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Difficult to talk about - but it does get better, it really does


Sunshine

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Hi. I was bullied for almost eight years in school. I am now 29 years old, and live a happy life. Today I logged on to this old computer, and I found this document that I wrote three years ago about "Things I wish I had said to my parents and teachers about being bullied". And it suddenly struck me how much I have actually progressed in those three years. I will tell you more in the next post. First I will quote what I wrote three years ago.

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Three years ago:

THINGS I WISH WOULD HAVE SAID TO MY PARENTS OR TEACHERS ABOUT BEING BULLIED

Or: How to lie for eighteen years

Hi. I am a girl of twenty six years now. And I have lied to my parents for the last eighteen years. Well, I did tell the truth once. Once, when I was eight years old. The year when it all started.

That year, we moved into a new house. I had to go to a different school and it was there that the bullying started. It wasn’t so bad at first, compared what it became. I was teased about a small speech impediment that I have. At my previous school, nobody had mentioned it. At the new school, however, it was soon noticed. One boy in particular began mocking me.

My single moment of truth with my mom came after a few weeks at the new school. I was in the bathroom with her and she was helping me wash up. I said: “Mum, the boys in my class say that I speak funny.” She told me not to pay any attention to them. She said that if I just ignored them, they would soon grow tired of it. So I said I would.

The problem was, they didn’t grow tired of it. Nor did I manage to pretend that it didn’t get to me. No matter how hard I tried to ignore them, I just couldn’t. I got upset. I got angry and ran after them. I had a guilty conscience for not following my mum’s advice. So, I never told her about the bullying ever again.

There are so many things I wish I had said. I wish I had complained when a boy in my class threw dog poop at me. Instead, I washed my coat quietly at the sink, alone. I wish I had complained about the ceaseless teasing and mocking. I wish I had protested when my things got stolen and destroyed. I wish I had asked for help when it got violent. But I didn’t. I was a good girl. I didn’t want to complain. I didn’t want to be a pest. I didn’t want to bother the adults. I was convinced that my problems were small and silly. That it was nothing, really. That I should just ignore it.

When I was ten, a new poster for a phone line for children was placed in our classroom. It said, “If you have problems, and you wish to speak to an adult, you can phone this number.” I looked at that poster and I memorized the phone number. But I never phoned. I thought the phone line was for children with more serious problems than mine. Children who were abused at home, for example. What I failed to see was that my problems were serious enough. How I wish that I had phoned.

The teasing got steadily worse. By the time I was eleven, I was never left alone. In addition, the bullying was no longer just verbal, but physical, too. The boy who had teased me all along, now had the company of two other boys who would constantly push me or punch me. Several times a week, they would surround me in the playground, blocking all escape routes. They often got a couple of more boys to help them, so that they were five on one. Once they had me surrounded, they would force me down on the ground, to lie in the rain or sleet or snow. They would shove snow in my eyes and mouth so that I couldn’t see or speak. Then they would all form a tight circle around me and kick me. All I could do was to curl up and try to protect my head the best I could. But I wish I had cried for help.

I used to come home all bruised, of course. I wish I had shown these bruises to my parents. I don’t even know if they ever noticed them.

I had no language to speak about my experiences. I was unsure about what the word “bullying” meant, and whether I was entitled to use it. I knew I was being teased at school, but I didn’t know if what I went through counted as real bullying or not. I wish I had asked.

I am too proud. I wish I had complained to my mum and dad about my stomach aches. But I never complained about anything. I didn’t want to be “weak” and complain. I wish that when my mum and dad asked me how my day had been, that I hadn’t said “okay”.

Four situations come to mind, where I nearly told someone. The first one was when I was eleven or twelve, and I was hit in the face by a soccer ball. It was an accident; it had nothing to do with bullying. A teacher that I didn’t know came over and asked “Are you okay?” I replied “Yes, I’m fine. I’m so used to being hit anyway.” The teacher didn’t pick up the hint. I wish I had spoken in clearer words.

The second occasion was when I had just started secondary school. For the first three months, I was left alone. But, then, the bullying started again, this time led by some new boys who I didn’t know from the primary school, plus an older girl. One day, when it had all been too much, I broke down when I came in after break. The others in my class asked me what the matter was. I turned to a girl who had been in my primary school class and said “You know what it was like for me at the primary school. Now it’s starting here too.” But I didn’t say more than that, and nothing was done.

The third I remember was at my evening class, to prepare for my confirmation. At this class, we discussed ethics and moral issues. One time, the theme of bullying came up. The teacher put down five sheets of paper on the floor and asked us to stand on one. It was meant to be a scale from one to five, to show how bad we thought the various things that he listed were. After having asked about a couple of other things, he asked us to choose where we stood on the issue of bullying. I promptly went and stood on sheet number five, which meant “the worst thing you can possibly do to a person.” The teacher came up to me and said “Do you really think bullying is the worst thing one could possibly do to a person?” I said I did. But I couldn’t say more, because I had to fight back tears.

The fourth and final time I nearly said something was after school one day, when I was around 15. The police had held a talk for the whole school. They showed a video about bullying – but it only showed physical bullying. At this time, I wasn’t regularly beaten up anymore, it only very rarely got violent then. After everybody else had gone home, another girl and I hung back in our classroom, where our teacher was getting ready to leave. The teacher and the other girl were speaking about the video. I said “But it only spoke about physical bullying.” I felt my throat tighten and my eyes welling up. I quickly left the classroom. But through the door I heard the other girl saying “I think she’s upset.” I wish I could have stayed behind and told my teacher everything.

My teachers knew, though, really, because what I couldn’t talk about, I wrote about. From 11 years old on, we kept a journal at school. Our teacher said we could write whatever we wanted in it and then we were to hand it in every few weeks. She would then read it, and write a reply. I wrote about how they made fun of my speech, the names they called me, how they made songs about me, threw things at me in class, and stole my belongings and dropped them down five floors in the stairwell. I described how everything about me was wrong, from my name to my tastes in music, to my personality. And I described how they beat me up. I wrote about how I was afraid to be alone in the playground because then they would come and attack me. The first sentence I wrote in my journal was “Dear journal, Ronny harasses me to death”. What the teacher didn’t understand was that I meant it literally. When I was twelve, I just wanted to die. Drown myself, hold my breath under my blanket or whatever. I wrote in the journal “sometimes I wish I could just die,” but the teacher didn’t pick up on that either. She wrote back and said just ignore them. She said I should feel sorry for them, because one day they would end up in serious trouble, as if this wasn’t serious. Oh, I wish I could have yelled at her: “It’s not for you to tell me to feel sorry for them! You are my teacher; it’s your responsibility to help me!”

I know many parents think they shouldn’t read their children’s journal. But I think they should. I wish I hadn’t hidden my journal from my parents. Perhaps when the teachers failed to respond, my parents would. But they never knew.

I kept a journal in secondary school too, where I wrote about how I was teased, and how I was an outcast. I was very lonely then. I felt different from everybody else. My teacher must have seen my loneliness, because she tried to set up a friendship between me and an equally lonely Bosnian girl. But it didn’t work out. I had a so-called friend in class. Since neither of us had any friends, we sort of stuck together, but I didn’t like her either. She was bossy and intimidating, too.

What I wish I could have asked my parents then, was if I could be moved to the private International School instead. It’s an English speaking school, so my speech problems wouldn’t have been noticed there, since the sound I can’t pronounce doesn’t exist in English. This school also has a reputation for being the best school in town, and therefore it attracts bright kids. I would possibly have been able to make some friends there, I think. But it never occurred to me to ask.

There are so many things I should have said, but never did, because I was ashamed, or too proud, or because I didn’t want to be a pest for anyone. My parents still don’t know anything. I feel that if I told them, I could never look them in the eye with dignity again. I feel that except for a few, select people that I trust, I can’t tell anyone, for it will make people realize that even though I seem like a successful, young adult, I really am a freak who should be shunned. But when I pull myself together, I know that this thought makes no sense. I really wish I could speak about it. Because I need to.

If you, who read this, are bullied in school – even if you might think that it’s not important enough for the adults to care about, and even if you are ashamed of it – please don’t make the same mistake as I did. Ask for help. And when they don’t listen, ask someone else. Don’t suffer in silence. Please, tell. Please, please tell.

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Yes, please tell. Not only when you are a child and you are being bullied, but also when you are an adult, bearing the scars. Since I wrote that, I have actually told my father. I noticed he was reading something that had to do with the topic of bulllying, and the next day I simply phoned him and asked him to come and see me. And then I just told him the whole story, and it felt great. I was totally wrong when I thought that I wouldn't be able to look my parents in the eye with dignity again if I told them. My dad was so good about it and really supportive, and even though I cried when I told him, I kept all the dignity that I had before. It was such a relief to have said it. I felt great afterwards.

It's very, very difficult for me to talk about bullying, but it does get easier. Not easy, but a bit easier over time. I know that there is no need for me to be ashamed. It wasn't my fault. It doesn't have to define me as a person. I'm me. And the bullying was something that happened. I AM not a "victim", I am just ME who something has happened to, but lots of good things have happened to me as well, which are equally big parts of me.

Since three years ago I have also started doing some anti-bullying work. Just a tiny bit yet, but it feels good.

Everything gets better.

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Guest ASchwartz

Hi Sunshine,

Thank you for sharing your painful history of being bullied all during you school years. What is most poignant, at least to me, is how adults seem to have failed to hear you and your pleas for help. At the same time, you also tried to not complain too much and I sense that you feared that once your mother ignored your complaint when you were very young, no one else would ever really listen anyway.

Now that you are an adult how do you deal with people when situations call for your having to confront someone who is being insulting or bullying?

Allan

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Hi, ASchwartz. Thank you for replying. :)

Hi Sunshine,

Thank you for sharing your painful history of being bullied all during you school years. What is most poignant, at least to me, is how adults seem to have failed to hear you and your pleas for help. At the same time, you also tried to not complain too much and I sense that you feared that once your mother ignored your complaint when you were very young, no one else would ever really listen anyway.

Yes, and also I think I felt that I wasn't entitled to help. I was hoping for help, but I didn't think I could expect it. I know now that it would not have been unreasonalbe to expect help from adults, and that the teachers actually are more to blame than the bullies. The bullies were children, but the teachers should have seen and acted.

Now that you are an adult how do you deal with people when situations call for your having to confront someone who is being insulting or bullying?

Allan

I'm not entirely sure if I understand your question. Do you mean if I see someone else being treated badly by someone?

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Guest ASchwartz

What I mean is: how do you deal with it now if You are being treated badly by another person? I am asking because it can be difficult to get over the old ways of reacting to situations.

Allan

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