bully prose

The worst place for me is inside my own head. This is where battles begin.
This is where wars are fought and conversations are planned.
This is where I can choreograph an entire argument before it ever happens.

This is where I create the outcomes of problems that never exist; this is where I predict my downfalls and fail before even trying.
This is where I play the tapes; the ones that tell me, “You can’t do it,” and, “You’re not smart,” or, “Good enough.”
This is the place where my internal lies grow; this is where self-doubt lives and insecurity breeds.
And again, this is the worst place for me to ever be…

First, the anger comes and then the blame.
Next, is an easy target. Next, is a mark, or someone or something that has nothing to do with why I feel the way I do.
Usually, this person is weaker. Usually, this person is dependent or looks the way I feel. Usually, the target is someone softer—or unable to defend themselves. And because of this, it was easy to unleash my anger and tear into them.

When I spend too much time in myself, my words can be like daggers.
And when this happens, I can be vicious.
That’s what bullies do.
They take out their frustrations on the weaker because someone above them made them feel lower.
I see this as a cruel and ongoing food chain.

No one picks on other people because they are happy or satisfied with their life.
I know I didn’t. I bullied because I felt threatened. And because I felt threatened, I felt the need to pay it forward.
But this did not always result in a physical action.
Sometimes I fed the gossip mills and the rumor factories, because this way….at least someone else could be the focus.

My defense to the bullies above me was to pass it on to those I perceived as below me. I chose the weaker, the poorer, the sad, and the unsuccessful.
If asked why, I would say, “Why not?
If asked, “How would you like it,” I would say, “I wouldn’t care.”
But that was a lie….
No one wants to be on the bottom of the food chain, so we jockey for a better position. No one wants to be pointed out, or embarrassed and humiliated. And
because I felt this way, I chose to make others feel the same as me.

I once spoke with a small group of teenagers about this. They were like me. They were troubled.
They were somewhere in the middle of the food chain, and like me, they handed down their own forms of verbal and physical brutality.
They picked on the weak, like I did.
And why?
Because like me, they, themselves, felt weak so they needed something to help them feel strong.

Kids can be mean. I get that.
But so are adults when they stand and laugh at the water cooler, picking on their co-workers so their bosses can focus on somebody else.
Bullying is not just a physical act. It comes in many forms. Such as the need to be right and always tell someone else, “You’re wrong.”
In truth, if I am secure in who I am, I will not be threatened if someone suggests a new method, or tells me I’m wrong
(Especially when I’m right)
However, same as a frustrated infant cries because they cannot communicate, adults do the same thing. Only, we cry differently and our communication can be abusive.

Robert Fulghum once wrote, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can break my heart.”
This is true.
Bruises of the flesh will heal over time. But wounds of the heart scar much deeper than the surface level.

While speaking to the small group of teenagers, I asked one about his jacket.
“It’s a nice jacket,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied.
I asked, “Where did you get it?”
“The store.”
“Did you pay for it?”
He laughed, “No, I stole it…of course, I paid for it.”

Then I asked another from the group, “Did you ever shovel someone’s walkway, or rake leaves?”
He answered, “No.”
“Did you ever deliver newspapers or have a job.”
He laughed. “I had a job….but I would never deliver papers.”

I dug into my pocket and retrieved one five dollar bill.
I looked at the boy with the jacket and asked, “What is this?”
He answered, “five dollars.”
I returned to the boy that would never deliver papers. “Would you deliver newspapers for five dollars?”
“No,”
“And why not,” I asked.
“Because it’s only five dollars.”

I held up the bill and asked another teenager. “What is this?”
“It’s money.”
“Right,’ I explained. “But what does that mean.”
“It means you can buy something with it?”
“Can I buy the jacket,” I asked.
“No.”
“And why not?”
“Because the jacket is worth more than five dollars.”

“Exactly!”

Money is a physical description of value and your behavior is a physical description of how you value yourself and others.

See, I am not stupid. I am not ugly or worthless—and neither were any of those kids. The problem is they didn’t know they’re own value.
(Just like I didn’t know mine)
And when you don’t know your own value, you tend to believe the insults.
After all, it’s not what people say about us, it’s how we feel about ourselves that matter.
Right?
But it’s  not that simple when you’re a kid trying to fit in.

“Understand something,” I told them. “No one has the right to make you question your own value.”
“No one has the right to hold you as an emotional hostage, or put you down.”
“And so long as you know your own value, no one can ever hurt you with words.”

I hate bullies. I hate them because they remind me of who I used to be and how I used to feel. They remind me of the social food chain and the importance we put on our superficial status. Bullies remind me of the different divisions of cool. They remind me of gossip mills and the rumor factories.
They remind me of the water coolers and our incessant need to fit in—even if it means excluding someone else.

I see bullying as a virus, and like a virus; I see it as contagious…
The only way to protect ourselves is to become aware of our value.

You know?