Crisis

In my time reading blogs, I've heard of families being referred to as 'in crisis', and I never really understood what it meant, how one day someone could be blogging about going to the park with their kids, and the next day a friend was posting to ask for prayers because that very same family was 'in crisis'.  How did crises just come out of the woodwork like that?

I might have never understood... if I hadn't experienced crisis myself.  I know all too well what those words mean now.

Being in crisis is when, one moment, it seems like things are under control, it'll all be okay, you're smiling and making memories... and in the blink of an eye, your entire world is turned upside down.  Suddenly you're faced with a series of choices, and none of them are ones you want to make.  All you want is to go back to that time a day, an hour ago, when you were laughing and smiling.  All you want is for the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach to go away, to go back to being who you were Before Crisis.  But you can't, because crisis is here, and it's not going away as quickly or as easily as it came on.

Being in crisis is taking this photo:

...and only days later, looking in the mirror and seeing this:

...you're thinking, is that really the same person I was a few days ago?

No.  It's not.  Because you're never the same once crisis hits.  It's much like grief - you go through stages.  First you're sad and despondent, like I was when that picture was taken.  Then you're angry, like I was when I finally got around to destroying a couple of expired car seats that had been sitting around for a while today. Then there's this glimmer of hope, and suddenly you feel a need to be productive, to feel like you're doing something to remedy the crisis.  Then... well, I don't know what comes next, because I haven't gotten there yet.

Crisis means waking up in the morning, if you're lucky and had a dreamless sleep, having that tiny moment where you don't remember you're in crisis.  Then it hits you, and it's like someone dropped a huge weight on you.  All the joy has gone out of the new day.  All you feel is more pain, more sadness, more anger, more fear.

You don't want to get out of bed, or off the couch, or wherever you finally managed to fall asleep.  All you want to do is lie there and cry.  Or maybe the tears have dried up, you cried them all, and now all you can do is stare, eyes devoid of anything but pain.  Your head is pounding with a tension headache and your stomach is churning just remembering everything you've been through.  The only thing that eventually gets you up is the need to remedy those things.

You're not hungry for breakfast.  If you force yourself to eat, it's only to eradicate that gnawing hunger in your stomach, one more thing to add to your list of stress-related ailments.  Then, you don't know what to do.  Sometimes you spend the whole day in bed, or on the couch.  Sometimes you listen to music, finding peace and understanding in the lyrics.  Sometimes you write, like I am now, so that others might understand just what it is to be in crisis.  But never, ever, at any moment, does the pain subside.  It is always there, always a dominant force in your mind, the crisis, the pain, the fear.  Sometimes you just stop being able to function for a while.  The crisis has stopped your world from spinning.  You wonder how people keep going about their lives, not realizing that the earth has shifted off its axis and turned upside down?

Other people, for that matter, are a whole different battle.  If they've never been in crisis, they don't know what you're going through.  They probably don't know what to say.  If you're in the type of crisis I am right now, you can't always say exactly what's going on or why you feel the way you do.  When you do talk about it, it makes people uncomfortable.  They can't think of the right words, so they stay silent, and you feel more alone than ever.  My crisis.  My pain.  My problem.  Everyone else's lives are moving on, while mine is at a heartwrenching standstill.  To those of you who might fall into this category, who want to offer comfort but don't know what to say - there are no magic words.  Nothing you can say will fix it.  But sometimes, a simple hug, a 'we're praying for you', or 'I'm sorry you're going through this' or 'Let me know if you need anything/need to talk', or even just a 'like' on a facebook post to let the person in crisis know someone hears their cries of pain, makes all the difference.  Sure, you can't fix the crisis, but you can let that person know they don't have to go through it alone.

If you're lucky, like I am, you have a few people in your life who do this without hesitation.  Who call the moment they hear of the crisis, who say over and over, "I wish there was something I could do...", who ask you how you're doing, who tell you they're thinking of you and praying for you.  If you're really lucky, like I am, you have a few friends who go above and beyond to make your time of crisis easier.  A family member who is dealing with the same painful emotions you are, sitting down to talk and letting you know that you're not alone in your pain.  A thoughtful friend bringing over pizza, pop, and a fruity drink at midnight when you've been crying all day, just to turn your night into something a little more positive.  Knowing that a friend truly cares about you, your pain, and your crisis, that they're willing to walk the road with you.  A friend coming over after the kids are in bed to help get you doing something productive, give you someone to talk to.   Friend, if you're reading this, you know who you are.

Even a simple "what's going on?" to let someone know you care... makes all the difference.  If you have advice, if you know something and offer it up, it can truly lift a huge load off someone's shoulders.  Again, friends, you know who you are.

Crisis sucks.  There's no two ways around it.  It sucks.  Whatever it is you're facing that has your life at a standstill until it's resolved, it's no fun at all.  And silence from the people you love only makes you feel lonely and the weight of the crisis more heavy.  But there are those who will go the extra mile to be there for you in your time of crisis, and it is those people we must reach out to and say, thank you, for making me feel a little less alone than I did before.

If someone you know is in crisis, chances are, you don't know what to say (unless you've been there yourself).  Say it anyways.  It doesn't matter what you say - it matters that you say it.  And it's those words of love and encouragement that move people on to a stage that can see them through the rest of the crisis:  Hope.

Yes, our little patchwork family is in crisis now.  I can't see the end of the tunnel, I don't know how it will turn out, and I still cycle through those phases.  My heart is still breaking every moment.  No, I can't always share the details, especially in public.  But I need you.  Every single one of you reading this, what you think is beyond your ability is actually just within your reach.  No, you can't fix the crisis, but you can share the load. Whether it's me or someone else, reach out.  Those of you who have reached out to me mean the world to me.  I can't even put it into words.  Every prayer, every hug, every 'how are you', makes that load little lighter.  And to those of you who have done that for us, this is my thanks to you.  I don't know where we'd be without you.  I hope none of you are ever faced with crisis, but if you are, please know that I will be there for you the way you have been there for me.  And somehow... we will all see the end of this crisis.

Ellfant and I are waiting for you, baby.  Until you come home.  As long as it takes.  Love, 'Kai'.

Silence?

First of all, today's post has very little to do with adoption or orphans.  For that I apologize.  However, it is similarly important and it is a piece of the puzzle of who I am.  Let me also put a language warning on it, only for language used as necessary to illustrate the truth I am trying to convey.

Today was the National Day of Silence, honoring the lives of children and teens who have taken their own lives due to bullying.  The Day of Silence started out as an LGBTQ issue, because young people were being treated so poorly due to their sexuality that they were taking their own lives in great number.  And regardless of how we feel about the issues of homosexuality or suicide, we as Christians and we as Human Beings should be incensed by the way these children were treated, heartbroken by the desperation they must have felt that led them to take their own lives, and grieved for the loved ones they left behind, and for what could have been.

The Day of Silence has now turned into a campaign against ALL bullying.  We've all heard the taunts.  Fatty.  Crybaby.  Mama's boy.  Sissy.  Four eyes.  Metal mouth.  Freak.  Homo.  Today, the taunts are getting worse.  Our kids, unfortunately, are learning words beyond their comprehension, and using them.  Bitch.  Slut.  Whore.  Douche-bag.  Any number of racial insults ranging from offensive to completely inappropriate.  C*nt.  Retard.  If I tried to list them all, this would be the longest post I'd ever written, and that's saying something.

But here's the thing.  If we've all heard those words thrown around in our schools, our neighborhoods, maybe even our homes... someone is saying them.  Yet, how many adults stand up and say "I was a bully"?

Well, guess what.  I was a bully.

Now, most people who knew me growing up are staring at their computers right now like worms have suddenly begun to crawl from the screen.  Because, well... me as a child.  At maybe 10?

My mom thinks this picture is so cute.  I look at it, and I think, oh my goodness, my hair.  No wonder people teased me about it.  What was up with that swimsuit?  Even for the 90's, that was dorky for a ten-year-old.  And you can see every bone in my body!

Because, well, that's how my classmates saw me.  Because I was that kid.  The geeky awkward one.  So, right now, they're thinking, what's she talking about, saying she was a bully?  But I was.

You see, just because I was bullied, doesn't mean that I wasn't a bully.  There was a reason, certainly.  I bullied others to shift the focus off myself.  I heaped on the insults just so nobody would turn them back on me.

So think back.  Most of us can say we were bullied at some point, but were you ever a bully?  Did you ever call someone a name?  Make them cry?  Exclude them?  Humiliate them?  Make them feel uncomfortable and unwelcome in their own home, school or neighborhood?

I did.

Before I get into what was done to me, I would like to admit what I did.

I started school with that childlike innocence that heartbreakingly fades away with time.  I didn't understand why people would be mean to each other.  As I got older though, I learned that there were rules, politics, social conventions, to this thing called school, to this thing called friendship.  In third grade I accused a few friends of being "Boy crazy".  I don't think they minded - but would they have told me if they did?  I secretly laughed with my friends at recess at the overly large boy in our class.  I joked, in front of others, about someone I considered a friend, that she was so small I could fit her in my backpack.  She was not pleased.

In fourth grade, as the cruelty directed toward me grew, so did my own.  Some friends and I used to call one girl a "giant blueberry" every time she wore blue, because she was overweight.  There was a child in our class with crooked ears, and thus, crooked glasses, who wore the same stained white T-shirt to school every day and had an unmistakable odor about him.  We joked about the smelly kid and referred to dirty spots on the carpet as "stink spots" attributable to that child.  The worst of all was the boy who I most closely identified with.  We called him a freak.  We said he was weird.  We spread rumors about him.  If I get into detail, I will give away too much about myself that I don't intend to divulge until later.

After that year, there was something of a transformation in me, and I began to actively resist bullying.  That doesn't mean I never slipped up.  I might have.  I don't remember.  Because you know what?  The bullies aren't the ones who remember that day they teased the fat girl... but she remembers every piercing word.

Until high school I had good examples set before me so that I was not driven to bully others.  Until a few specific incidents.  Specific people.

There was a girl who had some sort of special needs.  We didn't know what they were, or bother to find out, but we were there with everyone else laughing when she had a screaming, hand-flapping episode in the cafeteria.  Her younger brother was a bit off kilter too, and I remember inviting him to eat with us for one reason or another, but doing nothing but making fun of him the whole time.  Thank goodness that little boy had some delays that prevented him from understanding just how cruel we were being.  By high school, "four eyes" just doesn't cut it anymore.  The insults get meaner, cut deeper, are designed specifically to get under your skin and stay there.

Then there was another girl.  Today I'd believe I've been blessed with her forgiveness.  She was suffering from what, years later, I believe was an undiagnosed psychiatric condition all through high school - but at the time, she was just "weird".  We went out of our way to torment her.  I felt bad about it.  It hurt me inside to treat her the way we did.  But I was so scared to be the victim again, after what happened in the story I will tell in a moment, that I didn't dare dissent.  I won't go into the details of what we did out of respect for her privacy, but we were needlessly cruel.

I hate myself for that.

Years later I found out that same girl had tried to kill herself and been hospitalized multiple times.  One humbling day, I found myself in the bed next to hers in the emergency room, both of us experiencing a psychiatric crisis.  And I sobbed.  Because we were the same.  And I treated her like dirt.

I hate myself for that.

Yet, as much as I do and will take responsibility for my own actions, that innocent little girl who entered Kindergarten would have never treated someone that way.  Something changed me.  Bullying changed me.  And before I begin to tell my story, I want to make it clear that I do not hold ill feelings against anyone.  Some have asked my forgiveness.  All have been forgiven.  How could I blame someone who did something that I myself just admitted to doing?

For me, it started right away, but I didn't notice.  There were friend battles and name calling in first grade.  I came home upset.  My mom spoke with the teacher.  But I just tried harder to be everyone's friend.  In second grade, after passing a gifted identification test, I earned a reputation as a nerd.  Lumped in with a few others, we were considered undesirable as the rest of our classmates started to develop 'crushes' on each other.  The first incident that stands out to me was when I liked a boy, and I told a friend whom I hoped would keep it in confidence.  Unfortunately, she had her eye on the same boy and made sure everyone knew I liked him.  I remember him coming to me away from the other students and saying "Let's just keep this between us, okay?"  I didn't know what that meant.  I thought it meant he was my secret boyfriend.  Which, of course, in second grade, means "boyfriend that I tell as many people as possible about".  So I bragged on and on... until one day he came to me again and told me he was not my boyfriend and he did not like me "like that".  The whole thing was a fairly public spectacle and I felt ashamed at having been rejected, then laughed at, because I was clearly undesirable, by the rest of my classmates.  Chink, chink.  My self esteem begun to wear away.

Third grade was a year I was initially afraid of.  Then I made a great friend who stood by me - not all the time, because, well, how many eight-year-olds girls never have a fight? - but most of the time.  She knows who she is.  I was mostly sheltered that year, but for a few tiffs with our whole 'group' of friends.  I went into fourth grade excited and ready for another year of fun.

Fourth grade.

I'll be upfront that I don't remember it all.  I think some repression has occurred.  What I have are snapshots of time.  Befores, afters, and memories that were pressed so deeply into my soul that they made a mark that lasted forever.

I was so excited.  I had most of my best friends in my class and quickly made a couple more.  That best friend from third grade wasn't in my class, but she was right across the hall.  We used to sneak into the hall and plan our bathroom breaks at the same time.

And for a while, everything was fine.  Me and my girls, four including myself, sat at the macaroni table.  It was purple.  We each had an assigned 'Spice Girl' (I was Baby) and we once had a small tiff over who got to be Sinead from B*Witched.  We had a crazy party for no reason, laughed and made memories.

Then, there was this little thing.  I was such a picky kid.  I packed my lunch.  I hated the school lunch, even the grilled cheese, even the chicken nuggets.  I packed the same thing every day.  A can of Pepsi, a Trix or Sprinklins' yogurt or applesauce, and approximately enough crackers to feed six hundred parrots.  Occasionally my mom tried to get me to eat a peanut butter sandwich, or even a half, or a half with the crusts cut off.  I loved apple blueberry babyfood, but I could hardly bring a jar of that to school, so my mom used to put it into a tupperware dish and we told people it was raspberry applesauce.  Pretty sure no one bought that story.

When I was packed something I didn't like, I shared it.  "Who wants my yogurt?"  Because I'd be in trouble if I brought it home.  My friends, of course, loved this arrangement.  I was getting packed good stuff!  And I loved it, because I was sure my mom thought I was eating those things every day (she did not.  You cannot hide things from mothers.  Do not even try.)  But after a while, I'd barely sit down to lunch before someone was asking for something out of my bag.  Outside lunch, they were distant and didn't seem to care much for me.  I started to wonder if they were only remaining friends with me to get a treat.  So I stopped handing out.

Within days, as I sat on a yellow tether-ball, the middle one (and it was a no-no.  We weren't supposed to sit on tether balls) two of the girls who sat at the macaroni table with me approached me and said "Um, we don't really want to be your friend anymore."

Part of me had seen it coming.  Part of me had hoped it wasn't true.  My heart started to break, but I refused to cry, and said "Fine, I don't need you guys anyways".  They walked away.  I sat back down on the tether ball and started to cry.  I was promptly reprimanded by a teacher for sitting on the tether ball.  I went somewhere else to cry.

That was three days before winter break.  The fourth member of our group had been absent all week.  She was my partner for a music class project.  I held onto hope through the holidays that this was just a little tiff, and that when we went back to school everything would be the same, or that she would talk sense into them, or at very least that she wouldn't abandon me.  She did.  In music class, the first day back, she informed the teacher without telling me that she would like a new partner.  I was re-partnered with The Smelly Kid.  I felt totally betrayed.

I remember very little after that.  I remember my friend in the class across the hall standing by me for a while, and how I'd linger at the lunch table until her class came in so I had someone to eat and play with.  Then I remember a day when another friend told her to pick between me and her... and they walked away from me after we left lunch and I went to the gazebo to dig in the dirt.  A few moments later, the other girl cheerfully informed me that the last person in the whole school who I felt was my friend, didn't want to be friends with me anymore.  I didn't believe the girl, and I confronted my friend myself.  I remember that she seemed conflicted and upset, hesitant.  I remember telling her she didn't have to choose.  Ultimately she told me she was still choosing the other girl.

And that was it.  My last friend was gone.

That was probably sometime in January or February.  Here, I have only a few peppered memories filled in by things others have told me.  I remember carrying a Celine Dion book to school after reading it (Titanic was in its heyday) and talking to the picture on the cover when I felt alone.  Then I remember someone noticing and teasing me about it.  I remember the names they called me.  Crybaby.  Booger picker.  Nerd.  Geek.  Weird.  Freak.  Sissy.  Retard.  More, I'm sure.  I remember asking to sit at a desk by myself so they couldn't tease me while I poured every fiber of my being into my schoolwork.  I remember swearing that I would not "go crawling back" to them, that I was fine on my own.  I remember asking for bathroom passes just to cry privately.  I remember crying silently at my desk.  I remember when someone noticed.

So much of this is hard for me to talk about.  I rarely share the details with anyone.  Only because I can hide behind my 'typeface', can I share so much now... and only because of my DBKs, who I don't want to face the same pain I did.  The next strong memory is one that stings to even write about.

I was on the safety patrol.  I worked a quiet street where the only kids who crossed were Catholic school kids.  We all walked to safety patrol together, and then everyone branched off to their posts.  One day as my partner (a quiet boy from my class), walked, another large group of classmates parted from us after teasing me to walk along the street perpendicular to ours.  As they did, they linked arms, skipped, and to the tune of "Pretty woman", sang "Ugly Katie."

I believed them.  I was ugly.  I was worthless.  I was no one's friend.  I was nothing.  I still cry writing about that day.  I don't think I even told my mom until years later.

I remember one girl from my class - to whom I need to write a letter of sincere thanks for her efforts - who tried not to pick sides.  She had her birthday party at Dairy Queen, the one with the cool video games and tokens and tickets and prizes.  The whole class was invited, even the meanest kid who I hated so much that if you look him up in my fourth grade yearbook, he's been embellished with boogers and devil horns.  I was one of the first people in the classroom the day she passed out the invitations, and she eagerly gave me one.  I was over the moon.  I was invited to a party!  No, it didn't matter to me that everyone was invited... I WAS!  I tucked the invitation securely in my desk and set to my work smiling that morning.  A few moments later, the rest of the class arrived.  The girl told them the news, about the party, about how everyone was invited, about how much fun it was going to be and how she'd already been passing out invitations.

Then... there's an image that will stick in my mind forever.  Her, standing across from the three girls who used to be my best friends.  My Spice Girls.  A hand on a hip.  An angry face.  A conflicted look on the birthday girl's face.  A sense of dread rising up inside me, knowing what was coming.  Only moments later, the girl came to me and said quietly, "The other kids say they won't come to my party if I invite you.  Can I have my invitation back, and then I'll give it to you again later in secret?"  I was hurt, though not by this girl, who I was sure was trying to do right by me, and I recognized her plight and gave the prized little postcard back.  It was Friday.  The party was Saturday.  All day I waited for her to give it back to me.  I purposely made opportunities for us to be alone.  She never gave it back.

I went home crying.  Everyone was invited except for me.  I couldn't hold it together.  My mom was furious. She offered to take me anyways, invitation or no.  She offered to speak to the girl's mother.  I refused.  I told her it would only make things worse.  While every one else ate ice cream cake and played skee ball that Saturday, I sat in my bedroom alone and cried bitterly.  That incident... is the one that will stick in my mind forever.  The moment I felt completely and utterly abandoned.

My mom tells me that I used to come home from school broken every day.  She said I would sit at the kitchen counter and stare, sometimes for hours... sometimes crying... and she would sit with me and "put me back together".  I don't remember that.  I do remember the day I came home from school so tormented that I told my mom I was never going back there and that I hated school and I would rather die than go back there.  I remember sobbing in her car.  Then I remember looking over and seeing that she was sobbing too.  She choked out "What do you want me to do?"  She'd already talked to my teacher.  I'd begged her not to let the teacher let on to my bullies that my mom had spoken to her about them.  I told her it would just make it worse.  I sobbed back, "I don't know.  I just don't want to go there".  She offered to sign me up for Catholic school (even though we are not Catholic).  I said yes.  She asked if I'd like to "talk to someone" about it (meaning a therapist).  I said yes.

I was nine.  Almost ten.  I didn't know what a therapist was.  I know I was scared when my mom took me to the hospital.  She told me that they would talk to me about what was going on at school, and that I could tell them as much or as little as I wanted.  She told me she wasn't sure if she was allowed to be with me.  I told her I wouldn't do it without her.  When I saw that therapist, in a dark room with shelves of games and books that we didn't read or play, sitting beside my mom with a box of tissues in my lap, I choked out most of the story.  Until we got to why the other kids made fun of me.  I couldn't even stand to tell the therapist that.  (I'll admit it now, hard though it still is - I was a bit indiscreet with the nose-picking.  I mean, come on, you know everyone does it, but most of them had the sense not to do it in class.  I suppose I didn't.)  She asked me if I had any friends.  I told her I had one friend... my sister... who wasn't really my sister, but who I'd known my whole life.  She was two years older than me, and because of a failed school levy, attending sixth grade in the afternoon/evening hours, her first year at the middle school.  I was feeling her drift away from me... liking strange bands and wearing strange clothes.  Because of the schedule we saw less and less of each other.  I told the therapist how that hurt.  And do you know what she said?  "Most people aren't friends forever.  People change.  She might be your friend now but you're both changing and you probably won't be friends forever."

That therapist my mom took me to, to help me, in that moment, took away my very last hope at a friend.  I sobbed bitterly and adamantly denied her words.  Not us.  We were different.  She insisted.  I don't remember the end of the appointment.  I do remember that I had a sleepover scheduled with that very same 'sister' that night and went straight to her house.  When I got there, I cried and fell into her arms and told me the things the therapist told me.  And she promised me that that lady was wrong... that she would always be my sister.  She was thirteen years old at the time... and she did more to mend my heart than someone with a Ph.D.

The next thing I remember is wanting a birthday party, so bad.  A surprise party, especially.  I had never had a surprise party.  I had been at one for my sister, but I'd never had one.  I didn't ask for a birthday party, hoping my mom was planning a surprise one.  On my birthday, April 6, I walked home, hopes mounting to find a house full of friends and family.  Instead there was just my mom, waiting at the counter with my snack, not sure why I was so upset all of the sudden.  One day a while afterwards I told her how much I'd wanted a party, and she told me she'd wanted to throw me one, but she didn't know who to invite.

And she was right.  Who would have come?

Now, as fourth graders, we had to take the all-important proficiency test.  But I was sick one day.  Something was going around.  Four or five of us were sick on the same day.  We had to make up the test in an empty classroom with teachers checking in periodically.  Some of the other students were ones who had been instrumental in ostracizing me.  When the teacher had stepped out, they audibly puzzled over a math problem.  I spoke up, thinking of being the bigger person, and said, "I think I can help you.  Try this."  And we all, across the room from each other, worked out the problem.  Cheating, yes, but compared to all I'd been through in the past four months, it just didn't seem to matter.  Then we got to talking.  I don't know how.  Someone mentioned that she didn't remember why we were fighting.  I agreed that I didn't remember either (I did.  I was lying).  She told me she thought we could be friends again and that we should talk at recess.  We did.  I don't remember what we talked about, but I do remember, as I shed a few tears of joy at having my friends back, even friends who had hurt me, one of my friends commented, "This is a Kodak moment".  And we all burst into laughter.  From then on... things were the same... and I swore that I would never do to anyone else what they did to me.  I didn't want to make anyone feel that way.  No one deserved that.

So, short-lived happiness was achieved.  Enough for a fun filled summer.  Enough that even though my mother had secured me a place in the Catholic school, I opted to stay at my home school.  As fifth grade began, I encountered a different kind of bully.  I'm not sure why, but he disliked me especially.  He was never in a good mood, didn't really like anyone, but I was one of his favorite targets.  Me, and another boy who he had decided was "gay," and "a fag".  Crybaby, crybaby, I heard every day.  But not just that.  He went out of his way to irritate me.  When I organized the pencil tray, he messed it up again.  In gym, when a friend and I were playing a hand-clapping game, he laughingly ran through the middle of our game, messing us up, calling us names, teasing us.  I was so fed up that day, I don't even remember all that he had done to me, but it must've been bad because I was not a violent child... that I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and started to hit him.  And while I did, he laughed.  Someone separated us.  I slumped down against the wall and angrily called him a vulgar name, not realizing his 'girlfriend' was sitting right next to me.  She, of course, told the gym teacher (who I'm pretty sure already didn't like me for my profound athletic inability) the whole story.  I never saw him so mad.  He was furious.  When the rest of the class was dismissed, the boy and I were held back.  He asked both our stories.  I told the truth.  The bully told him "I don't know, I was just standing there and she just started hitting me..." - he really pulled off the innocent act well.  My crimes were relayed to my teacher, who was more familiar with the antics of this bully, and I spent the rest of the day under a table sobbing, afraid that I would be suspended for fighting and swearing, afraid that my parents wouldn't like me anymore because I'd disappointed them, I wasn't their good girl anymore.

The principal was consulted.  My mom was asked to come into the school at the end of the day.  They talked without me.  Then they brought me over, and told me that in the future, if this boy was bothering me, I needed to tell a teacher instead of hitting him.  And that was it.  I wasn't suspended.  My mom didn't hate me.  In fact, when I went home, my parents told me that I would never be in trouble for defending myself against a bully... but yes- to avoid violence when possible.

The bully did not relent.  He went back to his old antics of irritating me in subtle ways, but so consistantly that I was constantly on edge.  One Friday, before Family Movie Night, he colored on my paper in art class.  I don't remember what I did, but then he called me a name, which I also don't remember.  I do remember that I told the art teacher.  I do remember that she sent him to the principal's office.  I especially remember that when he returned to class, he gave me a threatening glare and said, "You just wait until Monday."

I was so scared.  Monday.  This boy had been in fights before.  He was probably twice my size.  He'd been held back twice; he was twelve, I was ten.  I told the art teacher again.  Then I told the principal.  Then I told my mom.  Then I cowered all weekend, stomach churning when I finally returned to school on Monday.    I was in a pull-out program and so I never saw whether he was present at attendance that morning.  I was scared all day, especially on recess, where the teachers couldn't always protect me.  I confided in a boy from my pull-out enrichment program, who took karate, and he vowed to defend me at recess.  He stood by my side every minute of that recess.  Later, I found out that he'd been suspended for a day because of the threat against me.  I was scared that it would make things worse, but the boy who took karate stayed with me on recess every day that week, until I was confident that the bully wasn't coming for me.

Ultimately, that bully was expelled after a physical altercation and the very free use of the word "fag" with regards to his other favorite target.  The day I found out he wasn't coming back, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.  Like I could finally live my life outside that heavy fog of terror.  The rest of the year wasn't without the usual taunting, but it was better than before, and there was a light at the end of the tunnel:  Middle school.  A new start.  In addition, I started taking Karate toward the end of fifth grade.  It gave me confidence.  Confidence that I could defend myself if I had to.  Confidence that I had worth as a person.  Confidence that I could do something well, other than be a nerd and a crybaby.

The teasing continued throughout Middle School, but I felt so empowered that it couldn't even touch me.  I made a point to reach out to other kids who were being bullied.  I confided in teachers when I couldn't handle something myself.  Truly, it was the best time of my academic life.

Lots more unrelated stuff happened between 8th grade and high school, but I can say that I was still bullied in high school.  I was still taunted, I was occasionally threatened (once, because I stood up for a rape victim in a news story, a boy threatened to do the same to me, and though he said it in front of the entire class, the teacher did nothing.  I was legitimately scared.  And that was not the only time I was sexually harassed), and people I'd grown up with and thought of as friends, I found laughing and gossiping at my expense.  I experienced a number of nervous breakdowns.  I felt alone and friendless once more, and having grown older and learned more of the world, I thought of suicide often.  I knew girls who cut themselves.  I thought about that often.  I thought about just refusing to ever get out of bed again.  I wrote sad and angry poetry and I lost myself in my own pain, in the lack of self worth that had been instilled in me since Elementary School.  I went back to a new therapist, whom I loved.  And then I chose to act.  I chose not to be a victim.  I chose to mentor other students.  I chose to work with children.  I chose to pour myself into service of others... and I found myself again.

I'll never be that same little girl who walked through the door to Kindergarten, or even first or second grade, again.  She's gone.  All her armor chinked away, that innocent part of me died.  I still struggle with my self worth daily.  I still wonder all the time - do they really like me, or are they just pretending to be my friends, like in fourth grade?  I still wonder, who will hurt me next?  What are they saying behind my back?  What's wrong with me that made me the target?  Why am I defective?  Why am I broken?

I've forgiven every single one of the people who hurt me (intentionally or unintentionally).  I can only pray that those whom I've wronged have forgiven me.  If any of them should happen to read this, I ask for your forgiveness today, and if you're willing to share (publicly or privately - my e-mail is posted under 'about me' or you can reply - and since I moderate all comments I won't publish it by your request), your story.  Because, I still know a lot of the people I knew then.  And they don't remember things the way I do.  They don't know what happened when I went home from school every day.  They didn't know the effect of their words.  I probably didn't know the effect of mine.





I'm sorry.





Those words are so woefully inadequate.





My goal in posting this, is not only to heal by sharing my own story, but to make people realize... bullying is an epidemic.  Nobody is immune.  Anybody can be the bully, anybody can be bullied.  This affects all of us. And while a piece of me died after what I went through, today's kids are being wounded even more deeply. They are taking their own lives.  Let me tell you something.  Living a whole life - or a decade or so, whatever - believing you have no worth, no value, nothing to add to society or a relationship... it's hell.  It's a hell I survived.  It's a hell that many don't survive.  And even I can't imagine their pain.  My heart goes out to each and every one of you who was hurt by a bully - physically, emotionally, mentally, socially...

YOU DID NOT DESERVE THAT.

I tell myself these words every day.  And these ones:

THEY WERE WRONG ABOUT YOU.

And then I try to prove it.  They were wrong.  They treated me like trash.  How better to redeem myself, than to prove my own worth?  So, much like I poured myself into schoolwork when I was depressed, I now pour myself into helping people who are in situations similar to the one I found myself in.  No one deserves that.

We have to take action, guys.  This affects EVERYONE.  When your child comes home from school upset from a bully's words, please, take him seriously and reassure him of his worth.  Do what you can to change things, while respecting your child's wishes (like my wishes that the teacher not discuss the issue directly with my bullies).  That's a trust thing.  Go to the teacher privately.  Go to the principal.  Go to the school board if you have to.  Propose a new anti-bullying campaign.  BE the change.

When your child comes home from school and makes a mean comment about another student ("Joey smells!"  "Rosanna looks stupid in her glasses"), don't just think, or say, that "Kids will be kids".  Teach them.  Tell them, show them, how Joey and Rosanna feel.  How I felt.  Teach them to build up rather than tear down.  Teach them to go to that girl who sits alone at lunch and ask her, "Hi, what's your name, what do you like to do?"

My hope is that someday we will have a world where our children can go to school to learn without being afraid of raw cruelty from other students.  My hope is that no more children will die as the result of bullies.  My hope is that we can raise a generation of kids who care not just about themselves, but about each other. It might seem like an impossible goal, but since when have we, especially those of us in the adoption community, turned our backs on the "impossible"?  ($25,000?  You'll never raise that.  It's impossible.  You can't save them all you know.)  Nope.  We can't save them all.  But if we don't try, we're doomed to watch our children repeat our mistakes and our pain.  So - try anyways.  Certainly nothing will change if we don't make it so.

Blessings to all of you today.  Even those of you who hurt me.  My scars make me who I am.  The pain I felt as a child helps me guide my little ones through theirs.  I regret nothing.  But I'm determined.  This culture of bullying is going to change.  We are going to rise up as one, and end it.

Stand with me.  I know this was a day of silence, but in silence there is a message louder than speech.  Wouldn't you reply, to let me, and the world know, that we stand together in this message?

Thank you and God Bless.

Thanks be to God

Soon I will post the things I have been thinking about for weeks on end.  Soon I will write the words that have been bouncing about my mind for days upon days, hours upon hours... but today, I simply want to give thanks.  Thanks for this.

MY BABIES!  Allow me to introduce you to my dear borrowed kids, M on the left, 12 years old, and A on the right, 8 years old (and already going around telling everyone her birthday is coming up.  It's in May.  Hehe.)

Here's little man!  This is my DBK who is A's little brother, we call him AJ and he is two years old.  And SO BIG!  I can't believe how much they've grown!

My mom playing with little man.  He was giggling hysterically, one of the funniest things I ever saw.  We went to see the kids and their mom and their grandma at grandma's house today, to give them their Christmas gifts... what the kiddos don't know, is that they gave me the best gift... getting to see them.  <3  Four months of frustration and sadness... but 2012 started off on the right foot.  And I spent a blissful two hours with my babies.  I couldn't ask for more.

Finally, I'll leave you with this.  You'll love it, I promise.

Thanks be to God, for these children... and for bringing them back to me again.








*PS note:  To those of you who are having trouble posting comments, if you choose 'name/URL', all you have to do is type in your name, or a name... there is a box for a URL to your website if you have one but it doesn't need to be filled out.  There's also an option to comment as anonymous, and then you can convey who you are in your message, or just leave it anonymous.  Hope this helps :)