“It’s okay. Everything is okay,” she comforted me as she led me to the door.

I’ve had to deal with bullying for years, but one girl drove me over the edge and led to an experience that I will never forget.

Six years ago when I was eleven, I experienced the worst feeling a child or adult should feel. In sixth grade gym class, I grabbed the tarnished golden handle to enter though the heavy wooden door to the old and proceeded into the dirty locker room to change into my day clothes after a long period of sweating and feeling smelly. I entered the locker room, along with twenty or so other girls who were thinner than I.

I didn’t feel bothered by the fact that I was slightly chubbier than the other girls, so I walked past them and their girl talk. I started off minding my own business, as I was told to do by my mother. The girls stood in a big circle. They talked about the news of a boyfriend and the newest fashion trend. Before long the scent of flowery perfume filled air, making me wanting some but not confident enough to ask. While getting dressed and freshening up for the day, the other girls suggested a competition against each other. They wanted to see who weighed the lightest.  

Even if somebody didn't want to take part in the competition, she didn’t have a choice.  All were dragged into this little “competition,” but I stayed back and proceeded to tie my shoe. I thought, ‘Why join a competition I know I won’t win?’ One by one, a girl would lift another girl off the ground to test who was the easiest to pick up. The so-called leader of the friend group stood there with her icey blue eyes that could see through anyone's fear and bring intimidation to the soul. The girl called my name to come and join. “I can’t. I’m going to be late for class,” I told her as I adjusted my shoe and slung my bag over my shoulder. The girl protested saying again that I should join. While we both bickered, the girl and I made reasons why I should or should not do it. Then the girl with the icy eyes had enough and whispered to the other girls but loudly enough that I could hear it. “See? This is why nobody talks to her. She’s so stupid and ugly as hell,” she whisper-shouted.

Her words were sharp and cold as a winter breeze, as was her heart. My eyes fell in shame to the worn blue nearly grayish concrete. Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision. I moved toward the girls shoving through them. They reacted like I was the rude and disrespectful one. “This is why everyone hates you,” one girl yelled from across the quiet room.

I felt as though she was right. They started to attack me for no reason, and my weight and looks gave them ammunition against me. It was my fault that I look like this and that I wasn't skinny. That was the day I wanted to end it all. Eleven years old is when I wrote my suicide note. Finally, the day was coming to a close end, just a few more classes before lunch. I walked to my sixth grade history class, my face red and rubbed raw from the tears. I walked into class, and the teacher greeted everyone by name. “Hello, Makaylah,” she cheerfully shouted to me with a smile on her face, showing her wrinkles and weathered texture. I smiled up for a moment and quickly looked down to the floor to keep her from seeing my face. Well, of course, the teacher took attendance and waited for us to settle down. We began class by reading for fifteen minutes at every start of the class, but instead of reading I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen to write my goodbye note. The pen seemed to have a mind of its own, and without trying the pen glided across the paper. I said that the bullying had grown too much to handle. I said goodbye to my mom and dad and that I love them. A kid who was sitting next to me told me to get a book. I didn’t listen. I continued to write, pouring my heart out, filling my note with sorrow yet filled with love, apologizing to everyone who I thought I hurt. The boy yet again told me to get a book before he threatened to tell the teacher. Again I ignored his command and continued to write. He was done telling me to get a book, so he went to the teacher. The boy came back to his deck, while the teacher asked me to come up with the note I was writing.

“May I see this note?” she asked with her hand extended.

I shook my head. I couldn’t talk; the lump in my throat was too swollen. I figured that she’d let it go, but she insisted. I reluctantly gave her my letter, waiting to be scolded. She grabbed the phone quickly but calmly and called our school guidance counselor, telling her to come immediately. She loving grabbed my hand with a gentle caress. “Everything is going to be okay. It's okay,” she assured me.

She had tears welling up in her eyes. Mine did, too. I began to cry, covering my face with my sleeve. The counselor knocked on the door for permission to take me to get help. The teacher held my hand on the way to the door with the note in hand and sent me off with the counselor to begin my hard road on recovering from depression and suicidal thoughts. As we left, I began to wonder. These people really cared about me and my feelings, along with how I felt. I had people to rely on. I did have a chance to beat this dark feeling.