This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up crying. Nor is this the last time. Consistently once a night, I’ll have a flash back of something from my past mixed with all the fears and frustrations I felt at the time of the event. Some times my subconscious is able to pull myself out of it before it wakes me up, other times I wake up in tears and have a panic attack.
This morning was a moment of the latter. In middle school and the first part of my high school experience there was a group of rich kids that would terrorize me. Some of them were in the grade above me but others were in my own grade. Two girls would appear in front of adults as “taking me under their wing” but behind closed doors made fun of my clothes, my freckles, my bushy hair and the fact that my family was not well off.
My family couldn’t afford class trips, we couldn’t afford sports or other school activities that cost money. The whole town knew that, and despite it all, no one offered to help instead they’d whisper behind our backs and my brother and I got the blunt of it in social situations with our peers. One blonde, semi plump but pretty blue eyed girl, found it particularly fun to make me feel like a lowlife. Her father was in real-estate and built houses. The house they lived in was a mansion, with its own movie theater, a pool and her closet was the size of a regular room. Everything they owned was custom, she’s tell me flipping her hair back.
Parents thought it was “kind” of her to invite me to her parties, to include me, but truthfully I was the blunt of a 5 year joke. I was forced to go because my mother felt it would slight them if I didn’t, plus her mother was our principle. Her mother always seemed to like me, but would ask me strange questions because I would always clean up after myself and offer to help her around the house instead of hang out with the girls.
Later in life, I learned to defend myself and having a gang of boys as my friends began to help my status. However, that only caused their ill treatment to move into jealousy. I would get called a slut for having “multiple boyfriends” and accused of manipulating all the cute boys to like me. I started to own their words and I became a slut, and I would steal their boyfriends just to one up them. In short, I became a bully. They got away with it, because suddenly I was a horrible person and they could tell their parents what I was like who would in turn tell my parents.
Funny how things come full circle, as I’m writing a book of all these memories as a dairy to those who have hurt me. In this book, I plan to mention their real names, or maybe I won’t because I doubt they’d ever read it. I remember the bitterness of trying my hardest to one up them, trying to prove I wasn’t just a poor little hand-me-down wearing half breed. I remember crying myself silently to sleep to daydream about being famous and shoving it up their ass.
Today I went stalking on facebook… I saw their facebook, the majority of them are married, some have kids, a few of them have their dream careers. And guess what? I’m still the poor little hand-me-down wearing half breed. The difference? They no longer care. I doubt they even remember my name. If I were to add them on facebook they’d probably add me and say “oh my gooossshh how have you beeen” as if they never did anything wrong. So … I would reply “I’m fantastic. No thanks to your bullying, no thanks to your jokes, no thanks to your selfishness or jealousy. So, I hope your happy—you deserve it, after all.”