to those around me. I’m a slight perfectionist in school and am unhappy with anything less than a B (sometimes that’s not enough) in my exams. The memories still linger deep in the tissues of my sometimes tormented psyche and manifest in nightmares late in the darkness of night. The only escape is writing. I believe in karma to some extent, most of them aren’t planning on going to university and don’t lead very productive lives. I’m going to be a biomedical scientist, and I fully intend on benefiting this world in a positive way and working in cancer research. Unlike some, my footprint will hopefully be a positive one that I stamp on this precious planet.
I’ve decided to share this story with the intention of giving hope to victims across the world. I’ve told nobody except my parents and the staff who ran the school about these incidents, so this is a huge step for me. Persevere, demand help consistently and stay strong. You will be rewarded, and life gets so much better.