I hate bullies.
I hate people who take advantage of their own confidence, their own lack of empathy; and force, with words or action, or the unspoken threat of words or action, their will on others.
But that’s far too clinical, saying it that way. I hate people who throw their weight around. I hate people who pick up on the fear of others, or desperation of others, and use it to support their believes, or their wants, or their opinions. It never seems to matter, to someone with that domineering streak, whether a person’s loyalty or opinion as it’s stated is an honest reflection of the other person’s feelings. It doesn’t matter– it’s the verbal agreement, the social and physical submission– that’s where that ugly, mean power comes from.
I was bullied at school, can you tell? I was unpopular little geek in the final years of primary school; in high school I was downgraded to total nerd worthy of having her schoolbag spat on and put in a garbage can, and teased mercilessly when I begun my period. (Tanya and Emma. Hi.)
Moving schools didn’t help much. My second year of high school meant starting somewhere new where no one knew me. Bullies, they found me anyway. I don’t think it was as psychical the second time around– it was more of that soul crushing ostracism that only teenage girls are capable of. It was rumors and names and something less tangible– again, that push and shove, that abuse of power that bullies thrive on.
When I was about fourteen years old I was so insecure I remember feeling as if I was curved in the middle, like a banana or the letter C– something I’d done to myself. Because if I curled up into myself then no one would notice me and that constant gangly ugliness wouldn’t be so magnified. I remember a boy in my year, for no other reason than to be just… nasty, asking our entire music class if “anyone actually liked Lori?” and no one– not even those who I did consider friends– speaking up to say they did.
As is said… I hate bullies.
One particular chick who bullied me in my middle–ish years of high school– hi, again- what is it with Emma’s?– has turned out to be, sadly, in the percentage of people that never grow out of being bullies, that for some reason still need the satisfaction of making other people feel small to make themselves feel normal. I ran into her about eighteen months ago– in the final few months of the Purple Before– and she went out of her way to draw attention to and make snarky comment about the brand of jeans I was wearing.
I found myself staring at her, wide eyed, head cocked to one side, in silence, for just a beat too long– enough to break the rhythm of the conversation, to make a few people uncomfortable as they witnessed a standoff of sorts.
Fifteen years ago, in high school, I would have dropped my gaze, my face burning, willing my eyes not to fill with tears, that sick heavy shame of just being me sitting in my guts.
Fuck that. I’m not in high school anymore. And I don’t do bullies, not anymore. I still get scared– there is one person in my life who is a blatant, compassionate–less intimidator who literally makes my insides turn to a shaking, unstable liquid. I am scared of her, and she knows it, and she takes full advantage of it.
I try not to let her. Especially now, in the After. I have simply faced too much, to be afraid of her, afraid of that.
I don’t know what it is about me– but I attract bullies, as if there’s some scent that comes off me, some indicator of weakness. Maybe there is– I’m naturally passive, I don’t like confrontation, I’m a ’yes’ person and a pleaser. It makes me an easy target and sometimes I can feel that painted all over my face.
Sometimes I wonder why, if someone had to be blamed… blame the weakest. There’s nothing noble or pleasant about that. But when it comes right own to it, people are just animals, and it’s an evolutionary given– survival of the fittest.
It’s one of those unfair truths of life that some people just never grow out of having that oppressive personality streak. I recognize it more in women than men, but that’s probably just the world colored with how things have been in the past. I hate that some people are just like that. I hate that it still makes me feel vulnerable and unworthy and fourteen years old all over again.
As I said, some people, they never grow out of it. But I’m too old for that shit now, and I know myself too well.
Finally, at thirty years of age… I don’t do bullies anymore.
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