I was bullied in grade school. I didn't know what was happening to me had a name, or that it was particularly wrong. I thought it was normal. I thought that it was my fault that other kids were mean to me. I wasn't self-hating. I wasn't puzzled by the scenario. I recognized that I was new, different, and aloof from my classmates in that small town, and I reasoned that this was the reason that I was the end of the ugly behavior. I understood that, and didn't blame them for how I was treated. Eventually I thought that if I dressed and tried to be more like them that they wouldn't be as harsh. I never really succeeded at that, and I expected each day of school to be some sort of struggle. This happened from 4th grade, when my family moved from a big city to our land near a small town, until maybe 11th or 12th grade of high school. I don't recall it being as bad as that seems, but I remember hating school. I felt sick with anxiety on Sunday evenings, with the looming day of school and the jokes and teasing that I would probably get. I tried to hide. I tried to make it so that there was nothing that I could be made fun of for. I kept quiet, I didn't ask anything of anyone. I didn't try and play or eat lunch with anyone. It seems lonely, but I didn't see it that way. If I could just get away from the people, they couldn't hurt me.
I never told my parents. I never told my siblings. I never told my teachers. I never told my coaches. I know that the last two groups saw it though. If I was in there place I wouldn't know for sure what to do about it, and at the time I didn't expect them to make things better. Perhaps they knew that whatever was done could only make things worse, and that's the last thing I would want. "Kids are kids", and that involves being mean sometimes. Perhaps they knew that. I knew that. I don't recall taking insults, being shoved, spit on, or things taken from me as personal. Sure they hurt my feelings, but I somehow I held tightly to the fact that they didn't know me. The other kids didn't know who I was or what was going on in my head. I don't think they cared either. They kept their high status in school by keeping kids like me down, and a strange "status quo" way, I understood that then and I get it now. I am not saying that this makes it right. I had 1 friend in particular at school that wasn't mean to me. We never met or talked outside of school, but at least he was there to laugh with sometimes. I remember watching him take his share of bullying also.
Home was warm. My family was so loving, sweet, supportive, and genuine. Home was safe and positive, while school was the opposite. It was hard for myself as a kid to deal with those extremes, and it hurt my confidence to realize that I could barely survive socially away from home. When you have no confidence, you're only going to suffer worse, and I did. The most painful parts of the bullying were when people made fun of my family or where we came from. Having Native American and Jewish heritage brought a lot of slurs to me in particular, as well as being Catholic and from a poor family. I remember being ashamed that I did not defend my family. My family was a light that I loved and cherished more than anything, even myself, and I did not have the courage to stop that image from being humiliated. I think that hurt the worst.
How did I deal with bullying? Alone. I spent as much time as I could out of the reality of the social life that was that school and town. I played a lot of role playing and adventure video games where I could pretend to be someone else somewhere else. I worked a lot because I had chores and tasks to take care of on a farm/ranch, and I had to earn money if I wanted clothes, shoes, or new video games. Working was very good for me because it relived my stress and let me feel like I was growing or building something, where it felt like at school I had no building material or seeds to do anything. I also dealt with it by spending some time crying in my room, screaming into pillows, hitting myself, or tearing pages of books. I told myself that I would be able to graduate and move out of the town. I could leave the mean classmates and all of those humiliations behind and start new. That hope, along with my family kept me alive. I contemplated, and even thought through ways and steps that I could take to end my life. The anger and hurt that experienced was bearable, and looking back I'm not sure why I felt that suicide as a way out was even a possibility. Maybe because I cannot remember today how hard that experience was. Maybe because I was a dramatic, hormonal teenager. What I do remember was that what stopped me was 2 things: The thought of me missing out on even just the chance of great things that were still waiting for me once I graduated and went to college, and ultimately my family. My younger sister and brother seemed so much more brave and confident than I did. They appeared to have been enjoying life more than I, and have such a bright future ahead of them that I couldn't take their older brother away from them. I would hurt them and my parents worse than any single thing. How could I do such a thing? The one shining flame of love and compassion for me would be repaid with a selfish, cowardly act. Every time I thought of ending my life, I always ended up with that notion, and nothing short of God would deter me more.
This experience made a "late bloomer" in many ways, particularly in finding my identity of who I am and who I want to be. It probably still affects me quite a bit, but time and habit have lost my recognition of it. Bullying made my college years more formative, and to this day I treasure them so much because it was the first time that I could explore and express myself around my peers. I wouldn't wish the experience on anyone, but you won't find me on the front lines advocating for anti-bullying campaigns either. I still don't know what to make about that time as a kid. I was bullied for so long that I can't speak for what it's like to not have those problems. And in the same way that I deal with many of my anxieties now, I put those negative memories down and ignored them. I can't say with confidence that they were good for me and made me stronger anymore than I can say that they hindered my growth and made me psychologically frail. I've never met anyone with a similar experience. Like me, anyone who might have gone through that probably wouldn't tell anyone anyway. I'm telling my blog.
I never told my parents. I never told my siblings. I never told my teachers. I never told my coaches. I know that the last two groups saw it though. If I was in there place I wouldn't know for sure what to do about it, and at the time I didn't expect them to make things better. Perhaps they knew that whatever was done could only make things worse, and that's the last thing I would want. "Kids are kids", and that involves being mean sometimes. Perhaps they knew that. I knew that. I don't recall taking insults, being shoved, spit on, or things taken from me as personal. Sure they hurt my feelings, but I somehow I held tightly to the fact that they didn't know me. The other kids didn't know who I was or what was going on in my head. I don't think they cared either. They kept their high status in school by keeping kids like me down, and a strange "status quo" way, I understood that then and I get it now. I am not saying that this makes it right. I had 1 friend in particular at school that wasn't mean to me. We never met or talked outside of school, but at least he was there to laugh with sometimes. I remember watching him take his share of bullying also.
Home was warm. My family was so loving, sweet, supportive, and genuine. Home was safe and positive, while school was the opposite. It was hard for myself as a kid to deal with those extremes, and it hurt my confidence to realize that I could barely survive socially away from home. When you have no confidence, you're only going to suffer worse, and I did. The most painful parts of the bullying were when people made fun of my family or where we came from. Having Native American and Jewish heritage brought a lot of slurs to me in particular, as well as being Catholic and from a poor family. I remember being ashamed that I did not defend my family. My family was a light that I loved and cherished more than anything, even myself, and I did not have the courage to stop that image from being humiliated. I think that hurt the worst.
How did I deal with bullying? Alone. I spent as much time as I could out of the reality of the social life that was that school and town. I played a lot of role playing and adventure video games where I could pretend to be someone else somewhere else. I worked a lot because I had chores and tasks to take care of on a farm/ranch, and I had to earn money if I wanted clothes, shoes, or new video games. Working was very good for me because it relived my stress and let me feel like I was growing or building something, where it felt like at school I had no building material or seeds to do anything. I also dealt with it by spending some time crying in my room, screaming into pillows, hitting myself, or tearing pages of books. I told myself that I would be able to graduate and move out of the town. I could leave the mean classmates and all of those humiliations behind and start new. That hope, along with my family kept me alive. I contemplated, and even thought through ways and steps that I could take to end my life. The anger and hurt that experienced was bearable, and looking back I'm not sure why I felt that suicide as a way out was even a possibility. Maybe because I cannot remember today how hard that experience was. Maybe because I was a dramatic, hormonal teenager. What I do remember was that what stopped me was 2 things: The thought of me missing out on even just the chance of great things that were still waiting for me once I graduated and went to college, and ultimately my family. My younger sister and brother seemed so much more brave and confident than I did. They appeared to have been enjoying life more than I, and have such a bright future ahead of them that I couldn't take their older brother away from them. I would hurt them and my parents worse than any single thing. How could I do such a thing? The one shining flame of love and compassion for me would be repaid with a selfish, cowardly act. Every time I thought of ending my life, I always ended up with that notion, and nothing short of God would deter me more.
This experience made a "late bloomer" in many ways, particularly in finding my identity of who I am and who I want to be. It probably still affects me quite a bit, but time and habit have lost my recognition of it. Bullying made my college years more formative, and to this day I treasure them so much because it was the first time that I could explore and express myself around my peers. I wouldn't wish the experience on anyone, but you won't find me on the front lines advocating for anti-bullying campaigns either. I still don't know what to make about that time as a kid. I was bullied for so long that I can't speak for what it's like to not have those problems. And in the same way that I deal with many of my anxieties now, I put those negative memories down and ignored them. I can't say with confidence that they were good for me and made me stronger anymore than I can say that they hindered my growth and made me psychologically frail. I've never met anyone with a similar experience. Like me, anyone who might have gone through that probably wouldn't tell anyone anyway. I'm telling my blog.
