The remaining scars

I survived middle school.
I had fun in high school.
I am now in college.

The years of middle school that I existed in could not be considered the best conditions for a human being to live. There is a limit to the amount of torture that an unstable, hormonal female can psychologically handle. Past that limit is where things become dangerous.

My experience in middle school did not leave any physical scars, but instead left a deep emotional/psychological scar on my being. It has taken years to repair this scar and I am unsure if I will ever fully heal.


When I entered middle school, I was abandoned by my few elementary friends. Everyone knew what group/clique they belonged to, and if they didn't fit, they would change themselves to fit. I never was able to become a teeny-bopper. I couldn't make myself like stuff just because everyone else liked it because it was "popular." I liked my wide and odd varieties of music. I watched television that I deemed exciting, like Nova, Animal Planet, BBC series, etc. I knew nothing about the movie stars and idols of Beverly Hills, as it was all considered useless/pointless information to me at that time.

I hated wearing clothing that was in fashion, simply because it was all uncomfortable. I liked t-shirts and jeans(still do today). Make-up and cosmetics of any type would worsen the condition of my already acne-riddled face. Perfumes and colognes made me extremely nauseous and dizzy and make me cough and sneeze.

I was very awkward, tall for my age, clothes never fit right. I had acne problems, but refused to wear cosmetics, since they only make it worse. I was very quiet and timid, unless I met a teacher I liked and would talk with them.

I could have made myself invisible if I had really wanted to, but there were some teachers that I liked, so that made it impossible. I was always raising my hand and answering questions. Even if I was wrong, I kept going.

So here I was, the tall, timid, awkward, friendless, unfashionable, "ugly," "teacher's pet," and freak. I could have just faded into the shadows, but I stood out too much already, so it was too late to be the living, unnoticeable shadow.

I tried to find people to talk with during the breaks and I searched for people to sit with during lunch. In the end, I would spend my time alone, away from other humans. I would find a quiet place away from the group and I would sit at the empty lunch table.

I found my escape in books. I would read as much as I could during those times. Even here, I could never find common ground with the other students, since I never really liked the popular books(Eragon almost made me into a book-burner). The stories temporarily took me away from the nightmare of reality, and I could have even a tiny spark of happiness.

My other escape was art. If I didn't have my books, I would be drawing. The world of art was the only thing I could control according to my will and dreams. Here I was safe.

Safety in art was only an illusion.


Being who I was, with no one at my side, I was the person everyone picked on. I never did anything to provoke anyone to start the torment, and that was what made my existence so appealing to the cannibalistic piranhas that were my peers.

When I was sitting alone, they would come up to me and talk to me in a dissenting way. They would ask me insulting questions then call me rude and impolite when I remained quiet. They would gang-up on me and surround me. It was impossible for me to escape, unless I wanted to make it worse.

They would ruin my school projects when I was doing it alone. In a group, they refused to let me have any input, and would force me into doing either the hardest parts or most of the assignment's work.

Whenever I did anything noticeable, the truth would be warped into a lie, spreading quickly as a rumor. People(mainly girls) would literally talk behind my back so that I could hear all the gossip lies that were about me. I would silently take words. I had fought back once before, but it only made the situation worse, so I learned to quietly accept defeat.

My artwork was insulted in every possible way. Because I was the one drawing, there was nothing good about my art. "Anyone can draw THAT" being the most common phrase. My art wasn't good because I wasn't popular. If they asked to see what I was drawing, I would ignore them as a silent refusal. What was the point of showing my art to people I already knew were forming insults in their corrupt diluted minds? And with this they would either call be rude and leave or take away my work, insult it for a good laugh(sometimes defacing my work) then crumple it up and hand it back to me. I refused to give up on art, but it wasn't easy...

I never took any action against those individuals that bullied me the worst. I had tried before, but it never solved anything because the system did not want to deal with some petty children and their "silly" quarrels. Bullies know how to play the system. All they needed to do was tell the adults that they "regret their actions and won't do it again," then go up to the wronged student(before the adults) and give them an empty "sorry." Then when the adults were out of sight, they then added to the sorry, "I'll get you for this."

The bullying only got worse when I took action, and now "liar" and "tattle-tale" were added to the list of things to call me.

Holding up all the burdens and pain made me very emotionally unstable, so I was prone to crying when I could no longer handle everything. The smallest things could set me off. This earned me the sophomoric title of "crybaby."
Teachers in these situations didn't help(I didn't like crying in front of my favorite teachers, so this only made it worse). They would just brush me off. I would get dumped on the guidance councilor many times. I was told that I was just crying for attention or that my tears were only crocodile tears with no pain or meaning behind them. A teacher even tried to blame my crying, and their negligence, on the possibility that I had undiagnosed autism(which I don't! I do not have autism).

I feared school. Going home was a safe haven from that hell. I would fake sick and fight fervently with my parents, begging them to not take me to school, pleading, crying, screaming, locking myself inside my bedroom... Anything to avoid going there.

I couldn't tell my parents everything that happened at school. If I told them every single bad thing; they would take action and the bullies would only come after me worse than ever before.


Over time, my self-worth diminished. My small life became pointless in my own mind. I began to hate myself, and the negative feelings only fed themselves. Eventually my will collapsed...


There is so much more to this story(along with the damage I fight on a day to day basis), but I have forcibly buried much of those memories in my mind.

Looking back on what is written, it might seem overly dramatic to some people that simple words and actions can create so much pain and suffering, but this is not a drama, it is not fiction, it is not just something that is made up. This is my life. My story is just one in the sea of lives that are impacted by bullying.

Whether it be physical or psychological, bullying will permanently change a person's life, they will never look at the world with the same eyes ever again. The only thing that can save these people is compassion and taking action. Standing by and just watching is no different than being the actual bully.

Being an outcast and getting bullied hurts. Words hurt. Solitude hurts. I know.

Music of the Storm

As I listen to the rain tapping on my window and feeling the thunder in my ribs, I feel at ease. I wonder if anyone else listens to the storms the same way I do, seeing them as a beauty instead of a hindrance or inconvenience... Of course, being out in the storm makes my heart beat faster and I feel anxious since I know of the dangers and I feel the dangers. The dead stillness of the air, the strange light, the clouds that move to quickly cover the sky, it is instinctively a bad situation to be stuck in. Running for shelter is not logical, it is instinctive self-preservation, but there are many people that seem to be unaware of the signs and cannot see the oncoming storm.

Strange and stranger

So I did this test to see what my writing is like, and it said that I'm like William Gibson.
I've never heard of the man before, but now I want to read some of his books.

I write like
William Gibson

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Anyways, I need to talk a bit about my art.
This summer, I had to sit back and do a reality check. For the longest time, I've been good at mimicking the art styles of others. I worked on self-reflection and finally started to realize my own style.
My art seems to have improved considerably and I like it more. I guess one of my strengths is that I enjoy making backgrounds. I also believe in the complex use of colour.

I hope I continue to improve.

Why I Don't Watch Show Psychics

So there was a psychic visiting the campus today, and I thought about going to see him, but then I remembered previous experiences I've had and realized that it was better not to go.

It's not just psychics, but hypnotists, ghost hunters, etc that throw-off the balance of my mind and make it hard for me to sleep at night, and live performances are worst than television. Something about these experiences make my instincts go crazy and make it difficult to sleep at night.

I'm not sure what it is, but it just doesn't settle well with me and I start to get upset for no reason. It's not that I have anything against psychics, hypnotists, and the like(especially since I people close to me that might fall into one of the aforementioned categories), but using those abilities on strangers and/or receiving money for the abilities always makes me dubious.

I guess the only way to describe it would be to say that I have some sort of phobia of these people and go into the fight/flight response; my heart starts to race, breath faster, palms get sweaty... I feel like running away and crying for no reason. I would probably start crying for no reason if a psychic wanted to read anything about me.

I feel so pathetic. I am the girl who picks up live spiders and snakes, loves the dark, and absolutely adores heights and is afraid of psychics and hypnotists. It is so strange to have this fear, but I guess I'll just live with it for now.