I found all of my school IDs since the eighth grade over winter break. It was amusing to look at how much I’ve changed over the years. I used to say I have not changed at all since the sixth grade. In my eyes, I’ve looked the same since I finished making the initial changes of puberty. Most people disagree with me on that. I think the truth is we are all right, in one way or another.

By my own qualifications, I judge my facial features and the way that they haven’t changed since I basically stopped growing. I went through the growth period of puberty pretty fast. Yet other people probably judge it based on my style -- the way my hair is cut or the clothes I wear. To that extent, I can completely agree with them.

In a way, I view myself as a Barbie doll. The actual doll itself never changes, but you can change her clothes and her hairstyles. Prior to the sixth grade, my mom picked out and bought my clothes. I might have thought I had some form of freedom by getting to pick whether the leggings she bought were pink or purple, but in the long run, she made the decisions and just let me think I had.

Yet once middle school started, and the wonderful years of puberty began, I started having more of a say in my style. She would let me loose in a store and for the most part, would buy what I brought back.

Looking back, I think this new sense of freedom might have been my initial downfall. I was entering a new era in my life -- middle school. I was bottom of the food chain again, and a hormonal mess. I can admit that now. I had the chance to express myself any way I wanted to. But for a person who’s style had consisted pretty heavily in clothes from Justice and Old Navy prior to that, I didn’t know how I wanted to convey myself.

All I remember wearing from the sixth grade is Aeropostale shirts that never matched my pants. I was a fashion disaster. Now pair that with a hideous hairstyle -- the first haircut I ever decided for myself -- and I was a bully’s gold mine.

All I remember from the sixth grade are the four eighth-graders who harassed me on a daily basis. The first two were girls who would make fun of my hair. I remember them asking me if I owned a hairbrush. The other two were boys who passed me every day as I waited for my ride home who made snide comments about the large collection of wristbands I wore on my right wrist every day. Looking back, those were terrible choices on my part, yet that was no excuse. They singled me out for the way I looked and I let them.

For a long time, I didn’t recognize exactly what was happening to me. I didn’t identify any of it as bullying and never told anyone it was happening to me. It wasn’t until later in the year that something changed. My mom always had to leave before I even woke up. I was responsible for getting myself ready in the mornings, and then I was transported to school by a brother who was either too high to notice that I hadn’t brushed my hair and was wearing a striped shirt with plaid pants, or just too self-absorbed, as most eighteen-year-olds are. My mother also didn’t get home until long after I did.

By that time I was changed out of my clothes. One day, I remember her asking, horrified, if I had worn a striped shirt with plaid pants to school. I answered truthfully. Then she asked if I had brushed my hair. One thing led to another, and my mother realized what was happening at school. Probably that motherly intuition.

Yet the solution I was offered was to change myself. I had to become less of a target. Part of me is bitter that I didn’t go to the administration with it -- but I wasn’t a snitch. I changed my hair, actually brushed it, and started wearing hats. My mom helped me pick out clothes, but for the most part, just offered general rules of thumb -- like not mixing patterns. I was also advised to avoid those people. I stayed away from their hunting grounds and thus avoided detection for the rest of middle school.

In seventh grade, I took my new fashion knowledge and took it to the extreme. I dolled myself up, as much as a seventh grader acceptably could at the time, and rocked a Madonna-esque eighties vibe for a year. By the time eighth grade rolled around, the hipsters were making their debut, and I followed suit. Of course, I never self-identified as one, but with my thick-rimmed glasses that I only kind of needed, scarves, and an array of different sunglasses and shoes, I made my mark amongst the sea of Abercrombie and Fitch lovers.

Looking at my middle school IDs, you would see all of these phases immortalized. Sixth grade, my hair wasn’t brushed; seventh grade, I looked like a backup dancer for Madonna; eighth grade, I rocked the glasses and scarf combo -- an aesthetic that lined up perfectly with my newfound passion for journalism; everyone said I looked like I belonged in New York writing for the Times. I don’t know where people pulled that association from, but it was a confidence booster. I started middle school with no sense of personal identity and by eighth grade thought I had found it.

Of course, my vibe shifted again in the ninth grade. Like most people, middle school was a struggle for me. All the same, it allowed me to define myself, though I never quite found my definition. Still, I have to be personally honest. Truth be told, I think I reverted back to my sixth-grade self this first year of college. At least I know now that if I don’t brush my hair, that I can cover it with a hat. And I don’t wear stripes or plaid anymore. I guess I learned something.