Moving On From Quiet Roots

I still live within 10 minutes of where I grew up, but that will change within the next two years. I can’t wait to move somewhere new. For a long time, I believed staying close was good for my mental stability. Minimizing change while I figured out other parts of my life was helpful, but now, the familiar streets and bus stops have become painful reminders of the bullying and verbal abuse I endured in middle and high school.

When I was homeschooled, starting in kindergarten, the yellow school bus symbolized everything I missed. After some time, I rode one on a 4-H field trip, only to find it stifling and uncomfortable. Later, when I started public school in middle school, the bus became my afternoon ordeal. One boy constantly yelled racist slurs at the driver and landscapers. I remember thinking, “Doesn’t he know these are untrue and wrong?” Years later, I asked him about it, and he blamed struggles at home and mental health, which felt like no excuse. While he bullied from a distance, another boy behind me started his own torment.

His version of bullying seemed mild at first—mostly curse words and giggles when I looked uncomfortable. He went to high school after a year. I thought things would improve, but the next two years were worse. Four core tormentors picked up on my strong startle reflex. They crawled under seats and jumped out at me. I avoided the bathrooms at school, so with a full bladder, their antics almost made me wet myself. They hurled mean comments and mocked my reactions. I tried to sit behind the driver, but they objected to my moving seats. My dad spoke to one boy’s parents, but it made little difference. One bully complained about yard work as punishment, but nothing changed. It all culminated when I ended up with gum in my hair that my mom had to cut out, and I cried and begged her to drive me. My parents wouldn’t; instead, they talked to the bus route supervisor, who got on the bus and talked to everyone. The girl who had put the gum in my hair rolled her eyes, and nothing changed. I had told my parents that going to the bus route supervisor wouldn’t change anything because they didn’t respect either the supervisor or the bus driver.

I endured the rest of the bullying until they went off to high school, and then there was someone else to take over, who was less cruel, a girl in my 8th-grade year who only made a few comments my way. I was terrified of having to ride the bus home with them. I asked a lot of questions about riding the bus home and what it would be like. turned out, they both had football practice and never took the bus. It felt like a pile of bricks had been lifted off my chest. In high school, the only people who were interested in throwing the occasional barb my way were the nerds I took classes with, and that was much easier than what the middle school bus had been. I did hate that he was praised for being a football player, and I remember his banner hanging in the cafeteria. It felt like he was intruding on my meal time, and I just wanted him to go away.

I don’t talk a lot about the bullying I experienced in middle school and how traumatic it was because it wasn’t physically violent. They never touched me, but it left scars. For the longest time, when I was in high school, I was terrified of seeing them in the hallways or running if they did take the bus. I did not want them to restart their campaign of terror because I didn’t have a good retort. Mr. T., my 6th-grade principal, explained that if someone responded violently to harassment, they would be expelled, regardless of whether they were not the instigator. It’s only recently, as I prepare to turn thirty-one with more grey hairs sprouting as the months pass, that I realize how traumatic that period was. If I hear a speech pattern that reminds me of that experience or see a facial expression, it feels as if I’ve been hooked up to a live wire, and I have to escape.

There have been other bullying instances throughout the years when it comes to my disability, but none as formative or traumatic as this one. I bring this up because I sometimes wonder, if I’d had a disability and I could have told them you’re bullying a disabled person, would they have stopped? I don’t think so, but sometimes I think people respect a clear label more. It was so painful because I tried so hard to fit in during middle school, but it never felt like enough. I was never thin enough, wearing the correct clothes, and I couldn’t understand why they had picked me to torment. Now I look back at those experiences with an older, wiser set of eyes.

I don’t excuse their cruelty, but I know now the home lives of at least two of them were not going well at all. I wonder about the other two who were brothers, what, if any, internal or other battles were they fighting at the time that picking one of me momentarily alleviated? I also want to share my experiences because bullying leaves marks that can last for a long time. Just because someone is acting oddly, like I know I did, it doesn’t mean they aren’t disabled. I also want to encourage parents to listen to their child. If they are begging to be driven to school, driving them is not the end of the world. Talking to the parents of bullies rarely, if ever, makes a dent in the bully’s behavior. If the bully had involved, empathetic, and healthy parents, the likelihood of becoming a bully in the first place would be much lower.

Talking about it is also something I have avoided because admitting it still affects me would have meant acknowledging that ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away, and I was hoping that ignoring it would mean it would go away, so I could move on and not have to deal with it at all. The irony is that I’m aware of the therapy lesson of not dealing with something, and it bursts to the surface. I genuinely hope that they have all moved forward in positive directions and are happy. It shouldn’t have taken this long for me to reach a point where I’ve forgiven them and made peace with this experience, but I’m here now. Go in peace.