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She was 10 when it really started, of course there had been incidents of it before, but never had they actually searched her out specifically. She had always been someone available to exert their frustrations on. They were at a wire fence, waiting for her. Her friend told her they wished to talk to her; they had been friends before they had left for high school, so she felt no fear. She went up smiling, she left sobbing. Their words echoed in her mind; “If you come to our high school, we will make you life a living hell, then we will kill you.” She didn’t believe *her* friends would, so even though they had made her cry she ignored it.
She managed to Ace her exams, she lost friends over it, she didn’t mind, her eyes were future bound. She made the school she wanted to go to, the one the girls had warned her off. She went. They kept their unholy vow. The first day she was there she was spat at and pushed, on her way home she was name called the entire mile and a half walk. Over the next year it escalated until she carried it silently no more, she told her parents, who told her school. She had to see their head of year. She managed to have her bullies there too. “So are you calling them liars?” The head of year asked, she had always been told never to call a person a liar, she always kept to the rules. She had no idea what to do, the silence had lasted. “Just as I thought you are a lying manipulative little child get out of my sight.” She fled and dreaded physical Education with the head of year the following lesson.
By the end of the year it seemed she was hated by every year group. Even those people she considered friends barely spoke to her. “We can’t talk to you. Everyone in the school hates you. You should leave.” She had never felt quite as alone as she had at that moment, but she continued on. She had to, she couldn’t think of another place.
The following year things got worse, she lost her Phys. Ed. Kit because it was taken out of her locker and thrown over the room, she had detention because of it. Her coat was stolen; no one knew what happened to it after that. There wasn’t a day she didn’t have a bruise appear, the punches and kicks after a while were routine, she rarely tried to do anything in her favour. There had been one time, when getting changed for Phys. Ed. She was hit around the head, she hit back and was caught by the head of year for the girls that had started this mess. She was punished again, detention and hour that night, no warning for her parents. No repeal allowed, serve it and get out.
Sure there were a few teachers who tried to help, but powers were limited, there wasn’t much they could do. She found that even in lessons she wasn’t safe. The boy behind her had a love of things with points. In maths they had mathematical compasses and tables you could lean against. The math compasses had inch long metal, tapering to points, she knew this each time it went into her back, she was put into detention for murmuring each time it happened, by the end of the hour long lesson her back ached, when she got home she found why, her blouse was covered with dried blood, the back had no inch uncovered. She hadn’t realised, and no way would she have taken her blouse off for her MALE teacher to see when he requested.
Her fourth year was a blur of punches and physical violence, by then she had long learnt to read behaviour knew when the real danger signs were evident, the time in the locker room, getting her books for homework proved it. They were baying for blood, pushing her into everything; one of the girls taking apart a coke can for a sharp edge. She managed to shove what she came for back in, locked it and ran, she ran the half mile home in no time, when she got home they weren’t expecting her for another 10 minutes, she had been so scared, they had followed her. It had reminded her of the time they had waited outside a café for her. It had taken the owners driving her home people she didn’t know, for her to get home safely.
By this point she was suffering depression and panic attacks. If she thought they were getting to blood thirsty she would dislocate a finger or make herself throw up to get out of school ‘legitimately’. She had lain in her bed the summer before her fourth year, telling her mother how she wished to die, because she could no longer endure it. It had upset her mother. It wouldn’t be spoken of for years.
Her fifth year started like any other year, a maelstrom of violence, so used to it she never felt it. Just before Christmas she had managed to have a two year vendetta against her, all because one girl misheard her mumbling about a teacher before seeing her. By now her teachers were blaming her bullying on her absenteeism. Some of it was escape from the violence, some of it because of the injuries. She felt she was fighting a hopeless cause and so gave herself up as a sacrifice, no longer able to fight it.
The summer was coming and she had been applying to colleges she was studying Media; she was looking forward to her future. She had suicidal thoughts, but frequently was able to banish them by thinking of her ultimate escape. No one was going to her college, thank god. Then the girl who had hit her so long ago in Phys. Ed. Who somehow had become part of her social group decided to pick a fight. She refused to bow to it and walked away, she was a pacifist at heart. Then the girl after staring at her walked up and yanked her hair. Five years of fury, rage, pain and hurt bubbled to the surface. She fought with everything she had. She wanted to kill, a primal instinctual part of her had bubbled up, a part she knew nothing of had come forward. The girl ended up running out of school. She ended up crying until the end of school and continued on the way home too. It had been a long time coming. She was afraid they would side with the girl again and kick her out before she were able to take the exams that would get her out of the stinking hell hole.
Her mother called the school, the business studies teacher picked up, her mother explained and the teacher laughed. “Tell her not to worry we all know about it. The (I'm trying to say a bad word but can't) had it coming.” Relief flooded her. She slept the best she had in years that night. She didn’t exactly fail her exams, but she couldn’t remember much either, so she didn’t pass with high grades either. Her memory was scrambled after all of the punches to the head she had. Later on she would find that she had had concussion. No wonder she would ask her friends if they were okay several times in a 20 minute space and never remember having done so before.
She went on to college. She still suffered from depression. Her first year was a whirl of work, she loved it, she had had no violence she felt so safe. She passed with Merit in her first year. Her second and third she would fail, though it was through no fault of her own. Staffing meant that in one year for one subject she would have eight lecturers meaning coursework was done several times over. She couldn’t keep up with her other subjects. By the end of her course she suffered from fatalism and apathy in equal share. She was kicked out of her exams a week before, she got herself admitted to the exams by paying for them herself. She was kicked out of an exam before sitting down because the same teacher that kicked her out didn’t want her in there, even though she was paying for it financially. The last of three exams she took she stared out of the window, she knew she was going to fail anyhow why bother was her phrase. She had no future plans. By now she was having visions of herself putting a knife in her head. She wanted rid of the feelings she had.
She received her results that summer, though she was trying to finish her coursework over the summer with a punishing schedule, up at 7am bed at 4am. The results were that she had missed her English grade (lowest there was) by a narrow margin. She scrunched it up, she didn’t care, and she literally felt no emotion towards it. She just surgically decided to go to another college change from media to psychology take English, the subject she had narrowly failed in, and throw history in to the mix. She would start from the beginning. A couple of months later she quietly told her mother she was suicidal, because she thought she was insane, that she felt she was a burden, that she needed to see a doctor. Her mother took her; the doctor diagnosed her, and put her on medication. She was on it a year, had responded well, and had gained a large social circle, with a few trusted friends.
Slowly and by herself she had a look at what bullying had done to others, and in their stories found herself. She felt a quiet sadness and a total rage that policy was to ascribe no blame to the bully for the violence they perpetrated. She had remembered how two girls trying to gain favour with the in crowd had strangled her with a chain she had worn to look cool. She remembered how the teachers above those who had tried to help blamed her to her face, “Perhaps you could lose weight?” they said. “We’ll let you out ten minutes early so you don’t see them on the way home.” Like that had done any good. They didn’t punish the bullies, they almost condoned it.
Looking back she realises that bullying affected her long after she left the high school prison, where capital punishment was unofficially condoned. She had been only ten when it had started, she was almost 20 before help was given, and still she battles with the scares on her esteem.
How do I know this? Because she is me.
She managed to Ace her exams, she lost friends over it, she didn’t mind, her eyes were future bound. She made the school she wanted to go to, the one the girls had warned her off. She went. They kept their unholy vow. The first day she was there she was spat at and pushed, on her way home she was name called the entire mile and a half walk. Over the next year it escalated until she carried it silently no more, she told her parents, who told her school. She had to see their head of year. She managed to have her bullies there too. “So are you calling them liars?” The head of year asked, she had always been told never to call a person a liar, she always kept to the rules. She had no idea what to do, the silence had lasted. “Just as I thought you are a lying manipulative little child get out of my sight.” She fled and dreaded physical Education with the head of year the following lesson.
By the end of the year it seemed she was hated by every year group. Even those people she considered friends barely spoke to her. “We can’t talk to you. Everyone in the school hates you. You should leave.” She had never felt quite as alone as she had at that moment, but she continued on. She had to, she couldn’t think of another place.
The following year things got worse, she lost her Phys. Ed. Kit because it was taken out of her locker and thrown over the room, she had detention because of it. Her coat was stolen; no one knew what happened to it after that. There wasn’t a day she didn’t have a bruise appear, the punches and kicks after a while were routine, she rarely tried to do anything in her favour. There had been one time, when getting changed for Phys. Ed. She was hit around the head, she hit back and was caught by the head of year for the girls that had started this mess. She was punished again, detention and hour that night, no warning for her parents. No repeal allowed, serve it and get out.
Sure there were a few teachers who tried to help, but powers were limited, there wasn’t much they could do. She found that even in lessons she wasn’t safe. The boy behind her had a love of things with points. In maths they had mathematical compasses and tables you could lean against. The math compasses had inch long metal, tapering to points, she knew this each time it went into her back, she was put into detention for murmuring each time it happened, by the end of the hour long lesson her back ached, when she got home she found why, her blouse was covered with dried blood, the back had no inch uncovered. She hadn’t realised, and no way would she have taken her blouse off for her MALE teacher to see when he requested.
Her fourth year was a blur of punches and physical violence, by then she had long learnt to read behaviour knew when the real danger signs were evident, the time in the locker room, getting her books for homework proved it. They were baying for blood, pushing her into everything; one of the girls taking apart a coke can for a sharp edge. She managed to shove what she came for back in, locked it and ran, she ran the half mile home in no time, when she got home they weren’t expecting her for another 10 minutes, she had been so scared, they had followed her. It had reminded her of the time they had waited outside a café for her. It had taken the owners driving her home people she didn’t know, for her to get home safely.
By this point she was suffering depression and panic attacks. If she thought they were getting to blood thirsty she would dislocate a finger or make herself throw up to get out of school ‘legitimately’. She had lain in her bed the summer before her fourth year, telling her mother how she wished to die, because she could no longer endure it. It had upset her mother. It wouldn’t be spoken of for years.
Her fifth year started like any other year, a maelstrom of violence, so used to it she never felt it. Just before Christmas she had managed to have a two year vendetta against her, all because one girl misheard her mumbling about a teacher before seeing her. By now her teachers were blaming her bullying on her absenteeism. Some of it was escape from the violence, some of it because of the injuries. She felt she was fighting a hopeless cause and so gave herself up as a sacrifice, no longer able to fight it.
The summer was coming and she had been applying to colleges she was studying Media; she was looking forward to her future. She had suicidal thoughts, but frequently was able to banish them by thinking of her ultimate escape. No one was going to her college, thank god. Then the girl who had hit her so long ago in Phys. Ed. Who somehow had become part of her social group decided to pick a fight. She refused to bow to it and walked away, she was a pacifist at heart. Then the girl after staring at her walked up and yanked her hair. Five years of fury, rage, pain and hurt bubbled to the surface. She fought with everything she had. She wanted to kill, a primal instinctual part of her had bubbled up, a part she knew nothing of had come forward. The girl ended up running out of school. She ended up crying until the end of school and continued on the way home too. It had been a long time coming. She was afraid they would side with the girl again and kick her out before she were able to take the exams that would get her out of the stinking hell hole.
Her mother called the school, the business studies teacher picked up, her mother explained and the teacher laughed. “Tell her not to worry we all know about it. The (I'm trying to say a bad word but can't) had it coming.” Relief flooded her. She slept the best she had in years that night. She didn’t exactly fail her exams, but she couldn’t remember much either, so she didn’t pass with high grades either. Her memory was scrambled after all of the punches to the head she had. Later on she would find that she had had concussion. No wonder she would ask her friends if they were okay several times in a 20 minute space and never remember having done so before.
She went on to college. She still suffered from depression. Her first year was a whirl of work, she loved it, she had had no violence she felt so safe. She passed with Merit in her first year. Her second and third she would fail, though it was through no fault of her own. Staffing meant that in one year for one subject she would have eight lecturers meaning coursework was done several times over. She couldn’t keep up with her other subjects. By the end of her course she suffered from fatalism and apathy in equal share. She was kicked out of her exams a week before, she got herself admitted to the exams by paying for them herself. She was kicked out of an exam before sitting down because the same teacher that kicked her out didn’t want her in there, even though she was paying for it financially. The last of three exams she took she stared out of the window, she knew she was going to fail anyhow why bother was her phrase. She had no future plans. By now she was having visions of herself putting a knife in her head. She wanted rid of the feelings she had.
She received her results that summer, though she was trying to finish her coursework over the summer with a punishing schedule, up at 7am bed at 4am. The results were that she had missed her English grade (lowest there was) by a narrow margin. She scrunched it up, she didn’t care, and she literally felt no emotion towards it. She just surgically decided to go to another college change from media to psychology take English, the subject she had narrowly failed in, and throw history in to the mix. She would start from the beginning. A couple of months later she quietly told her mother she was suicidal, because she thought she was insane, that she felt she was a burden, that she needed to see a doctor. Her mother took her; the doctor diagnosed her, and put her on medication. She was on it a year, had responded well, and had gained a large social circle, with a few trusted friends.
Slowly and by herself she had a look at what bullying had done to others, and in their stories found herself. She felt a quiet sadness and a total rage that policy was to ascribe no blame to the bully for the violence they perpetrated. She had remembered how two girls trying to gain favour with the in crowd had strangled her with a chain she had worn to look cool. She remembered how the teachers above those who had tried to help blamed her to her face, “Perhaps you could lose weight?” they said. “We’ll let you out ten minutes early so you don’t see them on the way home.” Like that had done any good. They didn’t punish the bullies, they almost condoned it.
Looking back she realises that bullying affected her long after she left the high school prison, where capital punishment was unofficially condoned. She had been only ten when it had started, she was almost 20 before help was given, and still she battles with the scares on her esteem.
How do I know this? Because she is me.
