A new student in second grade in a new town in a new state: you thought I was an easy target. The new girl with the bleach blond hair and a weird accent was the perfect victim for your second-grade talons to latch onto and tear apart. And for the most part, you were right. My flesh was fresh, softened by the mantra, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me." When I was focusing on fitting in, you were focusing on having me stand on a stage, arms open, ready to take your verbal lashes. You set a trap, lured me in with the innocent idea that someone could possibly show me an ounce of kindness. I believed you when you extended your hand of friendship. I was blinded by your Cheshire cat smile. My mistake.
By fifth grade, you began to come out victorious. My rock hard cheery persona began crumbling right before your eyes. You look on, rubbing your hands together, awaiting my final demise. As quickly as bits and pieces of me began crumbling away, I was desperately trying to patch up the damage. My parents were forced to pick up the broken pieces and repair them with the grace and dignity that only a parent can. They did their best to undo the destruction you were causing on a daily basis. Teachers defended you -- you had them wrapped around your finger -- and they were convinced that "kids will be kids" -- as though it was completely natural for fifth-grade children to fall asleep on a tear-drenched pillow. As if the only pain that meant anything is the physical pain of a broken bone. But what about the broken pieces of me that leave a cookie crumb trail behind my every step? Just because there isn't smoke, doesn't mean there isn't a fire.
Middle school was a trail mix of harsh words and judgmental stares. I learned to keep my head down and navigate the halls, ducking and dodging the eyes burning my skin with every passing critical glance. No matter how hard I concentrated, though, there is no blocking out your mocking words. Stuffing cotton balls in my ears is the only way to escape the noise. Your voice penetrated my being, striking me down into a bite size pieces, making it easier to swallow me up. Once again my parents attempted to assemble the broken pieces, racing against time to connect my broken parts before there was nothing left to build. It was no use, no amount of tape or glue or comfort or love could reattach my broken segments together back again. All because of your words. Imagine being a parent and watching your daughter slowly lose the glimmer of happiness in her eyes. But it doesn't stop there.
High school brought on an onslaught of new mockery. Social groups populated the lunchroom, leaving those in between to fend for themselves. Your voice began echoing in my head, even when you weren't really there. I could feel your words wrap around my throat, cutting off the oxygen to my lungs at three in the morning as I lay awake. At that point, I had grown accustomed to sleeping on a tear-stained pillow. Teachers were, once again, hypnotized by your charm. "That's just the way teenagers are."
Who was the first person to consider verbal abuse normal? Why is it natural for teenagers to bully each other? Would they consider the daily panic attacks that this behavior caused to be normal? I tried my hardest not to cry out for help for fear that, like past teachers, my pleas would be ignored. So by sophomore year, I gave up. I threw my hands up in defeat and announced your success. You won. I'm not sure what you attempted to accomplish, but if it was to make me hate myself, you managed to achieve it. I gave up on everything: on school, on friends, on dance, on living my life.
You must have been exhausted by the time I surrendered. Spending nine years making someone's life miserable must take a lot out of you. I wonder what emotions filled you at the end of the night. Were you filled with pride at watching me wince at your every word? Were you ashamed of the pain you caused me day in and day out? Did it make you feel powerful? Did you see yourself as a god? Or as an angel? You know, Satan was an angel before he fell from heaven.
The good news is your damage wasn't permanent. I have now found someone who built me up once again. He sees me for who I am. He looks past my tape and glue. He is willing to give me a shoulder to lean on while my broken pieces attempt to heal. His hug is strong enough to mold every part of me back into shape. He understands that I require a little extra loving and is willing to give it to me.
I guess I should thank you. You broke me down, just so I could be reshaped stronger than ever. You taught me to offer support to everybody, because who knows, they might have someone like you in their lives. I still don't know what you tried to accomplish, and even though you broke me once, I built back up and I swear I will never let anybody tear me down like that again.
