School bullying and lasting effects

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
41

One of the most unfair things in life, it seems to me, is that the early parts of our lives get to define how we think of ourselves so much, even if the later parts are better. It defines the default setting for what kind of person we are, in our own minds. Or, maybe it’s not like that for everyone, but it is for me. My first 15 years of life pretty much sucked. They were just awful. I had a terrible time in school. Then, things got better. The next 15 years were pretty awesome, much to my surprise. Certainly by comparison. Then it all mostly just got weird, which is where I’m at now. But I won’t bore you with the details of any of that.

Anyway, what was I even talking about? Oh, right. The girl and her sister.

I had this odd experience a while ago. I struck up an acquaintance with a person where I worked. She was a few years younger than me. (And, no, this won’t be a dating story.) We would talk about this and that, and at some point it transpired that had I gone to school with her sister, up to age 15.

Later, I ran into this person *and *the sister, together. I wouldn’t even have recognized the sister if I’d just seen her on the street, and I’m sure she wouldn’t have recognized me, either. And I certainly wouldn’t have talked to her. There’s no way I’m talking to anyone I went to school with before high school, if I can help it. I just duck and run in the other direction if I ever see them. Which is mostly hypothetical, because I mostly never see them, but that’s how I react. But this time I was stuck, we knew who each other was, and I was forced to interact with her. In front of the younger sister, who actually liked me. And it was just the most horrible thing.

What really upset me about the whole business was this: Now the older sister, who knew me as a kid in school, when I was at the bottom of the pecking order and just this boy-shaped bag of neuroses and fear, would get to tell the younger sister who I really was. The younger sister liked me just fine. She knew me as an adult, from work. But now my secret would be out. She would learn about the real me.

But then I’m thinking: Why can’t it be the other way around? Why can’t the version that the younger sister knows be the real me? The better version? Why can’t she be the one informing the older sister of the truth, instead of the other way around? But even if I think that, it doesn’t matter. The older sister knows. The younger sister is just misinformed, because I happened to make a good impression. And now they both know. That’s how I feel about it, just in terms of the emotions of it all. I can’t seem to get away from that.

Anyway, I don’t know what the older sister told the younger sister. Probably nothing. She probably didn’t even remember me. We had a polite and pointless conversation about nothing in particular. And nothing changed in the dynamic with younger sister. Well, except that I started acting all spooked around her after that. All embarrassed. So, there’s that.

Imagine if I could put the later 15 years in front of the early 15 years, instead of the other way around, like it is now. That would be so much better. Because it feels like the first 15 are real, and the later 15 are some kind of fakery. I wish I could swap them. I wonder if there’s some trick to do that.

I dunno. Is this even making any sense?

42

Yes.

43

Or going out in public in an area where you don’t live and having kids you’ve never seen before in your life making fun of you there too, the first time they’ve ever seen you, and not even hesitating to do this in front of both sets of parents, theirs and mine. BTDT.

44

Here’s another anecdote:

A girlfriend once made a birthday present for me. It was very sweet, in theory. She found a photo of herself as a child. Then, she went to my mother, and got a photo of me as a child. She then proceeded to put those together in a frame, along with some doodles of hearts and stuff. So, very sweet. Very personal. Very cute.

I *hated *that thing so much. I basically flew into a panic when she sprung it on me. I wanted to throw it out a window. It got instantly disposed of, and it never saw the light of day again. Poor girl, she meant it so well. At least the sex, drugs & alcohol she followed it with up as a second attempt at a present helped. That was more appreciated.

I wonder what it’s like not to hate your own childhood. It must be nice.

Actually, I wonder what it’s like not to hate yourself. Because, you know, hating bullies is one thing. Screw those assholes. But you end up hating yourself, and that’s the trickier part. That’s a more problematic kind of hatred to go through life with.

45

my experiences in middle school and high school are largely what have put me off of the idea of ever having kids. I cannot fathom the idea of spending so much time, money, and effort on something which is going to turn into a vicious piece of shit.

yeah, well, at least you got that. small comfort for those of us who were basically “untouchable” in school.

46

Yep. That is kind of my mantra. Whenever I feel ashamed or guilty over some failure (real or imagined) I whisper, “I hate myself,” over and over until the feeling passes. I feel as though acknowledging that I am a bad/unworthy person is a sort of self-flagellation that lets me move on with my life.

This is something that haunted me for over a decade: The persistent belief that I was wrong and they were right, that I deserve to be punished for my failures, and that I have no value as a human being. I spent YEARS searching for whatever missing ingredient I needed, in the belief that if I just learned X skill or Y behavior then I could correct the fault and I would “count” as a valuable person that others would respect. Of course, I never found what I was looking for because a universal checklist to person-hood doesn’t exist.

47

I remember only one guy who consistently bullied me and I got the best revenge of all: I’ve outlived him.

48

I was the neighborhood pariah back in elementary/junior high. I was chubby, a geek, not particularly graceful, and too self-conscious for my own good. Eighth grade was the worst. It was also the year my dad died. Put two together and it’s a wonder I actually was promoted to 9th grade, never mind still standing and breathing.

I think it affected me more when I was younger than it does now. I still have scars, but now they’re faded. I don’t even remember half the kids responsible for them. I’m much less self-conscious nowadays. I’m still a bit of a geek. I’m still not particularly graceful and I’m still a tad chubby. I think time/age has a lot to do with it as well as getting to the point in life where I’m finally comfortable with who I’ve always been.

Many years ago when I was temping I ran into the sister of one of my tormentors at a particular employer. I remembered her well, as she, her sibling, and I took the same bus to/from school and she never once tried stopping her sibling from doing/saying ~whatever~. My hackles automatically went up upon seeing her. When I confronted her, she had no idea who I was until I described the bus scenario. It took her a minute, and then, “Oh, yeah. Get over it. Kids will be kids.” Or something like that.

I wanted to smack her right then and there, stomp on her, scream in her ear loud enough to burst her eardrum. But I didn’t. Instead I went to the ladies’ and cried. Fast forward a few months later and I realized that those who bullied usually have no idea of how much they affected you. Then I got upset again.

I’m glad those days are over. If anyone’s bullying me now, it must be very covert because I have no inkling of it. OTOH I’m not looking for it either.

49

Bolding mine.

But it does cause SOME people to have unhappy lives - most often during the times they are bullied, but quite often there are lasting impacts. Just because it doesn’t happen to everyone doesn’t mean it’s ok, and it doesn’t mean that well-meaning advice to “buck up” or “go show 'em who’s boss now!” is actually going to be helpful to someone with resulting social anxiety or self-worth issues.

50

The birthday present was when I was… 20? 21? One or the other. But, yeah, I was basically OK from age 16. Or at least in recovery, as it were. I was at a new school, I met new people, and they let me get away with stuff. I was still hopelessly socially inept, but now, for whatever reason, I was persistently forgiven for it. That’s something that makes me think that maybe there’s a god, and he gave me a break.

And, of course, suddenly there weren’t people around giving me a hard time just because I existed. It’s hard to get anything done when someone reminds you, every five minutes, how much you suck. Either to your face, or indirectly. As it is, I’m still very defensive, like I’m constantly waiting and watching for people to do that. It’s like I’m in a permanent state of flinch. I have a hard time handling criticism, I take it very personally. I beat myself up endlessly for stupid things I do. And then I hide. There’s a crowd of people in my mind, pointing and laughing. The other day I faceplanted pretty badly and said something stupid in a thread on this board. I’m still beating myself up for that, even though there are zero actual consequences. I don’t have to pay money. I won’t be arrested. I didn’t even get a warning. Maybe someone on the internet, who doesn’t know me, thinks I’m stupid. Big whoop, right? But it’ll be a long time before I get over it. Imagine what day-to-day real life is like. There are huge areas of real life that I just stay away from. There are too many things that can go wrong. It’s like a minefield of potential mistakes that I have to hate myself for later. It’s just not worth it.

And then you might say: “But everyone makes mistakes.” I know, that’s not the problem. It’s not the mistakes, it’s the hating myself. If your argument was: “Everyone hates themselves”, them maybe we could talk.

Anyway, where was I? Right, my teens. By age 18, I was solidly a cool kid, I think. Mostly because the local factors determining “cool” had changed so much. If I had been in a school full of jocks, it would probably have been different, but I was suddenly surrounded by punk rockers, weed smokers, role playing geeks, and goths. It was intoxicating. I never really knew that any of that existed. And I could work with that. I could squeeze my way in. Even then, I didn’t have many friends, but the ones I had were solid. (That has probably more to do with me being an introvert than anything. I’ve always preferred quality to quantity in the friends department.) And they were cool. I like cool.

Sorry if this sounds like running through the cancer ward gleefully, shouting “I don’t have it! I’m cured!” Going through ages 16-19 in the way I went through life before that would probably have killed me, I think. I’m not sure if there would have been any possible recovery after that. Those are critically important years. Anyone who lives to age 20 unloved has to be permanently damaged. Those of you who do recover from that, even somewhat, are pretty amazing. I think you’re stronger than me. I feel like I got pulled out of the drain at the last possible moment. And I’m not cured, by any stretch. I’m still a mess.

BTW, about the cool: I’m about to say something horrible. Feel free to throw tomatoes.

When I was at the bottom of the pecking order, I wasn’t alone down there. There were other kids there, too. So you might say: “Why weren’t you friends with them? You could have had a society of outcasts.” Here’s the horrible thing: Just because you’re grouped in with the Garbage Pail Kids in the special class of life, it doesn’t mean that you like the other kids there. There are, you know, reasons why they’re there. Some of them aren’t very likable. I hung out with those kids some. I sympathized with them, profoundly. But I didn’t really like them, necessarily, or get along with them. I didn’t aspire to be them. I wanted a cool friend. I think I really wanted this friend. But there weren’t any twelve year old vampire girls at my school. I didn’t even know that there were twelve year old vampire girls.

Maybe that makes me as bad as the bullies. Maybe in a different world I could have been a bully. Maybe now I *am *a bully, sometimes, like **monstro **said:

So, that. Me, too.

Something touched one of my irrational berserker buttons in another thread. It was someone advising shy and timid men to just be themselves, and they’ll eventually meet a shy and timid girl. In my mind, I heard it as: “You loser kids should just hang out with your own kind. Don’t try to mingle with the normal people.”

I still hear a lot of things in my mind, from age 12.

51

Ha.

I hope you can now see that I’m the last person who should (or would) be calling anyone a “loser”.

52

and then we have this bit of pleasant news:

http://www.candgnews.com/news/community-reels-after-middle-schooler’s-attempted-suicide-93448

children are such wonderful, innocent little angels.

53

I had a good old mate Kim that started with calling people a looser, he pushing some point about this to mate Donny of mine about loser’s and old Donny snapped at him about it.
Turned out that old Kim was the biggest looser I know, not wealth money wise but from a human point of view he became a disgrace turning on all who loved him, money was his only true thing that he loved.

54

Or you have nothing else in common.

55

I knew someone in an almost identical situation. But when they confronted the bystander who did nothing, it came to light that the reason they stayed silent was because they were being abused / bullied too. And they were afraid that standing up against their tormentor to help someone else would only result in more abuse at home for them.

56

When you’re in that situation, you may be pretty hostile yourself (easier to cope with all the hostility if you eliminate the vulnerability of hoping to be liked, etc), you therefore anticipate that anyone else as marginalized as you are is probably going to be wary and thorny on the edges for the same reason, and then, finally, you may wish to not be friendless and lonely but you sort of want someone to like you for who you are, not because they’re so hard up that you’re the only companion they can get. It’s not particularly complimentary.

Be that as it may (and often is), I often did make friends with other outcasts — not because we “could have each other at least” in that pathetic Loser’s Club sense, but because some (not all) outcasts are thoughtful and compassionate types, or if not quite that, then at least people who had been through a lot of the same shit I’d been through and hadn’t internalized that pathetic Loser’s Club sense of deserving it or being ready to lick the boots of the kind of kids who picked on others.

57

That doesn’t work when the bully is your mother. Or your toddler little sister, egged on by your grandmother.