A Letter to my Bully,
Well, first off, I’m sure you know who you are. If you don’t, I hope you will realize what you’ve done after reading this. It started in middle school. We used to have the same friends, go to some of the same parties, but after show choir started, something changed. I began to branch off while your group slowly began to exclude me more and more. I didn’t know why and to this day, I still don’t have a full comprehension of what happened.
Our friendship, along with some others, began to get cloudy. You started laughing at me; not only behind my back, but in my face. Maybe you thought I didn’t notice, maybe you couldn’t see my surface begin to crack because sure as hell, I was broken on the inside. Then the rumors started circulating. You purposely targeted me and my friends. At first, it was things like, “Guess who she likes now?” but before you knew it, I was in the guidance office explaining with my friend that she was fine and she was strong. The one who you said was doing drugs. Back then, she wasn’t. Perhaps it was the pressure of the lies that changed her to actually beginning her pathway to rehab, or maybe it was the way you shut her out the same way you did to me, but later in her life, she shattered.
Today, she is strong. I look up to her secretly, not telling her the secrets I’ve kept all these years. But I’m not up to today quite yet, I’m still lingering in the past with the words that continuously flood my mind.
“You have no friends. No one would care. You’re fat. You’re ugly. No one would miss you. Kill yourself.”
Over and over these words jumbled up my thoughts while studying. A hurricane of despair and loathing. You beat me down using Facebook one day. I was only wondering how your day went. Unfortunately, you didn’t think I should be talking to you at all. Why would I, the unpopular, poorly dressed, loser have the courage to talk to you? You sat so high on your pedestal as your group of friends expanded, as did my pain. My eyes burned with indignation. Just the thought of you made me sick.
Soon, I was dreading school. I couldn’t stand the looks. I couldn’t stand to be anywhere near your presence. I couldn’t stand the continuous harm you caused. So I began to cause my own pain. The first time, I ran up to my room after I got off the bus, tears blurring my vision. I looked down at my arms, contemplating the moment. I decided I didn’t have the strength or determination to end my life as you instructed me to do, but I did believe cutting would remove my faults. Maybe if I bled a little, maybe if my skin burned, I could be a better person. I could be you. But that was my downfall.
Struggling after five years, I knew I wouldn’t let your words torment me any longer. I told my parents about my self-harm in a letter. A letter I thought might be my last words. I cried harder than ever that day. Not even when my loved ones had passed previously did I expulse the amount of anguish as I had that day. They sought out a therapist. Maybe if I talked to someone, I would get better. I released my darkest secrets. Self-harm, eating disorders, suicidal thoughts that stemmed with the hateful words you seeded in my mind. I didn’t need a therapist. I needed my friends.
One of my closest friends knew the problems I had faced, knew the problems you’ve caused in my life. Together, we grew strong. And looking back, seven years later, I realize that your words are just that. Words. And my strength to move on took a regretfully long time, but today I realize I don’t want to be anything like you. Because, well, I’m pretty great at being me.
