about bullying
Apr. 20th, 2010 01:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2I just read a link to a bullying story (link from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
atdt1991).
It hit really close to home. I'm sitting here thinking of the ways in which the bullying I experienced in my past echo in the present. It's like a bitter well inside of me that might never run dry. Like the author of this story, I fully expect those I meet to dislike me or not want to talk to me. I am always surprised when people want to be my friend or spend time with me. Going into any new social experience gives me the shakes.
I was a strange girl in elementary school, and I became stranger to my classmates when I changed grade levels, moving past third grade into fourth during the first month of the school year. The kids were older and taller and a little suspicious of me. I'm tall, so eventually I did manage to keep pace with the kids in my grade level, but as far as emotional maturity or social adeptness, I soon lost my footing. I managed to stay afloat through the rest of elementary school, mostly by being strange and hammy, but I made no new friends, and lost the few friendships I'd had because of the change in class.
In retrospect, I was completely unprepared for junior high school. My only sibling was an older sister was nearly seven years older than me and who was strictly forbidden from any sort of rough play or antagonistic behavior. And because I'd had so few friends and was so socially stunted, I was swallowed whole by junior high school. My home life was rule-oriented, so I was ready for rules, and even though I chafed against them, I understood them and wanted to follow them.
It mystified me when people broke rules or did antagonistic things toward each other. I had been taught not to hit or hurt, and to feel empathy toward those who had been hit or hurt, so junior high school was a horrible new world for me. I was introverted and moody, and I thought about strange things and wore strange clothes. I was definitely a target from the start.
What probably made me so entertaining was my over-the-top reactions. I'm sure I was amusing as hell. I gasp pretty loudly, and my face shows my emotions really well, and hurt comes through like a beacon. I'd get angry, too, but just could not get past the Do Not Hit rule, which made my impotent fury all the more entertaining, I'm certain. It was easy to get a rise out of me.
I made a couple friends, including a sad sack I felt sorry for, and it was one of the bitterest flavors in the well when she turned on me and used her mocking of me to secure herself a higher position on the social ladder.
The teasing was unending. The tormentors were sometimes complete strangers--kids I didn't even share a class with and who weren't even friends of the usual bullies. I was tripped. Things were stolen from me. I can even remember which things, all this time later. Gloves. Books. A Swiss army knife which was given to me by my father.
The bus was the worst. When the bell rang, I would grab my things and run, as fast as I could, to the bus, so I could sit behind the bus driver. It lessened their ability to mess with me. I learned this strategy the hard way, after having to tear a huge chunk of my hair out of my head because someone had put gum in it and I couldn't bear the feel of it flopping around. I still wonder what the bus driver thought when she found it on the floor.
The morning ride was much worse, actually, because I was on the second-to-last stop. And no one wanted me to sit next to them. I would get kicked off seats. I'd try to sit down in the aisle and the bus driver would demand I sit down on a seat, but wouldn't help when I was repeatedly kicked off. Once in a while someone would take pity on me, but it wasn't often.
I hated school. My grades suffered. In one class I sat in front of a kid who was a hoodlum, basically, and he made things horrible for me. And he made things horrible for the teacher, too, actually. He must have been held back, because he was at least two years older than me. I went up to the teacher after class one day and asked him if I could punch the hoodlum. The teacher said yes.
The next day, the hoodlum did something nasty, and I nearly did it. But I could not get past the fact that you Do Not Hit. And, staring the hoodlum in the eye, I saw how much worse it could get. How my life could be even more of a living hell than it already was. After class, the teacher rescinded permission to punch him.
I was desperate for any way out of this problem. One of the teachers I confided in just told me to ignore them, that it would go away. So I did. That made it even worse. I would pretend they didn't exist, so when I got tripped I'd just get up again like a robot and keep going. This was even more amusing than me shouting or insulting them, which I'd done a little of up until that point. So yeah, it got worse. And because I'd been given this strategy by a teacher, I couldn't fathom why it wasn't working, and I just kept trying to ignore them.
The last half of my eighth grade was the worst time of my life. I wanted to escape so badly. I withdrew completely. It felt like I was behind a waterfall, like I couldn't feel things properly any longer. I daydreamed about killing myself. I remember going into the ninth grade planning session and not caring, because I didn't think I'd be alive for it. I couldn't even imagine going through another year of that torture. My only problem was that I just couldn't figure out how to kill myself properly. I was terrified that it would go wrong.
My mom and dad were in the midst of their own worries, and I don't think they fully understood what was going on at first. Maybe they still don't, I don't know. I think my mom had been bullied, however, and even though they couldn't afford it, she took action and sent me to a private high school for my ninth grade year.
I will always be grateful for that, but not in the way you might think.
You see, this high school had a marching band. And you had to show up two weeks early for marching band practice (before school even started). So I did.
By the end of the first week, I was getting teased.
By the end of the second week, I was getting bullied.
Not one kid from my junior high school was there.
I had always assumed that it was the bullies. I always assumed it was their fault. That they were evil, sadistic little bastards and that I just needed to get away from them for my life to be perfect. I blamed them for every little evil action they took, for the horrible hopeless life I was living, for the bald patch on my head where I'd yanked out that hair.
When I came home that second weekend, it felt like I was waking up and really seeing myself. And I realized that I wasn't just a victim, I was acting like a victim. My reactions were so comical, my social skills so awful and awkward, and it all conspired to make me a beautiful target.
I spent the entire weekend coming to the realization that it wasn't the bullies, it was me. I had inspired this reaction in them. I had caused my own bullying somehow. They weren't blameless, not by a long shot, but they certainly weren't the full origin of my suffering. I'd made it myself with my own two hands. And it hurt to realize this.
I came to high school and I changed myself. I made myself ham it up, poke fun at things, laugh, anything. I forced myself to talk to people. I consciously became the Oddball, who is funny and goofy and strange. I did end up with a little teasing and a little bullying but it was nothing compared to what I'd gone through before. And by the end of senior year, I had friends (best friends, even) and I was sad to see high school end.
Of course, this is sounding pretty triumphant right now.
Nowadays, though, I see it as a mixed bag. On one hand, I adapted and made myself into someone more socially acceptable in order to protect myself. But on the other, that bitter well still flows inside of me. It's full of poison that I can only dilute a cup at a time, if that.
I went to a party several years ago, and met a bunch of new people. At one point I was introduced to a guy, and he made a crude joke about me within the first few lines of conversation. I think that most people would find him rude and offensive and just blow it off and forget about it within minutes, but I was horrified and stood there, frozen in shock for a split second, scared that even being an adult was no protection against this. Later, I dated a friend of his, who insisted that the guy was a complete sweetheart who would give the shirt off his back to anyone who needed it.
For me, though, it was predator and prey, all over again, looking into the tiger's eye and shrinking in fear. I know--my gloves weren't stolen, I wasn't punched in the stomach in front of people, and I wasn't on the floor with all of my books and papers spread out everywhere with people walking all over them and laughing. But it was enough to take me directly back to that time, to feel it like a jolt of electricity through my spine.
Some things never change. I feel things too deeply, I crave acceptance too much, and I'm scared of other people, of their power. There are things you forget, and things you can't forget. I read the linked entry and could not help but remember feeling those things, and remember being so thoroughly miserable, and I understand only too well what she's talking about.
Unlike the author, though, my bullies were not so easily targeted. It wasn't a trio of identifiable girls. There were lots of them, and I don't remember most of their names, nor even their faces. And if they apologized? I don't know if it would even matter like it did for the author. I don't remember what was said; it's really not even individual events or people. It's about the echoes that I still feel from it, the way that I want to protect myself, how I get scared about going into new social situations. How this sort of thing does make one stronger, in a way, but also leaves one more vulnerable in other ways.
My first job after high school was at a Wal-mart-style store. One of my old tormentors began to work there as part of the cleaning crew, and after a few weeks, I could sense that he was working up to making fun of me. Eventually he did, calling me one of the old names he'd used in junior high school.
I turned to him and said, "Well, at least I'm not a janitor."
You may see this as a triumph, but I do not. You see, standing next to him was a guy who was a sweetheart, who had asked me out for a date at one point. Who was also a janitor.
Um. This is not meant as a Poor Me thing. I am trying to deal with this and understand it better, and it always helps to write it out, and share it. Especially because oftentimes people have similar stories, and to share just makes it feel more bearable. So please don't feel like you need to send me virtual hugs or anything like that. I just want to process this and think about it.
atdt1991).It hit really close to home. I'm sitting here thinking of the ways in which the bullying I experienced in my past echo in the present. It's like a bitter well inside of me that might never run dry. Like the author of this story, I fully expect those I meet to dislike me or not want to talk to me. I am always surprised when people want to be my friend or spend time with me. Going into any new social experience gives me the shakes.
I was a strange girl in elementary school, and I became stranger to my classmates when I changed grade levels, moving past third grade into fourth during the first month of the school year. The kids were older and taller and a little suspicious of me. I'm tall, so eventually I did manage to keep pace with the kids in my grade level, but as far as emotional maturity or social adeptness, I soon lost my footing. I managed to stay afloat through the rest of elementary school, mostly by being strange and hammy, but I made no new friends, and lost the few friendships I'd had because of the change in class.
In retrospect, I was completely unprepared for junior high school. My only sibling was an older sister was nearly seven years older than me and who was strictly forbidden from any sort of rough play or antagonistic behavior. And because I'd had so few friends and was so socially stunted, I was swallowed whole by junior high school. My home life was rule-oriented, so I was ready for rules, and even though I chafed against them, I understood them and wanted to follow them.
It mystified me when people broke rules or did antagonistic things toward each other. I had been taught not to hit or hurt, and to feel empathy toward those who had been hit or hurt, so junior high school was a horrible new world for me. I was introverted and moody, and I thought about strange things and wore strange clothes. I was definitely a target from the start.
What probably made me so entertaining was my over-the-top reactions. I'm sure I was amusing as hell. I gasp pretty loudly, and my face shows my emotions really well, and hurt comes through like a beacon. I'd get angry, too, but just could not get past the Do Not Hit rule, which made my impotent fury all the more entertaining, I'm certain. It was easy to get a rise out of me.
I made a couple friends, including a sad sack I felt sorry for, and it was one of the bitterest flavors in the well when she turned on me and used her mocking of me to secure herself a higher position on the social ladder.
The teasing was unending. The tormentors were sometimes complete strangers--kids I didn't even share a class with and who weren't even friends of the usual bullies. I was tripped. Things were stolen from me. I can even remember which things, all this time later. Gloves. Books. A Swiss army knife which was given to me by my father.
The bus was the worst. When the bell rang, I would grab my things and run, as fast as I could, to the bus, so I could sit behind the bus driver. It lessened their ability to mess with me. I learned this strategy the hard way, after having to tear a huge chunk of my hair out of my head because someone had put gum in it and I couldn't bear the feel of it flopping around. I still wonder what the bus driver thought when she found it on the floor.
The morning ride was much worse, actually, because I was on the second-to-last stop. And no one wanted me to sit next to them. I would get kicked off seats. I'd try to sit down in the aisle and the bus driver would demand I sit down on a seat, but wouldn't help when I was repeatedly kicked off. Once in a while someone would take pity on me, but it wasn't often.
I hated school. My grades suffered. In one class I sat in front of a kid who was a hoodlum, basically, and he made things horrible for me. And he made things horrible for the teacher, too, actually. He must have been held back, because he was at least two years older than me. I went up to the teacher after class one day and asked him if I could punch the hoodlum. The teacher said yes.
The next day, the hoodlum did something nasty, and I nearly did it. But I could not get past the fact that you Do Not Hit. And, staring the hoodlum in the eye, I saw how much worse it could get. How my life could be even more of a living hell than it already was. After class, the teacher rescinded permission to punch him.
I was desperate for any way out of this problem. One of the teachers I confided in just told me to ignore them, that it would go away. So I did. That made it even worse. I would pretend they didn't exist, so when I got tripped I'd just get up again like a robot and keep going. This was even more amusing than me shouting or insulting them, which I'd done a little of up until that point. So yeah, it got worse. And because I'd been given this strategy by a teacher, I couldn't fathom why it wasn't working, and I just kept trying to ignore them.
The last half of my eighth grade was the worst time of my life. I wanted to escape so badly. I withdrew completely. It felt like I was behind a waterfall, like I couldn't feel things properly any longer. I daydreamed about killing myself. I remember going into the ninth grade planning session and not caring, because I didn't think I'd be alive for it. I couldn't even imagine going through another year of that torture. My only problem was that I just couldn't figure out how to kill myself properly. I was terrified that it would go wrong.
My mom and dad were in the midst of their own worries, and I don't think they fully understood what was going on at first. Maybe they still don't, I don't know. I think my mom had been bullied, however, and even though they couldn't afford it, she took action and sent me to a private high school for my ninth grade year.
I will always be grateful for that, but not in the way you might think.
You see, this high school had a marching band. And you had to show up two weeks early for marching band practice (before school even started). So I did.
By the end of the first week, I was getting teased.
By the end of the second week, I was getting bullied.
Not one kid from my junior high school was there.
I had always assumed that it was the bullies. I always assumed it was their fault. That they were evil, sadistic little bastards and that I just needed to get away from them for my life to be perfect. I blamed them for every little evil action they took, for the horrible hopeless life I was living, for the bald patch on my head where I'd yanked out that hair.
When I came home that second weekend, it felt like I was waking up and really seeing myself. And I realized that I wasn't just a victim, I was acting like a victim. My reactions were so comical, my social skills so awful and awkward, and it all conspired to make me a beautiful target.
I spent the entire weekend coming to the realization that it wasn't the bullies, it was me. I had inspired this reaction in them. I had caused my own bullying somehow. They weren't blameless, not by a long shot, but they certainly weren't the full origin of my suffering. I'd made it myself with my own two hands. And it hurt to realize this.
I came to high school and I changed myself. I made myself ham it up, poke fun at things, laugh, anything. I forced myself to talk to people. I consciously became the Oddball, who is funny and goofy and strange. I did end up with a little teasing and a little bullying but it was nothing compared to what I'd gone through before. And by the end of senior year, I had friends (best friends, even) and I was sad to see high school end.
Of course, this is sounding pretty triumphant right now.
Nowadays, though, I see it as a mixed bag. On one hand, I adapted and made myself into someone more socially acceptable in order to protect myself. But on the other, that bitter well still flows inside of me. It's full of poison that I can only dilute a cup at a time, if that.
I went to a party several years ago, and met a bunch of new people. At one point I was introduced to a guy, and he made a crude joke about me within the first few lines of conversation. I think that most people would find him rude and offensive and just blow it off and forget about it within minutes, but I was horrified and stood there, frozen in shock for a split second, scared that even being an adult was no protection against this. Later, I dated a friend of his, who insisted that the guy was a complete sweetheart who would give the shirt off his back to anyone who needed it.
For me, though, it was predator and prey, all over again, looking into the tiger's eye and shrinking in fear. I know--my gloves weren't stolen, I wasn't punched in the stomach in front of people, and I wasn't on the floor with all of my books and papers spread out everywhere with people walking all over them and laughing. But it was enough to take me directly back to that time, to feel it like a jolt of electricity through my spine.
Some things never change. I feel things too deeply, I crave acceptance too much, and I'm scared of other people, of their power. There are things you forget, and things you can't forget. I read the linked entry and could not help but remember feeling those things, and remember being so thoroughly miserable, and I understand only too well what she's talking about.
Unlike the author, though, my bullies were not so easily targeted. It wasn't a trio of identifiable girls. There were lots of them, and I don't remember most of their names, nor even their faces. And if they apologized? I don't know if it would even matter like it did for the author. I don't remember what was said; it's really not even individual events or people. It's about the echoes that I still feel from it, the way that I want to protect myself, how I get scared about going into new social situations. How this sort of thing does make one stronger, in a way, but also leaves one more vulnerable in other ways.
My first job after high school was at a Wal-mart-style store. One of my old tormentors began to work there as part of the cleaning crew, and after a few weeks, I could sense that he was working up to making fun of me. Eventually he did, calling me one of the old names he'd used in junior high school.
I turned to him and said, "Well, at least I'm not a janitor."
You may see this as a triumph, but I do not. You see, standing next to him was a guy who was a sweetheart, who had asked me out for a date at one point. Who was also a janitor.
Um. This is not meant as a Poor Me thing. I am trying to deal with this and understand it better, and it always helps to write it out, and share it. Especially because oftentimes people have similar stories, and to share just makes it feel more bearable. So please don't feel like you need to send me virtual hugs or anything like that. I just want to process this and think about it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-20 05:30 pm (UTC)I think I would become a hysterical crazy person if I knew my kids had to go through what I went through. It wasn't that bad, honestly, especially considering horror stories I've heard from other people, but still.
Good luck, sweetie. And if you find strategies that work, I really hope you'll share them with us!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-20 05:40 pm (UTC)My sister heard this story and was concerned. She said, "Do you remember how Bobby G. used to bully people in my class?" Of course, I did not. The two boys this bigger kid picked on the most? One is a doctor and one is a rabbi, both happily married with kids. Bobby G.? He's dead. He got messed up with drugs. Bullies are miserable human beings. Not that the choice is between becoming like Bobby G., who was maybe doomed to misery, and these small but successful men.
I want to write a fictionalized version of Bobby's story, some time. his father was a Holocaust survivor and a kosher butcher.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-20 05:57 pm (UTC)See, for me it's exactly what you're saying--there is a line between assertiveness and...well, selfishness, and jerkish behavior. I find that line difficult to find, and I often stay waaay on the passive side just so I'm not a jerk.
(And thank you--you're so sweet.)
Bullies are miserable human beings. Not that the choice is between becoming like Bobby G., who was maybe doomed to misery, and these small but successful men.
Yeah, I often wonder how the bullies feel about the bullying--whether they ultimately transcend it and feel bad, or if they take a walk into darkness. People really are so variable. I can see that if I had gone a different route, I might have bullied others, myself. I just wonder how schools can stop it--and also, even more troubling, how can anyone stop texted/internet/etc. bullying? That's super frightening. I'm glad it didn't exist when I was a kid.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-20 08:34 pm (UTC)This resonates with me: there was one girl in elementary school, R___, who I'm pretty sure would identify me as one of her bullies. I remember we - my small group of the nerdy, well-behaved, generally-nice kids - tried to include her at first but she wasn't nice to us. She thought she was right about everything and got really snotty and condescending if one of us said something like "OK, that's how you played four square at your school but these are the rules we use." So we gave up trying. At the time I felt like I was just reacting to her but I realize now that she was just massively insecure and it was her defense mechanism.
So that is my excuse for being a little mean to her. For example, one time we were at the same party and she was doing her usual "I'm better than everyone" thing and I accused her of ruining the party. That was uncalled for.
But in my defense, I never went out of my way to be mean to her; I avoided her as much as possible. But other kids actively bullied her. I was aware of it but my friends and I never intervened because 1) we rarely witnessed it, we just heard about things later and 2) we were sometimes the targets of those same bullies ourselves, so we probably didn't have the ability to help even if we'd wanted to.
Partway through the year (this was 6th grade; where I went to school, 6th grade was part of elementary school), the teacher got up in front of the entire class (while R___ wasn't there) to tell us her mom had complained to the principal and we had to stop being mean to her. The teacher said that from now on, if R___ wanted to play with us at recess, we had to let her. I don't think that actually changed anything. It was pretty stupid of the adults to think that telling the kids who were bullying her (and the kids like us who were more passively excluding her) that we all had to play nicely together was going to work.
When I told my mom what the teacher said, my mom was disgusted - she said the teacher can't force everyone to be friends and that she (teacher) should tell R___ to be nicer to us, if she's going to go around telling students how to behave towards each other. My mom and R___'s mom were both classroom volunteers and they didn't like each other either, for the same reasons R___ and I didn't - R___'s mom behaved a lot like R___, with the superior, condescending thing. Plus my mom complained to me that R___'s mom smelled like mothballs, which I now see is a horrible thing to tell a child: "It's OK to shun people if they smell weird."
Things just continued that way until junior high, where our elementary school mixed with a lot of other schools and I didn't have any classes with R___ so I don't know what happened. I think she and I actually ended up going to the same university; I occasionally spotted someone from a distance who looked a lot like her. I didn't see the point in trying to contact her. I still don't know whether I owe her an apology. Maybe we both owe each other one.
I'd like to hear you all's opinions on it.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-20 08:49 pm (UTC)And this is when the teacher decided to devote a whole afternoon to a meeting about how bullying was bad. I can still remember sitting there furious about it. I don't think it had too bad a result, actually. Things just petered out and people stopped being angry at her I think. But even in sixth grade I remember thinking that we were actually the ones taking care of the bullying problem and this idiot teacher had totally the wrong end of the stick--hadn't she noticed who this girl actually was? Anyway, I'm sure it was totally humiliating for the girl anyway. I don't know why adults think it's a good idea to publically ask kids about what annoys them about another person. But in this case I remember people mostly said that she was mean to them. Basically she could be a real bully.
Anway, your story is also a bit of what I was trying to get at below. Sometimes bullies really are reacting to something that genuinely annoys them about another person that reads to them as snottiness or whatever. I feel like sometimes the two things get conflated, as if there's only the choice between a) the bully is targetting the victim for no reason and b) the victim deserves to be bullied. If people think a you get "just ignore them" if they think b you get the coach in the Jezebel story siding with the bullies. In your case it seems like the first girl could very much benefit from learning not to put people off just as other kids should have been stopped from picking on her. "Let her play with you" doesn't seem like it would go too far as a solution.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-05-04 12:51 pm (UTC)I saw a really moving 'pod' [short story] recently on CurrentTV which showed a gay man, and a recovered white-supremacist that had beat him up years before--they now both work at the Museum of Tolerance in LA.
Oooh, I found it: http://wthrockmorton.com/2009/04/16/hate-2-hope-the-story-of-tim-zaal-and-matthew-boger/
Hope you enjoy, it is pretty inspiring. Might've made me cry, too, but, y'know. ;p
*HUGS*
(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-21 12:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-21 01:06 am (UTC)Sometimes it's hard, even as adults, to identify a line that shouldn't be crossed. It's hard to tell what is appropriate or not. It's hard to figure out exactly where someone has gone wrong. I did stuff myself that could definitely qualify as bullying, or at least as catty behavior.
What you're describing doesn't sound like it requires an apology, but that's just my gut reaction. And wow, your mom. *blinks*
And dude, it's insanely stupid to try to force kids to play together. That will never work. Worse, it makes it...worse. So crazy.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-20 10:27 pm (UTC)Maybe I'm too optomistic about it, but I think that kind of bullying might actually be easier to get at and deal with than the whispered threats variety. At least it's right there in black and white, you can show it to the teachers, parents, anyone else who's supposed to deal with bullying and they can see it for what it is and take whatever actions they deem fitting. Subtle verbal bullying, otoh, can be very easy to dismiss or explain away, it's harder to prove.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-21 01:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-04-21 05:58 pm (UTC)Yeah, I hear you. There's no denying that there's plenty of negative effects, too, and the fact that there might be some positive doesn't erase that in the slightest. And yeah, plenty of kids aren't going to tell no matter what, text or no text, and are more likely to just delete all the evidence to cover it up. But I think even in those cases (in some of them, that is, because it really depends on where what is posted and who else sees it, of course) the internet might make the bullying more visible than it is in real life. If it happens on a site like facebook where everyone can see it, not just the victim and the bullies and maybe a few passerbys. Maybe it's easier for random outsiders who can see what's going on to actually intervene there? Or am I just being naïve thinking they would? I found an ad for this site at my local library the other day and it seems to be an attempt to work against cyberbullying by increasing the presence of adults who work with anti-bullying on the sites young people often frequent. I have no idea if projects like that actually help at this moment, but it seems like a nice initiative at any rate.
It's hard to read this post and the one you linked and all the comments. Interesting, but emotionally draining. I realise how lucky I was to have the mum I did, she forced me to tell her and then she dealt with it the way she could, which didn't make it go away entirely, but it definitely went a long way to make it better. So it's weird how that memory, the memory of her making me tell her, probably is the worst I have from all my school-days. Everything else I can look back upon with detatchment, no matter how humiliating it was at the time, no matter how trapped and powerless it made me feel. I was miserable and constantly uneasy even when I wasn't bullied, expecting not only rejection but betrayal, too, and I made myself invisible at expense of my grades (since part of the grade criteria was how much you talked in class). It probably still affects me to this day. But I don't feel that much remembering it.
But remembering her coming to my room, telling me she knew something was wrong and that she wouldn't leave until I'd told her what it was still makes me cry. She just sat there right in front of me and I refused to say anything, staring out the window, wishing she'd leave. We probably sat there for hours. And then I noticed that she was crying, too. Because of me. I just felt so horrible. I should be happy that she did that for me, that she had the strength and wouldn't take my silent refusal to talk for an answer. And I am, of course. But it was something so painfully shameful in admitting what was going on. And I guess I felt guilty for having made her upset, too, on top of that.