When I first started this blog last May, I recounted some humorous childhood anecdotes in a series of posts. The stories are funny to me now, but as a small child, they were anything but laughable. The reality is, I suffered a lot of misery in grade school and junior high. At the time, it hurt me deeply and it made me cry. I say “it” when I should say “they”.
They hurt me deeply. They made me cry. It wasn’t a “thing” that made me suffer. It was other children, specifically other little girls.
For years, I used to say I got picked on or made fun of in school. I didn’t have another name for it. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that I was in fact bullied all those years ago.
In comparison to the horrendous acts of bullying that take place nowadays, my experiences were nothing. But when you are the little girl going through the torment day after day, it feels monumental, no matter how insignificant in comparison to others.
Throughout my life, I’ve thought about my bullies more than I’m sure they’ve thought about me. I remember each and every one of their names…Chris, Loan, Laura, Nicole, Tina, Tricia, and Maria.
When I joined Facebook, I looked up every single one of them. I carefully studied the pictures of the ones I found. I tried to imagine what their lives are like now. Are they happy? Are they living a fulfilling life? Has life been good to them? But my curiosity goes beyond their personal well-being. Because what I really have wanted to know is: