The effects of bullying do, indeed, last forever.

Looking back at pictures of sweet little five-year-old me, I see a little girl who was pretty, smart, and shy. I loved to learn. My daddy was so proud of me because I had an identic memory, and could recite entire storybooks word for word. I was so excited to start school and learn how to read for real.  First grade was a thrill, everything was so easy! Second grade came and with it the usual childhood dramas that played out on the playground at recess. I never felt comfortable with the other children; I walked home for lunch whenever I could. Home was safe. Home was peace. Home was love. School was not. Over the next ten years, school became fear, anxiety, and hate.

            I don’t know when it was that Jared, Carrie, and Jolene decided that I would be the target. It’s entirely possible that I, the oldest child at home but the youngest in my class at school, was bossy. It’s also possible that I made them feel stupid because I loved to show teachers how smart I was. For whatever reason, I became the one to attack. I was the one to call ugly names, trip in the hallway, extort money out of, gossip about, and abuse. I remember standing in the lunch line in junior high and feeling a sharp pain in my back. I looked behind me and there was a girl I didn’t even know holding a straight pin between her fingers. I was so confused. Why?  Why had she done that? Who was she? Should I say something? Ultimately I walked through the lunch line sideways that day to keep an eye on her, but never said a word about her stabbing me with a pin.

            Don’t tattle. Be a nice girl. Follow the golden rule. All of these guidelines were pretty strict in my house, but none of them helped me to survive in the wilds of the public educational system. What if I had turned around and shoved that girl so hard she took out three other people as she crashed to the floor, and then I had leaped on her and punched and clawed and fought until the teachers had to pull me off? I probably would have been suspended, but looking back with adult eyes I am sure nobody would have ever done something like that to me again. I didn’t though; I backed down; it wouldn’t be the last time.  The cycle continued throughout high school. I was hospitalized twice during high school for depression. I contemplated suicide on more than one occasion because I just couldn’t find a way to stop the pain.   

            I never attempted suicide, though, because I had adults who cared about me. Life at home was just as hard as it was at school but I knew my parents loved me. I instinctively found adult mentors in every new environment I entered into. I have a picture of me in sixth grade stamping papers with happy faces for my favorite kindergarten teacher. In junior high I worshiped my Sunday school teachers.

In high school it was “Mrs. R.” She saved me in every way it was possible to be saved. She was my English teacher freshman and sophomore year. By junior year I was staying after school every day to sit in her classroom and help her grade papers or just chat. Senior year I spent study hall in her classroom as her “assistant”. She trusted me to babysit her beautiful little girl. Her oldest son, Brad, was one of the most popular boys in school, and she treated me as if there was no difference between him and I. Before that, I felt I was the slimy mess trailing along behind the rest of the student body. She was the first person that I can ever remember validating me. I could sit down and read an entire Shakespeare play without using the cliff notes translation because she told me I was smart enough to do it and I wanted to please her. She gave me the complete works of William Shakespeare as a graduation gift. I treasure that book. It was my first proof that I could make a friend.  I was worthy of the time and attention of someone like her. She threw a rope ladder down into the pit I was in and yelled encouragements at me until I finally grabbed ahold and started to climb. 
After high school I struggled with social phobia for a long time. When I start to feel that anxiety creeping up I try to remember these three things:

1. I have value simply because of who I am. I don't have to do anything to earn validation or affection or friendship. You either like me or you don't. If you don't, somebody else will.
2. Nobody is as interested in anybody else as they are in themselves. Nobody cares if my jeans are too short or my hair looks weird. They are worrying about their own problems.
3. What is the worst that could happen? They reject me? I look like a fool? Those things have happened many times and I survived. It's better to try and fail than to hide in my home and be "safe". Life is for living.

 The experts are correct when they say that the effects of bullying last a lifetime. I am 38 years old and am still feeling them every single day. I will say this though, my current friends have in me the very best friend they will ever have. I treasure every friendship, every sign of affection, every moment of time they share with me. I am still a nice girl. I still live by the golden rule. I wouldn’t have it any other way.