Yeah, the scars last a while. I remember once when I was in college telling my dad about the time I was picked last for teams in a gym class. What a stupid, pointless thing to rake over, but as I described it, I started crying.
Put an adult in the same kind of situation that we went through when we were pre-adolescents, and they have enough life experience to say “Yeah? Well fuck you too!”. Put a little child in those circumstances, and the adults around them will stand up for them.
But middle school and junior high? You’ve lost the automatic protection of grown-ups, and you haven’t aquired the skills to defend yourself and the knowledge of who you are that makes it easier.
I look back at some of the things I went through - taunting, teasing, and even a couple of physical attacks - and my throat still tightens up. The nice thing is, it doesn’t have a huge effect on my adult life.
After high school, I went to a women’s university attended primarily by returning moms. It was the best thing I could have done, and I lucked into it. In that sheltering environment, I got to be exactly who I was without ducking the slings and arrows of outraged cliques. My strengths came to the forefront, and my weaknesses were no longer glaring. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped an enormous amount.
I’ve met a couple of my fellow nerds and one of my former tormentors. They’re just people. They’ve got their own scars and their own way of handling things.
But if I could get my hands on that little bastard Jamie Hoggett, I’d make him pay . . .
“I’m surprised that you’ve never been told before, that you’re lovely, that you’re perfect, and that somebody wants you.” - Semisonic, f.n.p