My Story

By , Nokomis, FL
I started getting bullied in the 4th grade. I was constantly being called rude names and harassed about my image. I tried to turn to adults for help but I was ignored, they thought I should just suck it up and not listen to what they say. It was hard. Hearing those things everyday, combined with being young, I believed almost everything that was said about me. The bullying wouldn’t stop. I thought the only way to make it stop was to end it all. By the middle of the school year, I resorted to self-harm and eventually attempted suicide. I resorted to this because I had to bottle up my emotions. It was unbearable. When I self-harm, I feel in control. It’s sick and twisted, I know, but so am I. At least, according to everyone else. Every time an emotion overcame me that I didn’t know how to control, I did it. Yet, the bullies wouldn’t stop, they just threw more names and comments at me. They even labeled me “freak.” That was a nametag I could never take off. Soon, the comments were about how “fat” I was. It became a game to them; “fat” “whale” “elephant” How would you feel if you were called this EVERYDAY? The words seeped into my brain and have been there ever since. I eventually stopped eating, for 2 years. The little I did eat fueled my obsession to lose weight. I’ve never felt so alone through it all. Everyone I could talk to would judge me. I was in this struggle alone. I soon became an outcast and no one would dare say a word to me. Once my dad finally realized what they have done to me, I guess you can say he tried to help. He thought sending me a link to a website about how only “sick, sick people” do that kind of stuff. It killed me to see that’s how he thought of me. I have recently found help, and a true friend I can confide in. I feel safe and trustworthy when she tells me everything and vise-versa. Every time I feel as Numb and useless as I once did, I write. I write all over my body. Every time I’m called a name, it goes on my body, in permanent marker. The significance of the Sharpie is that it symbolizes how the word will be hard to wash off my brain, as my skin. I am still struggling to get better. It will take me sometime to become somewhat normal again. I will NEVER forget what the said to me. What they did. So, every once in a while my dad can tell, his little girl is dying inside, behind her fading smile. And that scared/sad look in her eyes is not one of fear but one of a survivor. So think, next time you call someone something, or say a mean thing, how will they cope with it?





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