I know what you're thinking. I should be writing to my parents or my friends or Jesus for Thanksgiving. I should be writing about how thankful I am for the good stuff that has happened to me, not the bad stuff. And if you told me any time between fifth and eleventh grade that I would be writing the words "thank you for bullying me," I would tell you that you are absolutely insane. This is the worst thing that could possibly happen, I would tell you. I just want this to be over, I would say. While all of that is absolutely true, and I would not wish bullying on my worst enemy, I am better for it. I am, strangely, grateful for it.

When I share stories of my years being bullied, I get one of two reactions after the initial "You were bullied?" shock. Either, a) they hear "I was bullied in middle school" and immediately reply, "middle school was rough for everyone" or, b) With pity in their eyes, they apologize profusely for the pain that I went through. Which one is more appropriate? The answer is likely Option B, but I would prefer Option C, an option only those who have also been bullied can choose. It is the apologetic but understanding response. It is the response that says, "I've been there, too. It sucks. Tell me your story."

I never had the the "look" of someone who was bullied. Can I tell you a secret? We don't have a look. Bullies don't discriminate. Or rather, pain doesn't discriminate. Granted, I was a head-strong, punk kid who needed to be taken down a few notches, but I didn't deserve what I went through. It has been a long time since fifth grade, and my brain has blocked out much of those years, but the things I do remember were not fun. I was ostracized and teased, rumors were spread about me, and attacks felt like they were coming from all sides. My graduating class size at the time was about eighteen—and all girls. (The boys' class was down the hall, and we weren't supposed to look at them for too long, talk to them too often, or be their friends at all.) I was surrounded by catty girls all day in the same classroom with no escape and no respite. There were two ring leaders, and both decided around the end of fifth grade that their friends whom I had been friends with the entire two years prior were no longer going to be friends with me. Our class flipped from a tight-knit group of girls that loved and cared for each other to two cliques of girls taking all of their hormonal frustration out on the few of us that had no back up. It felt like a war zone. The girls who had been my friends just weeks before became my enemies as fifth grade came to a close.

Sixth grade was the worst of it. I was in counseling. I cried almost every day after school. I had no friends. I would get invited to parties only because the whole class was going, and then no one would talk to me. I wanted it all to be over. I was miserable. I only remember snap shots of the sixth grade. My brain has done a lovely job of protecting me from whatever happened that year. However, I still live with the after affects.

After the head of the pack of bullies left our school at the beginning of the seventh grade, I thought things would get better. They did not. We were now a small class of seventeen, and the other sixteen girls had already had their opinions formed about me. I tried to make friends, but between the years of bullying and rumors being spread about me and my immature, still head-strong attitude, it was impossible to make friends. I was still alone.

Eighth grade got a little better. One of the girls that had been part of the groups that had bullied me in the past became one of my best friends. We're still super tight to this day. The two of us also became friends with a new girl in our class that we thought was amazing. We turned out to be so, so wrong. She was conniving, clever, and terribly cruel. She was not just trying to persuade everyone else that the girls she went after did not deserve friends; she convinced those girls that they did not deserve friends. She was an expert in psychological warfare, and it wasn't just me that was hurt this time. There were so many other people affected by her. I've heard so many stories about the amount of pain she caused. I, thankfully, was not nearly as hurt by her as most of people, but she hurt me nonetheless.

After all these years, I still have a hard time getting through days because of the things I went through. I have anxiety, and it is harder to trust even my closest friends for fear of being let down. I have to remind myself that I am worth more than momentary affection. I am worth friendships. I am worth being invested in. It absolutely sucks that I have to battle a deep-seeded fear of rejection because a few girls decided to be mean. Yet I said I'm grateful for it. Why?

I have been given a gift of pain. That is not a point of view many people have. How is it a gift? I have discovered through being bullied that there is always a bigger picture, everyone has a story. I have learned later in life that the girls who bullied me came from broken homes with broken lives and had no response but anger. They had no other way to cope except to lash out at other people. While this is not an excuse, it is a reason. It is a reason to forgive in love. It is a reason to turn the other cheek and love our enemies.

I've been told I care too much, I give too much of myself away, and I don't save any love for me. The problem is, I don't know how to save any love for myself when everyone else is hurting. I am acutely aware of other people's pain. I want to help wherever I can because I was on the other end of the spectrum. I was the one shown no love, so I give all of my love away. The past was rough and sticky and dark. My past is not something I would wish on anybody else. I would not change it, though. My sixth grade self would be disappointed to hear that, but but freshman in college me knows better. She knows the joy that comes in the morning. She knows the perspective I've gained. She knows the world a little bit better. She knows that heartbreak cannot be fixed by duct tape, but it does welcome compassion like an old friend.

This Thanksgiving I am grateful to the ones who have caused me pain. Although I'm still learning how to cope, I am also learning how to love thanks to you.