“This must be a twenty-first century girl-thing,” my husband
observed while reading a story about a twelve-year-old girl who killed herself
because of cyber-bullying. He was
appalled that anyone would get together with a group of “friends” and
systematically send taunting comments to a classmate via social media. “Why do they do it?” he wondered. “Boys would ridicule you to your face but
girls do it over the internet.”
Frankly, I have no clue why people chose to diminish others or
if females are more likely to use more circuitous means, but there’s nothing
new about harassment-by-proxy. When I
was in the fourth grade, I was bullied by girls I’d known for years, some of
which had previously been my friends. While
some of the torment was face-to-face, the worst of the abuse came as anonymous
letters through the mail. I’m sure if
Facebook had existed then, whoever was responsible would have used that media to
let me know how stupid, unattractive and generally worthless I was. In a way, I suppose, using the mail is more
malicious. There’s a time-lag between
writing and sending that doesn’t exist when you can just type and hit “post”. You even have to find a stamp and address the
envelope, steps that are eliminated over the internet. Regardless of the means, bulling sucks. The internet just makes it easier.
The letters showed up periodically for a few months, and then
they stopped. The next school year no
one bothered me. Maybe they found a new
person to focus their nastiness on. Maybe
they just grew up. Whatever happened, the
experience changed my perception of myself, mostly in negative ways. The constant barrage of mean-spirited bashing
made me question myself and I became wary of others. I never found out who was responsible for the
hateful letters. Part of me doesn’t care
anymore, but I do sometimes wonder, as my husband did this morning, why it
happened at all. It did, however, fuel
something positive: turning inward gave
me the chance to think up tales, something I’ve done ever since. It took decades before I actually decided to
write some of them, but now I can’t seem to stop. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying any part
of what happened was a good thing. While
it made me who I am today, I’m pretty sure I would have turned out a whole lot
better adjusted without it.
Now, I don’t let anyone push me around. I still have some self-esteem issues but I
like how I turned out and I love being an author. When you read my stories, some of the scared
little kid probably leaks out into the words, as does the confident adult. As for the girls that made my life so
miserable all those years ago? Fuck
you.
Hey, I said I was confident, I didn’t say I wasn’t still
pissed.
