In 8th grade, I had a picture of a rainbow zebra on my locker. Above the picture was an original quote that I had created: “Diminish typicality, embrace individuality!” Those words were a personal maxim that I lived by every day of my middle school years. Doing so resulted in a multitude of positive things, such as happiness, triumph, creativity, and inspiring others. However, occasionally there came a downside to being the rainbow zebra. Much of the time, I was on a different wavelength than most of my peers and I had trouble relating to them, though a mutual acceptance was still present nevertheless. As we got older, it seemed, my interests, passions, and outlook on life diverged from those of my peers. But for the most part, that was okay. I learned to celebrate differences, and learn from people who were different than me.

        However, there came a point when I no longer felt safe and secure in the herd. I felt as if I was being hunted, and I feared that my spirit would soon be killed by a malicious predator. In other words, I became a victim of brutal bullying. Much of the reason why I was an easy target was because I could be rather shy and quiet, and I had no aggression whatsoever. In spite of this, I was still loved and cherished by others. It was not until 8th grade that someone spitefully trespassed upon my freewill, happiness, self-respect, and well-being, causing me to suffer mercilessly and unjustly.

        Though I knew that the bully had problems of her own, as well as a bad reputation, I still thought all of the agony I went through was a result of something I had done wrong. I felt weighed down by unnecessary guilt, sorrow, and fear, and I no longer felt like the unique and wonderful rainbow zebra—I was the weak and submissive prey who had no means of defending herself. So it was inevitable that a lion would pursue and destroy me. Hence, in 8th grade, I realized just how cruel people can be, and the toll that bullying can take on the victim.

        Why was it the weak and/or different ones who got tormented? What had I done to deserve this unbearable hell? I often wondered if, by being different, I was “asking for it” in a sense. Was standing out like holding a metal golf club up in the air during a thunderstorm? When I looked back on all of the things that the bully did and said to me, I felt small and vulnerable. I even foolishly tried to make excuses for her unjust actions. But, in the end, she had no right to treat me with such malevolence and disrespect.

        The bully would make me feel like I was worthless, and even reproach me sometimes when I innocently commented on something (that was completely unrelated to her and not offensive by any stretch of the imagination) to one of my friends. Other times, she’d do the same thing if I asked a relevant question in class if I did not understand something. The bully simply could not mind her own business and let me be me. She talked about me behind my back several times, too, though not very discreetly, like the time I heard her say that I would never get a boyfriend.

        Every day, I would dread encountering her at school, a place I had always loved. As the year progressed, the bullying continued, and towards the last few months of school, all of the torment piled up. On the 8th grade Washington trip in April, she was extremely mean to me, and I felt depressed for most of the trip. Thankfully, though, the kindness shown to me by the rest of my peers, even those whom I did not know very well, enabled me to enjoy some of the trip. I got to know a wonderful group of people, who helped me realize that I was not alone, for the bully had been mean to them as well.

        After Washington, I told my mom the full extent to which the bully’s actions were ruining my life. She already knew that the girl was an evil and terrible person, but I still had not told her all of the things the bully had done to me up until this point. Mom made the principal and teachers aware of the situation, but I still felt extremely depressed about what had happened to me. When we talked about the matter again (as we did several times after), I said that I was seriously considering leaving school more than halfway through the year because I could no longer handle being in the bully’s presence. I told Mom that if I decided to do this, then I would certainly miss all of the other people at school, but in essence I would be leaving behind one student who hated and tormented me, and 36 who didn’t quite understand me. But then Mom pointed out that I’d also be leaving behind 36 students who would miss me very much (in addition to all of the wonderful teachers).

        Strangely enough, “Love your enemy” was not the lesson I learned from this whole experience. As much as I believe in the eternal truth of those words, they weren’t what I most desperately needed to hear at this point in my life. God understands that. After all, it wasn’t the forgiveness I had trouble with. It was the healing. Do you know how hard it is to bury the hatchet when you’ve been pushed into the hole yourself? Perhaps the more easily you can heal, the easier it is to forgive. But maybe it’s the other way around. If I had the maturity, purity, and gentleness of heart to refrain from malevolently hating a sick, demented person, then I would surely have the sense of self-worth, strength, resilience, and determination to lift myself out of the dumps.     

But here’s the difficult part—I couldn’t get off the floor and brush myself off for a long time. Sometimes, I felt unjustly guilty myself, and deemed that I was just being petty or overdramatic, or that I deserved such painful torment. I realized that if any harsh treatment was driving me to the point where I no longer wanted to be alive, then it would be vital for action to be taken as soon as possible.

        But I waited much too long, letting the days and weeks and months pass by with at least some trace of lingering worry about what kind of pain I would have to endure next. Life just isn’t supposed to be that way, but much of the time, it is.

        I tried to tell myself that no one took her seriously anyways, and that I shouldn’t take it personally. While these notions were certainly true, they weren’t enough to heal the pain I felt inside. I didn’t want to make a fuss about anything, and I was worried about whatever repercussions I could face for speaking up. I know that I’m a strong person, but I should’ve figured out sooner that this situation was not one that I could handle on my own.

        It’s true that I entered 8th grade with a bit of depression inside of me, and I would never blame all of my problems on the bully. But do you know what? All of the kindness shown towards me by my family, teachers, friends, and peers helped me to cope with this initial sadness (which was caused by my grandfather dying and other matters unrelated to the bullying). But one force of evil, whether the beholder knew it or not, tried to wash all of that support and goodness away and bring me to nothing. That’s the part that really bites.

        When everything built up inside, I felt like I had to illustrate my pain. Call me “emo” if you wish, but you’re wrong. Nevertheless, it’s true that I experimented with cutting myself in 8th grade. I didn’t do it very often, and I didn’t use a great amount of pressure (and luckily there were no extremely sharp knives in the house). It was merely a slice here and there, on my arms, legs, belly, or back. For the most part, the lashes didn’t hurt, and I never bled when I cut myself. Usually, no marks showed up. But one night, after I had told my mom about the bullying problem, I had been unable to fall asleep. I still felt immense anxiousness, anxiety, and angst. So I got out of bed and crept into the kitchen. When I opened the silverware drawer, it almost seemed to be glued shut. When I finally got it open, a loud squeak followed by the clanking of silverware echoed throughout the house. I had hoped that no one had heard it. I took a knife back to my room and cut deeper than I ever had before. After looking at the cuts on my arms, I contemplated how visible they really were. Could I try to conceal them? Were they really that bad? Who was I kidding? Of course they were. What did I want? For the marks to be seen, as to display all of my anger, fear, frustration, despair, and pain? In a sense, yes. But at the same time, I did not want to face the consequences of my pathetic actions—shock and disappointment from my parents, and bearing temporary yet potent reminders of my agony.

        When I got up the next morning, I hid my hands and wrists in the pockets of my sweatpants. I felt immensely anxious and vaguely guilty, and soon I could bear it no longer—I couldn’t hide my cuts forever, or wait for them to heal. I broke down and showed Mom, drawing my hands from my pockets. She gasped in horror and concern when she saw the cuts. Surprisingly, to her disbelief as well as to mine, I burst out laughing senselessly. How had I reached such a desperate point of despair and morbidity?

        When I showed Mom the knife I had used to self-mutilate myself, she uttered a single word which resonated with so much shock and disappointment that I all but wanted to curl up in a ball and weep.

        “Emily.”

        What was wrong with me? If I myself was in utter disbelief at my brutal and ghastly actions, then why did I keep laughing like a fool? Perhaps I felt like the cutting simply needed to be done. In a sense, the scars were my battle wounds, acquired from fighting in a long and treacherous war that I longed for an end to.

        I promised that I would never cut myself again, though it was a hard promise to keep. There came a multitude of later instances when I was tempted to reach for the knife again, but I resisted the painful temptation of self-mutilation.

        I do not remember much else about that heart-wrenching morning, besides from the fact that it was Sunday and we went to Mass. Thankfully, none of the other church-goers saw my slice-laden arms, since I wore a jacket on that fairly chilly spring day.

        When I went to school, I was able to somewhat hide the cuts by wearing several bracelets and a wristband (I always loved to accessorize my school uniform). That day, my religion teacher asked me to come to the principal’s office with him for a reassuring chat. It definitely made me feel better, for now I truly knew that the teachers (as well as, obviously, the students) were on my side and wanted to protect me. In our discussion, the principal basically said that the bully unfairly took advantage of me and was informed that she was not to speak to me or come near me at all. He also said that hopefully, she would find a nice group of friends in high school so that she would no longer feel so miserable, lonely, and jealous as to bully innocent people like me. Looking back, I wished I had said more, like how I had learned this year that everyone was so nice to her, but she still failed to make real friendships because she was such a mean, despicable person.

        My rel;gion teacher, the principal, and I also broached the subject of high school. You see, I had previously decided that I was going to attend an all-girls Catholic high school called St. Bernadette's. Of course, none of my peers were going to St. Bernadette's., except for—her. This was one of the main reasons why I decided to look into another high school at the last minute—The Faith and Discovery School. It is a co-ed, interfaith, private school which places high importance on academic excellence, the arts, spiritual growth, and acceptance of all religions, ethnicities, beliefs, etc. I knew deep in my heart that The Faith and Discovery School. was the right place for me. Besides, if I ever wanted to put the past behind me, then St. Bernadette's would not be a practical choice. I guess one blessing of the bullying problem was the push it gave me to look into The Faith and Discovery School. Now, I plan to attend The Faith and Discovery School as a freshman in the fall.

        Needless to say, my friends soon noticed the slices on my arms. When they inquired about them, I said that my cat had clawed me. I wasn’t sure if they were completely convinced, but they left the matter alone and didn’t bring it up again.

        Though the cuts on my arms have long since healed, I am still left with bitter remnants of the devastating ordeal. The last two months of 8th grade was one of the hardest time periods in my life. The bully still found other ways to torture me, from pushing me out of the way when our class was rehearsing for the May Crowning, to rudely and needlessly making a scene about the fact that she wasn’t allowed to be near me. It really pissed me off whenever she drew further attention to the situation just to be spiteful, which served as a horrid reminder of all the pain I was going through. I had trouble sleeping at night, and I was continuously haunted by the memories of pain, persecution, and torment. Towards the end of the year, I made the decision to switch to the other homeroom, so we wouldn’t be in as many classes together. I stayed away from her in every way that I could, but I still could not fully escape from the wrath of her evil.

        On many days, I all but wanted to die and end my misery. At the time, I clung to death, believing that it was my only way out. But I should have been clinging to life, instead—for now I know that my soul is too precious to be destroyed by any force of evil. I slowly realized that I wasn’t meant to take the coward’s way out. True, I was afraid, I trembled, and I felt sorry for myself. Yet there came a point when I just wanted to enjoy life again and not let one insignificant little twerp ruin it for me.

        Finally, I was able to stop letting her have so much power over me. Now, although I will never be able to see even the smallest speck of goodness within her (though I have been able to with every other one of my peers), I am able to see that I no longer have to be afraid. My spirit has been set free once more, and I have learned that no one has the right or ability to truly destroy the essence of who I am. I am not the weakest zebra in the herd, but rather, the most different one, and she is not a mighty and powerful lion, but a gruesome and annoying bug that will probably be squashed someday. But if a lion ever does come along, then I will not cower in fear, but stand strong. For not only will I always have a herd I can count on, but I will also have my dignity, my faith, and my soul; entities that no one can ever take away from me.

        So, with all of this in mind, I ask, “Why would I ever want to change my stripes? I like myself just the way I am.”

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Author guidance for This work

This is an essay I wrote after being bullied in 8th grade. It was one of the most difficult times in my life, and I fell into the depths of despair. This piece is pretty dark compared to my other works, but it still has a positive messsage nevertheless.

updated Jul 17 '09 by SaveTheUnicorns