Childhood Bullying II – Aftermath
With it being a decade since I was last at school, you'd think I'd be over it. Sometimes I think I am.
And then I dream.
I'm suddenly back at school, or a face I had forgotten comes back to me, and it all comes back: the powerlessness, humiliation, the anger that someone could hurt me so much for kicks – and finally the horror that I'm unable to stop them. Everything comes back. Not even waking up removes the fear, as I spend the rest of my day trying to keep my composure together.
All it takes is the smallest reminder and the pain rushes back as if I was there again, and it shows how much it destroyed me. It tells me who I am, reminds me that I'm weak, anxious, and ready to crumble at the slightest struggle.
Everyone's heard the what doesn't kill you platitude. It's not true. If I was strong I wouldn't be bothered by what happened ages ago, and I wouldn't be left with this lasting fear of existing in the real world.
I'm a shell of a person. When I was young I found out that the best way to cope with everything was to isolate, and a flickering screen was more inviting than the people out there. That preference became a habit, and to this day I struggle with existing in the real world. Every time I've taken steps to regain a semblance of normality or confidence, things would swiftly collapse and leave me off in a worse state – and after a short time this became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
When I step out in the world, it's immediately obvious to others that I'm different – wrong – on some level. Childhood bullying scars you, it paints a target on your back that's apparent to others and most noticeable to those who can capitalise on it. There's no escaping it.
If there's one thing that's stuck with me over the years, it's anger. Anger at those who had no right to harm me, at myself for never fighting back, and at adults who neglected their duty of care – especially those who knew was going on yet did nothing.
And finally my anger lands at society, that big amorphous blob which shapes everything around us and how it makes us view bullying. How it's shameful to have been bullied. How it's easier to ignore such a problem than deal with it. How we say boys will be boys to cover up, dismiss, and outright excuse pain willingly inflicted on others.
Have you ever stopped and looked at the word bullying?
It's a silly word. It's harmless, inane. It doesn't remotely convey the acts which can constitute it, if anything the word bullying actively ridicules and diminishes the act altogether.
We recognise that assault, threats, stalking, theft, and harassment are extremely harmful acts – we literally have laws against these – yet labelling it as bullying makes it trivial, something minor to be glossed over. If we said that a child committed premeditated assault against a peer, we'd rightly be horrified. Calling it bullying undermines the seriousn nature of such acts, letting it be swept under the rug.
We trivialise the harms of bullying by calling it that, tacitly telling victims that it's silly to be in pain over it. It's the norm to dismiss and humiliate those who who were bullied, and there's no big push to re-examine this norm.
The effects of childhood bullying are well known: increased rates of depression, anxiety, and suicide. And the effects live long into adult life. Yet there's no big push to eliminate it or the stigma of being bullied.
When speaking up leads to ridicule, it's no wonder we choose to suffer in silence.
For the longest time I've avoided talking about bullying due to the shame of it. Writing this and putting it up in a public space is daunting, but there's no other way I can get it out there.
I'm a broken adult, wracked with crushing anxieties about life due to my experiences around others at school. Even if the last years of Secondary got better and College was a blast, it doesn't make up for an entire childhood where I was never safe around others.
I struggle with existing, with being me, putting myself and my work out there in the wider world. I struggle with being a bloke and fitting around others. I hate having existed and being remembered to the point where I hate to use my real name – the moments where I can forget who I am are bliss. If there was a painless and instant way to give up I would have done it years ago.
At the start of this year, I decided to do something to absolve me from the pain I carry – I mentally forgave everyone who wronged me. It was nice, and a few months I managed to feel comfortable with being me in the world.
And then I dream.
How can I forgive those who hurt me so much?