I was bullied as a kid.
Kids used would call me fat. Heck, fat kids would call me fat.
In 8th grade, there was a tall brunette named, Suzanne who awakened one day with the resolve of 20 grown men to make my life a living hell. She was perfectly tall and exotically beautiful with Pocahontas skin and flowy hair that should’ve been in a Pantene commercial. When I was 13, I was a french fry under 6’ tall, plumply plus-sized, introverted as a pocket watch and wore clothes that would initiate a knee-jerk, “Bless your heart, honey” in just about anyone. Anyone, that is, except Suzanne.
Whenever Suzanne would see me. She would say…’MOOOooooOO!”
You read that correctly. Whenever she saw me walk into a room, down a hallway or up the stairs, she would hit the brakes on her conversations about sneaking a wine cooler, how hot Mr. Mason was or that she hated whats-his-face because of what-the-what. My throat would lump, stomach would knot and eyes would drop when I saw her. I knew it was coming. I knew I just had to walk by, pretend not to hear and bite my lip until it bled. Crying only made it worse. Have you ever heard the noise a cow makes when it cries? No? Ask Suzanne. She does a really good impression.
Looking back, I understand that Suzanne was broken and hurt.
As I was writing this post, I looked both ways and Googled her name to see if I could stalk her on facebook, point fingers at her wrinkles and giggle at her cankles. And I found her. I recognized her by her eyes. She always had these amazing, beautiful, charcoal eyes. It’s funny that I remember her eyes being so beautiful. After a year of torture and 24 years of living life later, I still don’t hate her. I never hated her. I just never understood why she berated me, why she targeted me and and what awful thing must have happened to her to make her so hurtful.
I caught myself staring at her photo.
She was posing for a camera that came with a side of fingerprinting and a bowl of regret with a flavor that lingers forever. Three letters changed her Google history forever. D.U.I. The luggage underneath her Pocahontas eyes was packed with years of despair and disappointment. I used to daydream about us seeing each other as adults and how she would feel such deep remorse for the way she treated me that she would plead forgiveness and tearfully admit I was no longer the cowgirl.
I didn’t feel that today.
I just felt sad. I felt sad for that 13 year old who found her only release in hurting others. I felt sad to think how she must’ve been bullied as a kid and what she’s possibly endured as an adult. I wish I could email her and tell her she isn’t alone in life. I want her to know that she’s more than just the number she was given. Write hope and send love. I pray she finds that.
What about you? Were you ever bullied?
This is Day 20 of my 100 Days of Blogger.
(OK…I missed posting yesterday. My dog ate my homework.)
Lover of coffee, cardigans & connections.