By Melissa Garza
From fourth grade onward, I was bullied to extreme
levels. I was teased for my weight, my
clothes, my hair, and my shyness which was only created by the names I was
called. I was mentally, physically, and
emotionally tortured.
When sixth grade – junior high came, I was sure things would
be different. I thought since it was a
new school that life would improve.
There, I met Brian.
Brian relentlessly harassed me. He would make it so I would have terrible stomach pains and refuse to go to school. Even years after high school ended, I worked at an auto store. He would come in and
be a complete jerk. Later, he died of a drug overdose. I didn’t mourn. Some criticized me for my lack of emotion. They reminded me of his family,
but all I could think was that they were better off. Maybe, that makes me a bitter and angry woman, but it’s one that he helped create.
Alan was another one who tortured. He came into the picture later. I want to say 9th grade was when he started his reign of terror. He would
purposely sit behind me wherever I sat and he would punch my back. He had this girl Alison slap me in the face for no reason. I remember there was a
teacher who was always drunk…both he had his brother worked for the school – the drunk paid no attention to Alan constantly pushing me, tripping me, and hitting me. He didn’t seem to mind the names he called or when he’d put razorblades on my desk to encourage me to kill myself. No one stood up when he wrote a suicide note and said it was from me. Little did he know, I wanted to kill myself at that point in my life. I prayed to die because of
him. He was scum and whether he’s a “different” person now matters to me not.
A biological family member of mine was friends with Alan in
school. She would tell me about his good side. As her and I stopped speaking, she befriended him and advised the only reason she had held off so long was to
spare my feelings. She didn’t hold off because he was an abusive reject who nearly drove me to suicide. No, she held off to spare my feelings. As one can tell I’m not very fond of that answer and it only reaffirms my decision to separate myself from that side of the family.
If one is not a bullied child they cannot understand the mental anguish which is caused. Especially, when the bullied started off with a rough home-life. My mother was a saint, but I’ve written about my abusive father many times in the past.
Having absolutely no safe haven made me hide the real person I was. Whenever I hold the bullies accountable for their actions, people will say, “well you’re not the same person you were.” Yes, I am.
I was forced to hide for years who I was but I’ve always been ME. The scared little girl still dwells inside of my soul and my memory so close I can nearly touch her.
It’s sad that people who were close to me, who could have
stepped in remained silent or worse added to the absolute torture I
endured. For people on the outside, it should have been so evident. In old home movies, I want to take the little girl in front of the camera who was desperate for positive attention and give her a hug. Instead, members of my family roll their eyes at her.
Many would say that I should be over this….that it was so many
years ago and I’m alive and well and married to the greatest man on earth. All of this is true, but still the memories sit with me and I can’t help but wonder why no one spoke up and why some intentionally made me more insecure and more self-conscious and more suicidal.
I have a great life now, but as no one spoke up for the little girl years ago – I’m going to speak up for her now.
