It seems like bullying is in the news a lot these days. Just last month, Intrepid's school had a serious incident. After a lot of pressure from parents, students and the media, the school did the right thing and came down hard on the aggressors. I went to bed after that news with a warm heart. Finally, some vindication for the the victimized. Now my son's friend can walk the halls without living in fear. That's the way it should be at school.
I've always hesitated going into detail about my own bullying history on my blog. I've told a little here and there, but never an in-depth look. In part, it's because this is generally my place to write with wit and humour. There's nothing terribly funny about that time in my life. Also, there's still some shame associated with what happened to me. I don't know why, exactly. I suppose it's because these things never really leave you. The two biggest reminders of being bullied in my adult life are my sizeable gut and serious fear of rejection. And part of me has always been afraid that if I share all of this, you'll think less of me.
People laugh when I say I worry about being unloveable. "But you're The Maven!" they exclaim, like that's the coup de grace that will end all my fears. "You're one of the coolest, most awesome, intelligent, funny, vivacious and popular people I know!"
... Alright. They don't say all of that in one sentence. That would be ridiculous.
It's usually broken up into at least two.
Alright, it's true. My life today is pretty wonderful. But given all the high school-aged suicides lately, I think I need to open up and spill it. I don't know if many teens read my blog because it's about babies and poop and breastfeeding, but maybe you'll stumble upon it one day or your annoying mom will make you read it.
I'm going to echo what so many survivors have said to date: It gets better. So much better. They're not trying to fool you. Life after high school is unbelievably better for the bullied. But in order to prove it to you, I'm going to need to do some compare and contrast. This is where I warn everyone that there's some heavy shit about to be said, so if you don't want to know this about me now is the time to wander over to one of my lighter posts and leave this one alone. You've been warned.
Grade 7 Maven was a different girl altogether. Curvier than most girls her age, untamed hair and pimples a plenty. Come to think of it, I pretty much still look like that at thirty-four, but I and those around me today have accepted that I am not - and never will be- a supermodel. It's a wonderful thing, this acceptance stuff.
But what was markedly different back then was my attitude, or lack thereof. After years of being teased, rejected and beat up at school, I had simply shut down. I had stopped trying to get help. I had stopped trying to make new friends. My eyes were permanently locked in a downward stare at the hallway floors as I tried to get from class to class as quickly and painlessly as possible, so that I could get through the day as quickly and painlessly as possible and I could go home to my room, listen to loud music and forget everything.
I lived in fear each day that I would be tormented. Most days I was simply ignored or only verbally prodded a little. Sometimes, however, a carefully orchestrated event would occur. Yes, it's true: even back then, I was important enough to make plans for. These wonderful "events" had been steadily growing in number since the earlier grades, and had been getting crueler each time. My two favourite memories of grade 7?
1. I had a crush on a boy named Marty. Someone told him. He decided it would be hilarious to get half the school together to watch him ask me out. It was a big joke, asking Teen Maven on a date. Obviously I didn't say yes. I just tried to ignore him (and the dozens of people circled around us, laughing hysterically). It didn't work. After that, I was painfully shy around boys.
2. I was set on fire. These two girls hairsprayed my back and threw matches at me until I lit (it was their second attempt, but the first on school grounds). Pretty epic, right? I mean, if you're going to be bullied, why not have a sensational story to tell? The only problem is that, had I not stopped, dropped and rolled, I probably wouldn't be here to talk about it. That was pretty much it for that high school. My parents pulled me out faster than a boy on prom night without a condom. I was sent to another school where I was tortured slightly less. I think the girls were kicked out, too, but we didn't stick around to find out.
I had started drinking heavily and, more noticeably at the time, had started cutting. For those who don't know what that means, I salute your blissful ignorance but shall explain nonetheless. It's when a person (usually a young girl) makes cuts on her body to deal with emotional pain. I don't recommend it for many reasons, the least of which is that it really fucking hurts. Some of my friends (I did have a few, and they were wonderful people) tried to help me when they noticed. I thanked them for their concern, told them I was fine, and started moving the cuts to less noticeable places.
It wasn't long before the cutting got a little deeper, and then a little deeper. And before long, it didn't seem so farfetched to just cut deep enough that I would never wake up, if you catch my drift. One of my friends must have had spidey senses because she started to talk to me about her boyfriend, Ken, who was a couple of years older and had been where I was. She asked if he could call me sometime. I played nice and said sure, but I wasn't really interested. I'd be long gone before he ever picked up the phone. If he even did at all.
She may not have known it, but that night was the night. I had planned it out. My parents had no idea. I was all alone in the basement, listening to music, candles lit, working out a letter to write. Razors were beside me, alcohol in hand. I was sick of it all and I was going to end it. I wasn't scared, just determined. No going back now. No one would laugh at me again. No one would hurt me ever again. I would have the last laugh this time.
Beside me on the floor, the phone rang. I considered it for a few rings. To this day, I have no idea why I chose to answer it. It was Ken. And he quite literally saved my life.
I let Ken talk to me. While I don't remember his exact words, I remember him telling me that it will get better. It will be okay and things will get better. And for some reason, I believed him. He made me feel hope for the first time in ages. I put away the razors that night and never touched them again.
Ken and I became good friends. He was like a big brother to me. School sucked and my home life was chaotic, but with Ken there was peace and acceptance. He really got me. He was my soft place to fall.
When his family moved away a few months later, I felt more lost and alone than ever. My drinking and drugging picked up and I wished for death many times. But never again did I try to take my life because I knew Ken would call and check up on me, and I wanted to be around to answer that call.
A few months after Ken left, I hit bottom and went off to a six-month treatment centre. It was a blessing in disguise, as life improved drastically. At fifteen, when I went back to school, I made new friends and greeted the halls with a confident stare and a smile. My physical scars healed and most of my emotional ones did, too. I was lively and chatty and the bullies stayed very far away. My love of life was impenetrable.
Ken and I lost touch for many years, but reconnected on Facebook not so long ago. What did I say to the boy who once upon a time saved my life? Thank you, for one. But it doesn't seem nearly enough. You can't exactly pay that back.
However, you can pay it forward. I think I've done that in a lot of ways. For one, I'm not only alive, but living. I married a great man and have an enviable support system of friends and family. I have three incredible boys, one who is now the same age I was when I tried to take my life. We're so similar, he and I, but he possesses a confidence I only wish I had had at his age. I made a real point of instilling strength and self-esteem in the Gremlins Three. Never do I want them to be in that dark, scary place and feel there's no way out.
I smile and laugh a lot. Like, a lot. I also try to make people smile and laugh a lot, too. I've learned that happiness isn't found, it's created. I create it in my home, with those I love, and I try to spread it around on the internet through my blog. No medicine cures what ails you like a good belly laugh.
Although admittedly, this isn't exactly a funny post. Sorry about that. I'm kinda busy paying it forward right now, so could you cut me a bit of slack?
Anyway, the point of this post is that I survived high school, and my life is totally awesome now. I'm here because someone reached out. I'm alive to finish the story properly. And now I'm telling whoever's out there in the big, wide internet, that it will get better for you, too. Just hang in there.
Thank you again, Ken. Thank you for saving the life of a lonely little girl. This post is dedicated to you.
I've always hesitated going into detail about my own bullying history on my blog. I've told a little here and there, but never an in-depth look. In part, it's because this is generally my place to write with wit and humour. There's nothing terribly funny about that time in my life. Also, there's still some shame associated with what happened to me. I don't know why, exactly. I suppose it's because these things never really leave you. The two biggest reminders of being bullied in my adult life are my sizeable gut and serious fear of rejection. And part of me has always been afraid that if I share all of this, you'll think less of me.
People laugh when I say I worry about being unloveable. "But you're The Maven!" they exclaim, like that's the coup de grace that will end all my fears. "You're one of the coolest, most awesome, intelligent, funny, vivacious and popular people I know!"
... Alright. They don't say all of that in one sentence. That would be ridiculous.
It's usually broken up into at least two.
Alright, it's true. My life today is pretty wonderful. But given all the high school-aged suicides lately, I think I need to open up and spill it. I don't know if many teens read my blog because it's about babies and poop and breastfeeding, but maybe you'll stumble upon it one day or your annoying mom will make you read it.
I'm going to echo what so many survivors have said to date: It gets better. So much better. They're not trying to fool you. Life after high school is unbelievably better for the bullied. But in order to prove it to you, I'm going to need to do some compare and contrast. This is where I warn everyone that there's some heavy shit about to be said, so if you don't want to know this about me now is the time to wander over to one of my lighter posts and leave this one alone. You've been warned.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Grade 7 Maven was a different girl altogether. Curvier than most girls her age, untamed hair and pimples a plenty. Come to think of it, I pretty much still look like that at thirty-four, but I and those around me today have accepted that I am not - and never will be- a supermodel. It's a wonderful thing, this acceptance stuff.
But what was markedly different back then was my attitude, or lack thereof. After years of being teased, rejected and beat up at school, I had simply shut down. I had stopped trying to get help. I had stopped trying to make new friends. My eyes were permanently locked in a downward stare at the hallway floors as I tried to get from class to class as quickly and painlessly as possible, so that I could get through the day as quickly and painlessly as possible and I could go home to my room, listen to loud music and forget everything.
I lived in fear each day that I would be tormented. Most days I was simply ignored or only verbally prodded a little. Sometimes, however, a carefully orchestrated event would occur. Yes, it's true: even back then, I was important enough to make plans for. These wonderful "events" had been steadily growing in number since the earlier grades, and had been getting crueler each time. My two favourite memories of grade 7?
1. I had a crush on a boy named Marty. Someone told him. He decided it would be hilarious to get half the school together to watch him ask me out. It was a big joke, asking Teen Maven on a date. Obviously I didn't say yes. I just tried to ignore him (and the dozens of people circled around us, laughing hysterically). It didn't work. After that, I was painfully shy around boys.
2. I was set on fire. These two girls hairsprayed my back and threw matches at me until I lit (it was their second attempt, but the first on school grounds). Pretty epic, right? I mean, if you're going to be bullied, why not have a sensational story to tell? The only problem is that, had I not stopped, dropped and rolled, I probably wouldn't be here to talk about it. That was pretty much it for that high school. My parents pulled me out faster than a boy on prom night without a condom. I was sent to another school where I was tortured slightly less. I think the girls were kicked out, too, but we didn't stick around to find out.
I had started drinking heavily and, more noticeably at the time, had started cutting. For those who don't know what that means, I salute your blissful ignorance but shall explain nonetheless. It's when a person (usually a young girl) makes cuts on her body to deal with emotional pain. I don't recommend it for many reasons, the least of which is that it really fucking hurts. Some of my friends (I did have a few, and they were wonderful people) tried to help me when they noticed. I thanked them for their concern, told them I was fine, and started moving the cuts to less noticeable places.
It wasn't long before the cutting got a little deeper, and then a little deeper. And before long, it didn't seem so farfetched to just cut deep enough that I would never wake up, if you catch my drift. One of my friends must have had spidey senses because she started to talk to me about her boyfriend, Ken, who was a couple of years older and had been where I was. She asked if he could call me sometime. I played nice and said sure, but I wasn't really interested. I'd be long gone before he ever picked up the phone. If he even did at all.
She may not have known it, but that night was the night. I had planned it out. My parents had no idea. I was all alone in the basement, listening to music, candles lit, working out a letter to write. Razors were beside me, alcohol in hand. I was sick of it all and I was going to end it. I wasn't scared, just determined. No going back now. No one would laugh at me again. No one would hurt me ever again. I would have the last laugh this time.
Beside me on the floor, the phone rang. I considered it for a few rings. To this day, I have no idea why I chose to answer it. It was Ken. And he quite literally saved my life.
I let Ken talk to me. While I don't remember his exact words, I remember him telling me that it will get better. It will be okay and things will get better. And for some reason, I believed him. He made me feel hope for the first time in ages. I put away the razors that night and never touched them again.
Ken and I became good friends. He was like a big brother to me. School sucked and my home life was chaotic, but with Ken there was peace and acceptance. He really got me. He was my soft place to fall.
When his family moved away a few months later, I felt more lost and alone than ever. My drinking and drugging picked up and I wished for death many times. But never again did I try to take my life because I knew Ken would call and check up on me, and I wanted to be around to answer that call.
A few months after Ken left, I hit bottom and went off to a six-month treatment centre. It was a blessing in disguise, as life improved drastically. At fifteen, when I went back to school, I made new friends and greeted the halls with a confident stare and a smile. My physical scars healed and most of my emotional ones did, too. I was lively and chatty and the bullies stayed very far away. My love of life was impenetrable.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Ken and I lost touch for many years, but reconnected on Facebook not so long ago. What did I say to the boy who once upon a time saved my life? Thank you, for one. But it doesn't seem nearly enough. You can't exactly pay that back.
However, you can pay it forward. I think I've done that in a lot of ways. For one, I'm not only alive, but living. I married a great man and have an enviable support system of friends and family. I have three incredible boys, one who is now the same age I was when I tried to take my life. We're so similar, he and I, but he possesses a confidence I only wish I had had at his age. I made a real point of instilling strength and self-esteem in the Gremlins Three. Never do I want them to be in that dark, scary place and feel there's no way out.
I smile and laugh a lot. Like, a lot. I also try to make people smile and laugh a lot, too. I've learned that happiness isn't found, it's created. I create it in my home, with those I love, and I try to spread it around on the internet through my blog. No medicine cures what ails you like a good belly laugh.
Although admittedly, this isn't exactly a funny post. Sorry about that. I'm kinda busy paying it forward right now, so could you cut me a bit of slack?
Anyway, the point of this post is that I survived high school, and my life is totally awesome now. I'm here because someone reached out. I'm alive to finish the story properly. And now I'm telling whoever's out there in the big, wide internet, that it will get better for you, too. Just hang in there.
Thank you again, Ken. Thank you for saving the life of a lonely little girl. This post is dedicated to you.
