Proabled Problems: Bullying & Beyond

We all know bullying isn’t good.  I mean, that’s obvious, right??

Most of us have seen the news where a child kills themselves over being bullied.

But none of you have heard my being bullied story.

My name is Anon and this is my story.

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I’d say I was in grade 3 when it started.  I had just moved from a special needs private school, uptown, to the small, quaint elementary school, downtown.  I was new; fresh meat, people call it.  I was also proabled and required a support worker who was with me at all times.  I was in the proabled classroom for the morning and in the mainstream classes for the other half of the day.

I thought I made friends with a girl named Melanie.  I was dead wrong.  I don’t remember much, but I recall being in the bathroom with her (due to the bathroom buddies system) and her taunting me.  I remember feeling completely helpless.  I was alone, me and her.  I remember pulling my arm back, ready to punch.

But I was never a violent child.  I only behaved badly when I was treated poorly.

I didn’t punch Melanie, but I definitely threatened her.

That was the first time.

In the next two years, I would be thrown to the floor, bullied by teachers, kicked behind my knees, so that I fell over and guess who got the blame for everything…me.  It was because I fought back.  They told me that I needed to be in the Behavior Program, instead of special needs, but my mother said otherwise.  She stood by me through everything.  I was constantly being placed in the principal’s office.  Luckily the principal liked me.  Instead of a harsh detention, I got to shred documents.

I moved schools and the bullying followed me, hovered around me like a specter, a ghost.  Everywhere I went, I was bullied.

In grade 7, I was put into restraints after people taunted me to the point of me becoming physically aggressive.  Restraints are not supposed to hurt.  But imagine an 11-or-12-year-old girl being held by two people who were 2x her size.  Imagine the lock she would have on her wrists, cutting off her circulation and the palm on her back, shoving it downwards, so that all she could do was weep and stare at the ground.  Tell me that doesn’t hurt.  If not physically, then emotionally.

In grade 8, I was subjected to a horrible one-on-one support.  She was an abuser.  She abused me.  Her nails were long and sharp.  I remember her trying to grab me and cutting the skin on my palm with her nails, in the process.  She caused me physical pain.

The day after my 13th birthday was the worst day of my existence.  I was angry and threw a water bottle at her stomach.  She immediately bent my fingers back, towards the back of my hand.  It hurt like hell, after all, hands aren’t supposed to be bent that way; it’s unnatural.  My hand turned red.  After that, she held me against the wall by my shirt, which she had a fistful of.  I screamed and screamed and lunged for the doors, using all of my strength and speed to get away from there, but when I wiggled the doorknob…it was locked.  The doors–my only escape out–were locked and I was stuck here with this insane woman.  Sure I may have hurt her…but this was inhumane.  No one deserved this.

I screamed for help until my lungs hurt.  Luckily, the teacher across the room heard, called the vice principal and they unlocked the doors.  I vaguely remember collapsing in my beanbag and crying.  My memories of the aftermath are muddy, but I cried into the shirt of my support worker and then she brought me downstairs to my social worker.

I’ve been with that social worker since then.  I’m in grade 11 and she still helps me.

This is only part of my story, but for those who read it, I hope it’ll be effective.

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UPDATE: I’m still recovering from this incident.  Recovering and processing are not always a fast process.  For me, it’s been three years.  The best things that have helped me are family, friends, support and love.  I realize that it sounds cliche, but it is undeniably true 🙂

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Tourette’s Problems #1

The room is rambunctious around me.  Three teenage boys are physically fighting at the table beside me.  The teacher, oh, she simply doesn’t care anymore.  She’s tried, but who can really get young men with no manners to be nice and pleasant and do their work??

You’re sitting there in the middle of all this, just trying to paint.  Your brush is in one hand and your palette in the other.  You had a presentation that went terribly just before this class.  You’re still fuming about your teacher interrupting you twice while you were presenting.  What a load of crap that you are in.

You begin ticking, thanks to all the pressure you’re under.  Did I mention that your teacher is very strict?  She wants your painting–the blending of the acrylic–to be 100% perfect.  Your best.  Not your mediocre-best.  You’re so in your head, that you hardly notice when you try to

You’re so in your head, that you hardly notice when you try to tic with your hand.  But then you see the next few seconds in slow motion.  The palette tips, but you have to break your knuckle.  Then, the palette tilts back the other way and falls.

Instead of falling onto the floor, you catch it but press it against your body in order to save the floor.  Your black pants are now covered in paint.  You walk over to your teacher, hoping that she could help you, but instead she starts laughing.  Maybe she wants to laugh off one of my most embarrassing moments ever?

I ask to go upstairs to the Calming Room and she asks if I’ll be gone long.  I shrug.  I want to get away from this hellish classroom, but of course, I can’t tell her that–that’d be rude.  She tells me to come back soon and I nod.  Inside, I know that I won’t be coming back, so I go upstairs and I only come back in around 15 minutes to find my belongings.

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