Dear Bully,

I want to start out by telling you one thing: you have impacted my life beyond what you could possibly imagine.

Before I met you, I was confident in myself and made friends easily. Before I met you, I loved school and I loved learning. My parents have told me stories about how, as a little kid, I would wait for the bus with my older siblings, desperately wanting to go to school with them. I was a straight-A student for the first eight years I was in school and I was in the accelerated math and English classes.

Before I met you, I loved soccer and had dreams of some day playing pro. I was talented enough to make the club soccer team in fifth grade. Before I met you, I was in theater and music, and I loved it.

Maybe all these things were reasons for you to hate me. Or maybe it was because I wanted to read books rather than go shopping. Maybe it was because I was in love with Blink 182. Maybe it was because I was the kid with my head in the clouds who still believed in the impossible.

The moment I realized you hated me was the moment everything changed. I remember your words, cutting into me like a razor sharp knife, draining any confidence I had. I remember your haunting words echoing in my mind night after night as I cried myself to sleep. I remember the frustration and confusion I felt as I watched my friends turn on me because they were too scared to stand up to you. I remember the pain, stabbing me deeper and deeper as I watched my “best friend” laughing with you despite the fact that you had made my life a living hell.

I remember hating everything. I remember dreading school. I remember my grades plummeting. I remember being afraid to play soccer because we were on the same team and every move I made, I could feel you judging me, waiting to call out my mistakes, waiting to rip apart any dignity I had left, in front of everyone.

And you did.

I remember the day you shouted at me on the soccer field in front of everyone and how much I wanted to die right then and there. That was the first time I thought of suicide. I was thirteen. No thirteen year old should ever have to think about that.

The second time I thought of suicide was the day I got off the bus, a mile from my stop, crying, because you and your friends had tormented me, saying even a pig had a better chance of getting a boyfriend than I did. I can’t remember how many times I actually considered suicide after that point because it became an almost daily thought. Every day I had to face you was another day I thought of dying.

I never wanted to die, you see. I loved my family and knew the pain I’d cause them if I killed myself. The thing was, you made me feel like that was the only way I could escape the torture you put me through. The worst part is, I believed that if I killed myself, I would go to hell, but I decided even hell couldn’t be worse than what you were putting me through.

It’s funny because they say “sticks and stones may break your bones but words can never hurt you.” Well, your words did. It felt like you’d ripped open my chest and tore my heart out, and every word you said made it harder and harder to breathe. I thought my head was going to explode, my body was on fire, and my lungs were collapsing.

But there was no escape. You were everywhere. On my bus, in my neighborhood, in my classes, on my soccer team.

By sophomore year, you’d finally stopped. You no longer shouted humiliating comments at me in front of everyone. You no longer told my friends not to talk to me. You no longer told me I’m worthless and stupid. But those voices never left my head.

The past three years, they’d become so ingrained in my mind that I believed them. I believed I was stupid. I believed no one liked me. I believed I had nothing left to live for. And I gave in to those voices. I attempted suicide.

The thing is, though, I don’t hate you. Sure, at one point I did. I really, really, really hated you. You’d taken everything from me and I blamed you for everything. The worst part was, not that you took it from me, but that I let you. I let you walk all over me. I let you make me believe who I was. I let you make me blame God for the hell you put me through.

So here’s the second thing I want to tell you: thank you. Thank you for making me experience what I did. Because of the pain, I finally was able to get through horror films because the demons I faced in school were scarier than anything Hollywood could come up with. Because of all that pain, I fell in love with a band. If I’d never known pain, Tenth Avenue North might just be a street name to me. It’s because of the pain that I’ve chased dreams of the music industry and have worked at music festivals.

If I’d never known pain, I’d be like the rest of the school, the apathetic bystanders saying “it’s not my problem.” If I’d never known pain, I might have been just as arrogant as the rest, thinking I’m too cool to talk to anyone who dresses different or listens to different music, rather than seeing them as people, too.

If I’d never known pain, I wouldn’t have a tattoo on my right wrist for an anti-bullying campaign “Stand for the Silent,” reminding me to never ever be silent about things that matter, because: Every. Person. Matters.

You taught me what it’s like to fight for what I believe in, to fight for my dreams, and to keep getting back up when the world keeps knocking me down. You’ve shown me exactly who I don’t want to be, and how I don’t want to make people feel. You’ve taught me that true friends stand by when the rest of the world walks out. I let you take away my dreams once, and because of it, I’ve learned to never ever let anyone do that again.

Lastly, I want to tell you this: I’m sorry if I ever did anything that you blame me for. By the grace of God, I have found healing and have learned to forgive. I hope you’re well and life has treated you better than it’s treated me. If someday our paths may cross again, I hope we can start over.

Thank you for the life lessons you taught me. I hope you never teach anyone those again.