The Truth About Being Bullied

I was bullied severely as a child. Even though, now they seem more like bad dreams than actual memories. I remember the boy who hit me with a block in Nursery school. The boy who defended me grew up to be the class Bully. He eventually hit me, too. Even my so-called friends would turn on me at a moments notice.

I was constantly provoked by older children and tortured by the kids that were my own age. As I got older, I became that kid that just does not fit in. That person that everyone hated because, I was “weird”. I was one of the tallest in my class and looked older than everyone else looked. Yet, that was not the reason they thought I was strange. I just saw things very differently. A leader with no followers is always alone and a target. I did not know how to follow. I did not know how to fake it and go along with all the other lemmings. That made the target on my ass HUGE!

I thought if I were different, people would like me. I wanted to be special. I thought if I gave everything I had, it would make a difference. I thought that people would want around. I would finally get the love and attention for which I was starving. It never worked. No one told me the rules of the game. I did not know how to handle the attacks, either. I ended up hated and alone, not to mention completely misunderstood. Nothing has changed.
After children and my sixth grade teacher spent most of the day teasing me, I would come home crying, only having to put up with it from my family. I was the youngest of four kids. By the time I was six, my sister was out of the house. I have never had a real relationship with her and to this day, still don‘t. It’s sad. I have always wanted a sister with whom I could have a close relationship. The kind of closeness you see in movies and TV. Even though, I had a sister, it always felt like I didn’t. She was a stranger. There has always been an underlining resentment between us. It is a shame that it has not faded over the years. It sucks!

My brothers were much older, too. If they were not giving me a hard time, they were pretty much ignoring me. Yes. People either persecuted or ignored me. I don’t know which was worse. My father would call me “Super Sensitive”, acting as if I needed to toughen up. My mother was too busy either stuffing her face with her nose in a book or ignoring me, too. She has always been trying to fix me. I’m the picture she is convinced is consistently crooked. I have tried to tell her that it’s not the picture, but the wall that slants.