I thought of writing about this and then decided against it, but what the heck. I haven’t written about anything for a while anyway.
Just to let you know, this story has a happy ending. Sort of.
I was bullied in junior high school (grades 7–9). I was the odd one out. The new kid in town — literally. I had just moved from the neighbouring city where 12-13-year-old kids were just that — kids. The people, at least girls, in the new school were light years ahead, interest-wise not intelligence-wise. I wore t-shirts and had a shortish hair (looked like a guy, I know… I’ve come a long way or longish), I liked Backstreet Boys and I couldn’t care less about boys and related stuff.
One woodcraft lesson the other girls in my class (4 out of 6, one of them was my friend and she was in textile crafts) surrounded me and asked if I had ever had ‘fantasies’. Back then I had no clue what they were, and my answer was “if that’s something naughty, then no”.
I had that one friend all through junior high. We were like two peas in a pod — or actually I was the other pea in her pod. Nowadays I wonder what I was thinking… (If there were a possibility she would read this, I’d apologise from the bottom of my heart.) I bought a flanel shirt exactly like hers (and said I didn’t remember she had it; I don’t know if I did or didn’t, but I’m pretty sure I remembered), then I got a similar winter coat, only black (my black phase started on 8th grade, my friend was a more colourful one). At one time we both had denim shirts (hers was blue, mine black) but I didn’t copy her in that one.
Confirmation camp, between 8th and 9th, was a he** of a summer. And I mean he** in the literal sense. I popped my knee in the April of 1997 and had just been in a surgery when I had to go to the camp. The two holes in my knee were just taped on, no stitches. During that summer I just hoped my knee would heal so I could take the tapes off and not bleed on the altar (that would’ve been quite a scandal…). I walked with crutches then (oh, how many embarrassing stories I’d have of those…) which was a drag on its own.
You’d probably guess: the 2 girls that combined were my most awful nightmare were not only in the same group but in the same room with me. I was chucked on a spare bed while the others slept in bunkbeds (once I found a dead bee in my sleeping bag — I put it in one of theirs). It was pretty hard talking about the tough and deep stuff in the group meetings when those 2 girls were there. I once told them “what are you goggling at” when I was answering a question.
Before each meal and lessons etc. everyone gathered on the yard in queues and the quickest and neatest queue was allowed to go first. I happened to stand — with my crutch(es) — in front of the idiots once and just as we had lined up nicely, they pushed me and I stumbled. I didn’t fall (ha, take that!), luckily.
I got out of junior high, alive and kicking. In senior high I wasn’t bullied, but the majority thought I was weird (and I was, a bit; I pulled myself together for Uni, the academic people deserve it, not the low-life ) and they let me know that on the senior magazine. In senior high I had a bigger growd of friends and it was really nice. I’m still in touch with some of them and very good friends (hopefully) with one of them.
Now to the happy ending, although it happened in the middle: On 8th grade I got a nose piercing (another one of those “what on earth was I thinking” phases — but what do you know, I think of that as the highlight of the three years of torture). I was almost the first one in school, there was this one punk girl who might’ve had piercings but I’m not sure. Soon after that stunt of mine, piercings started to appear on other people’s noses and lips… especially including the people that tortured me the most. Ha, the sweet irony. Kneel my followers, kneel (and I just might kick your bottom a little)!
That’s it. That rot is out of me now. The lesson of the story? Never bully anyone, they may snicker and chuckle and leer at you on their blog in the future (and they’ll definitely do much better than you in life). And if they were really mean, they’d name names…
(Tomorrow I’m probably going to blame my fever for this)