I remember many things about elementary and middle school, most not very good. I remember being in Kindergarten and knowing that it wasn't as fun for me as it was for everyone else. I don't remember when it started or why it started I just remember that I didn't like it. I felt uncomfortable and shameful, an outcast amongst five year olds. I remember cutting my hair and blaming it on a boy, only telling the truth when told he would get into trouble. I remember being tied to tennis courts and left for the janitors to untie me, feeling embarrassed but also hopeless. I was one drug around the playground by my feet, unfortunately I was wearing a skirt and the injuries I sustained were embarrassing and required a trip to the principal's office. It was the only time the bullying was actually dealt with, though I don't remember their punishment. I had crushes on boys and knew I repulsed them, so I tried to change to be more attractive. I adopted their likes, interests and sometimes even fashion. I sunk deep into the books I would read, becoming the characters in the stories. I would retreat into their world, sometimes too deeply, making me even more of an outcast to those who didn't need fantasy worlds. I had a teacher who knew how terrible it was, I knew she cared and wanted to help but it was before "zero tolerance" days. She would write thoughtful notes in my journal and make sure I had special outings and tasks to feel special. I loved her, but I needed more. I needed someone to stand up for me and say it was wrong, but in a town as small as mine that's not possible. When my parents told me we were leaving that small town, just as I was approaching adolescence I could've wept with joy. I was so excited about the new possibilities and adventure waiting; I knew that life could be better. I wanted for my classmates to be sad I was leaving; I wanted them to show a little friendship. Instead, on my last day, my head was smashed into a brick wall as a going away present. I got up and looked around for an adult to help me, but no one was around. I walked to Nan's house that day and vowed I would never return. I haven't, except for trips to the farm and the occasional funeral. My brothers have a strange bond to the town, even though one of them was just as bullied as I. They want to live there and visit often, they don't understand my hatred.
I wish I was a good writer, I feel a strong desire to share my story though I don't think that it's novel worthy. I think I have a story that's worth sharing, even if just for someone to find hope. I'll keep it here, private, for now..I probably won't ever share it.
