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I was bullied as a child.
I often wondered why I was singled out in particular. Was it because I was weird? This was surely a huge part, but I knew it couldn't be the sum total, because I knew a couple people who I thought were just as, if not more, weird than I was, and they were not picked on. Was it because I was smart? Partially. I did extremely well in all my courses, and people picked on me for this, but one of the most popular guys in my school was neck and neck with me for grades. Was it because I practiced a different religion from the other kids? Again, I'm sure it was a huge part. Jehovah's Witnesses come across as better than thou, with not accepting Valentine's cards, birthday presents, sitting out the Lord's Prayer and allegiance to the flag, etc. But I knew another Jehovah's Witness kid who was not picked on. Was it because I was the new kid? Wore hand-me-downs? Was funny-looking? Wore glasses? Had no boobs? Didn't have a boyfriend?
Eventually, I figured out that it was because of a combination of all of these things and more, which set me apart as greatly different from the kids who picked on me.
I was punched, pinched, tripped, shoved, slapped, spit on, wedgied, kicked, or crammed into lockers and garbage cans on a pretty much daily basis at school from about grade five on to high school. I had my school books and notes stolen during exam time (I aced the tests, regardless). I was called names and verbally abused on an hourly basis. I didn't fight back. I believed it immoral to do so, because of the teachings of the New Testament. I had a literal belief in turning the other cheek. Turning the other cheek, however, just means you get matching bruises.
Ok, there are two instances I can think of in which I did fight back. But only two, until a few years later. One time, while a tough girl named Joanne was punching me and pulling my hair, I managed a weak flail back at her. She responded by beating me even harder. Once, I was thrown to the floor by a group of teens while they tried to shove some substance or another up my nose. For once, I fought back fiercely. I didn't know what they were trying to put up my nose. I knew it was some sort of drug, but I didn't know what kind. But though I fought as though my life were at stake, there were too many of them, and they managed to get whatever it was up my nose.
Terrified, I went to the bathroom and blew my nose until it bled, and then scoured it out with scratchy brown paper towel until the blood ran freely. Shaking, I walked to the principal's office. A teacher saw me and yelled at me, telling me to get back to my home room. I tried to explain what had happened, but he just yelled at me more. So I went back to class, wondering if I was now a drug addict, or if I'd be having hallucinations.
Later on, I found out it was just a nasal decongestant.
I came home with lots of scrapes and bruises. I don't think my parents ever noticed, because I was a rough and tumble kid, and I received far worse in my own farm and forest misadventures. Between the regular poundings I got at school and the (literal) horseplay at home, I developed a very high pain tolerance. I remember being slapped repeatedly across the face by a girl named Laura, and interrupting her to tell her she had an eyelash on her cheek. She stopped slapping me, and with my directions, found the eyelash and flicked it off, then resumed the slapping. I thought this was pretty funny, and my smirk just made her slap me more. I wasn't too worried. She couldn't hit for shit, anyhow.
I was starting to hate myself as much as the other kids hated me, and maybe even more. But the physical abuse stopped when I was in grade ten. I rejected Jesus's turn-the-other-cheek saying. I deserved not to be pounded upon any more. I grew out my fingernails and started carrying a heavy purse. I slashed and gouged a bully with my nails (like Beecher from Oz, but without the fatality) until he finally left me alone. He never touched me again. I smashed another over the head with my purse. Again, he never touched me after that. I still got plenty of verbal abuse, but by this point, I was pretty immune.
When I've mentioned this to some people, they've had a look of commiseration and/or pity cross their faces. They tell me they are sorry. But though I can't say I ever enjoyed being bullied, and in fact harboured lots of violent fantasies, they didn't revolve around me hurting or killing my aggressors. One of my most-visited scenarios was a terrible bus accident, in which I single-handedly rescued everyone from a fiery death, and then they all realized I was a big, damned hero, and stopped picking on me.
Why didn't I wish actual harm came to them?
Because I felt sorry for them.
Yes, really.
I knew what was happening to some of my bullies. A girl used to beat me up for choice bits of my lunch. She was not being fed at home. Her father was pimping her out to his hunting buddies. She and her brother had whip scars across their backs.
Another girl used to beat me up all the time. She didn't beat me up too hard, though. I knew she liked me, and hitting me was how she showed it. I was always nice to her, and although she was very strong, her beatings were all for show. They never hurt me. And if she saw anyone else hit me, she would beat them into the dirt, not sparing any of her strength. I was her bitch, I guess. Anyhow, she was, herself, beaten at home.
Almost every single kid that picked on me had something truly horrible happening to them in their home lives. Some were molested by their father or uncle. The uncle of one had made the dog have sex with her when she was still a toddler because he thought it was funny (the police came and shot the dog, but didn't take the kid away or arrest the uncle). How could I feel sorry for myself, when all I had to worry about were a few scratches and bruises?
Of course, knowing that I knew these things just made them hit me even more.
Many of the worst bullies never did graduate from high school. Some dropped out, or were pulled out, of school before they even started grade ten.
I guess the point of all this is yes, being bullied sucks. But sometimes, being the bully is even worse. And do you know what? It takes a damned lot to cow me, now. I survived a rough childhood, and I think I'm all the tougher for it. Where are my bullies, now?
I often wondered why I was singled out in particular. Was it because I was weird? This was surely a huge part, but I knew it couldn't be the sum total, because I knew a couple people who I thought were just as, if not more, weird than I was, and they were not picked on. Was it because I was smart? Partially. I did extremely well in all my courses, and people picked on me for this, but one of the most popular guys in my school was neck and neck with me for grades. Was it because I practiced a different religion from the other kids? Again, I'm sure it was a huge part. Jehovah's Witnesses come across as better than thou, with not accepting Valentine's cards, birthday presents, sitting out the Lord's Prayer and allegiance to the flag, etc. But I knew another Jehovah's Witness kid who was not picked on. Was it because I was the new kid? Wore hand-me-downs? Was funny-looking? Wore glasses? Had no boobs? Didn't have a boyfriend?
Eventually, I figured out that it was because of a combination of all of these things and more, which set me apart as greatly different from the kids who picked on me.
I was punched, pinched, tripped, shoved, slapped, spit on, wedgied, kicked, or crammed into lockers and garbage cans on a pretty much daily basis at school from about grade five on to high school. I had my school books and notes stolen during exam time (I aced the tests, regardless). I was called names and verbally abused on an hourly basis. I didn't fight back. I believed it immoral to do so, because of the teachings of the New Testament. I had a literal belief in turning the other cheek. Turning the other cheek, however, just means you get matching bruises.
Ok, there are two instances I can think of in which I did fight back. But only two, until a few years later. One time, while a tough girl named Joanne was punching me and pulling my hair, I managed a weak flail back at her. She responded by beating me even harder. Once, I was thrown to the floor by a group of teens while they tried to shove some substance or another up my nose. For once, I fought back fiercely. I didn't know what they were trying to put up my nose. I knew it was some sort of drug, but I didn't know what kind. But though I fought as though my life were at stake, there were too many of them, and they managed to get whatever it was up my nose.
Terrified, I went to the bathroom and blew my nose until it bled, and then scoured it out with scratchy brown paper towel until the blood ran freely. Shaking, I walked to the principal's office. A teacher saw me and yelled at me, telling me to get back to my home room. I tried to explain what had happened, but he just yelled at me more. So I went back to class, wondering if I was now a drug addict, or if I'd be having hallucinations.
Later on, I found out it was just a nasal decongestant.
I came home with lots of scrapes and bruises. I don't think my parents ever noticed, because I was a rough and tumble kid, and I received far worse in my own farm and forest misadventures. Between the regular poundings I got at school and the (literal) horseplay at home, I developed a very high pain tolerance. I remember being slapped repeatedly across the face by a girl named Laura, and interrupting her to tell her she had an eyelash on her cheek. She stopped slapping me, and with my directions, found the eyelash and flicked it off, then resumed the slapping. I thought this was pretty funny, and my smirk just made her slap me more. I wasn't too worried. She couldn't hit for shit, anyhow.
I was starting to hate myself as much as the other kids hated me, and maybe even more. But the physical abuse stopped when I was in grade ten. I rejected Jesus's turn-the-other-cheek saying. I deserved not to be pounded upon any more. I grew out my fingernails and started carrying a heavy purse. I slashed and gouged a bully with my nails (like Beecher from Oz, but without the fatality) until he finally left me alone. He never touched me again. I smashed another over the head with my purse. Again, he never touched me after that. I still got plenty of verbal abuse, but by this point, I was pretty immune.
When I've mentioned this to some people, they've had a look of commiseration and/or pity cross their faces. They tell me they are sorry. But though I can't say I ever enjoyed being bullied, and in fact harboured lots of violent fantasies, they didn't revolve around me hurting or killing my aggressors. One of my most-visited scenarios was a terrible bus accident, in which I single-handedly rescued everyone from a fiery death, and then they all realized I was a big, damned hero, and stopped picking on me.
Why didn't I wish actual harm came to them?
Because I felt sorry for them.
Yes, really.
I knew what was happening to some of my bullies. A girl used to beat me up for choice bits of my lunch. She was not being fed at home. Her father was pimping her out to his hunting buddies. She and her brother had whip scars across their backs.
Another girl used to beat me up all the time. She didn't beat me up too hard, though. I knew she liked me, and hitting me was how she showed it. I was always nice to her, and although she was very strong, her beatings were all for show. They never hurt me. And if she saw anyone else hit me, she would beat them into the dirt, not sparing any of her strength. I was her bitch, I guess. Anyhow, she was, herself, beaten at home.
Almost every single kid that picked on me had something truly horrible happening to them in their home lives. Some were molested by their father or uncle. The uncle of one had made the dog have sex with her when she was still a toddler because he thought it was funny (the police came and shot the dog, but didn't take the kid away or arrest the uncle). How could I feel sorry for myself, when all I had to worry about were a few scratches and bruises?
Of course, knowing that I knew these things just made them hit me even more.
Many of the worst bullies never did graduate from high school. Some dropped out, or were pulled out, of school before they even started grade ten.
I guess the point of all this is yes, being bullied sucks. But sometimes, being the bully is even worse. And do you know what? It takes a damned lot to cow me, now. I survived a rough childhood, and I think I'm all the tougher for it. Where are my bullies, now?
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no subject
Date: 2011-08-26 03:50 pm (UTC)From:I was bullied too, but not nearly as badly, and mostly was left alone through high school. But I agree with you, the bullies are the ones who need the help. They're not bullying due to the flaws of the bullied, but due to their own problems or needs. Bullying is a way of dividing -- the "in" crowd and the "out" crowd. Its a way of re-affirming rank amongst the in crowd, without making enemies of someone that may be socially or physically powerful. K-3, I played with all the "in" kids, before they were "in." As the cliques differentiated themselves, to be "in" you had to push people out. Those on the out then either built new groups, or remained loners.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-26 07:36 pm (UTC)From:It definitely made me stronger in the long run... and more ok to think/act/be different from the herd...
no subject
Date: 2011-08-28 03:04 am (UTC)From:I realize that mean-spirited children are just reflecting the awful treatment they get from their home lives, but back then I wasn't as generous-hearted. I hated them with a sheer, blinding passion that even now pricks behind my eyes. I'd rather not have been picked on in school, but I'm who I am now because I learned from it. That sure as hell won't happen to me ever again!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-28 04:14 am (UTC)From:This made me wish for a second that I was never a parent. And to panic.
Also, there is some very triggery content in here which I wish you posted some notice.