A Bullied Life

My first day of school was my first experience of bullying.  I remember being excited to make some friends, so I chattered on to the boy next to me.  After a while of him not saying anything but just staring at me, I started to feel self-conscious.  All throughout my elementary school career, whenever he saw me, he stopped whatever he was doing and stared.

Another boy in my Kindergarten class picked me up and swung me around the room.  I screamed and cried for him to put me down, but he kept swinging until I supposed he tired himself out.  The teacher never intervened.  The boy’s name was Robbie.

A third boy on the bus tortured me as well, all throughout those grammar school years.  I don’t remember what he did, only that when we moved after fourth grade, I rejoiced to never have to suffer his abuses again.  His name was Jack.

Countless other boys in grade school mocked me by lurching about like monkeys.  I didn’t know why they did this; I didn’t look or move about like a monkey.  Nevertheless, I hated it, and no one stopped them.  I cried too many times to count, even more frustrated at the lack of assistance by teachers.  My only solace was the library, or the nurse’s office. 

In my first year away at college, I had bullies in my dorm.  These were girls this time.  They physically bullied me, the first time I ever experienced that.   I was always smaller than everyone else, so I felt powerless even more so in being able to stop them. 

I never knew what to do about bullying.  My mom told me to ignore them, but that didn’t stop them.  Only one time I stood up to the boys, I kicked them in the shins.  I guess I didn’t know yet about inflicting pain in the groin area.  In college, I only stood up once there too.  After a girl shoved me into my closet door, I spat in her face.  I am still surprised that I managed such a trajectory.

After the suicides in the school district that I attended and still live in, I grieved for the students who felt so powerless and lost that they believed there was no other option.  I know that feeling.  If there is no consequence, if there is no support, bullying will continue, even into adulthood and the workplace.  No child should have to suffer this way.  I know my parents did all they could, but it was a time when children with disabilities were first integrated into regular classrooms in public schools.  There were no services for kids like me.  We were on our own. 

Some say that bullying is part of life, but I say it doesn’t have to be.  Who would want their child to suffer needlessly?  Who would want to live in a Lord of the Flies world?  I don’t want that for me or for future generations. Even though my niece is homeschooled, she suffers bullying in her after school programs.  I want to protect her forever from the cruelness of others, but I know, like me, we will suffer this all our lives.  We live in a world that doesn’t embrace difference.  It is survival of the fittest. 

But I also know that we have to be victorious and rise above the behaviors of others.  To retaliate in violence only escalates it.  I have tried to teach my niece that it is cool to be different.  We are fun and interesting, not boring.  I have tried to teach her to stand up for herself.  I hope that she will always have confidence, and not be like me, living in fear for most of my life.

My Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder

I follow my sister Lisa around like a shadow.  She walks out the door; I turn off the light, the stereo.  I hate to waste electricity.  I follow my mom around too.  She leaves a cupboard open, I close the door.  Open cupboard doors are a recipe for disaster.  When alone, I check the stove, make sure it is off.  I am petrified of fire.

I check the locks on the door, lock-unlock, lock-unlock ten times.   On a good day.  On a bad day, the sets of ten go higher.  I glance at the burglar alarm to ensure it is on, ten glances.  Again, on a good day. I don’t want someone to kidnap me.  Prevention is worth all this work and energy that my mind expends.  A sinful thought, quick!  Think something good, I don’t know what.  After all these years the transformation is so automatic I can’t remember.

When I leave a room, I check the light, flip off-on, off-on, ten times.  The same good day/bad day rule.  Everything in its place.  After my mom dusts, I place everything back in its proper place.  Not a knick-knack a millimeter out of order.  Throw off the sheets every night; make sure there are no insects lurking in there, waiting to terrorize me in my slumber.   All my books in neat stacks, all my clothes neatly folded.  Not a typical kid’s room, nor a teenager’s. 

I have an aversion to fuzz, string, yarn, and lint.  If I see it, I feel nauseous.  I have to rid my sight of it.  I pick it up and throw it somewhere I can’t see it.  Out of sight, out of mind.  I have to yell, scream, or make peculiar noises to rid my mind of the sight.  I don’t like odd numbers, everything in evens, please. Toiletries must be oriented to the front, nothing touching.  Bathroom linens hanging on a rack must be straight, not a smidgen crooked. 

No one knows this shameful secret.  I can’t let anyone know I am crazy.  Looney. Going mad.  My silence protects me.  No one sees what I do, no one hears. 

All Because of My Body

In a vintage Twilight Zone episode, a woman is coming out of anesthesia after cosmetic surgery.  As she impatiently waits for the doctor to remove the bandages around her face, she nervously anticipates the results.  As the doctor slowly unwinds the wrappings, the nurses surrounding the patient look on, trying to hide their feelings.  For when the camera pans to the woman’s face, we see a beautiful face, and wonder why.  We finally see the faces of the medical professionals, of who have the faces of a pig.

This television episode explored how beauty is relative.  To us in the real world, pig people appear rather hideous.  Here, pig faces are the epitome of beauty. 

I was born with a physical disorder that affected the way I look, move, and sound.  My body is asymmetrical, including my face, limbs, and crooked spine. Due to my cleft palate and resulting surgeries, I sound like a child with a perpetual cold.  Because of my crooked spine, causing parts of it to be naturally fused, my movements are stiff. 

Throughout my lifetime I have been stared at by all ages, from a brief moment to throughout a meal at a restaurant.  I have been followed in stores, mocked like a monkey, and treated as if I was intellectually delayed or about to break. 

All because of my body.  It betrays me, the mind, heart, and spirit within.  I am so much more than my body, but yet I am judged solely by it.  I have been rejected by men, discriminated against in school and in the workplace, and bullied in said places.

My body is a science experiment, an anomaly in the world of genetics.  I have been poked and prodded by medical professionals, displayed naked in the doctors’ office as if an animal in a zoo, and a constant sense of wonder and surprise for any new doctor I meet.

All because of my body.  It is only a suitcase, to take me from Point A to Point B.  It holds in all my organs, bones, muscles, and cells, and protects me from the elements.  And yet because of my disfigurement, I have been treated as if I am an alien from outer space.  I come in peace.

In God’s Word, it tells me that God created me, wonderfully and beautifully.  People say, “God don’t make no junk.”  Yet I struggled with my body for forty years.  I did all I could to look and sound as “normal” as I could.  I walked straight as a board to belie my crooked spine.  I wore make-up and had long and curly hair, to hide my face and crooked neck.  I wore fashionable clothes that accentuated my skinny form.  I did all I could to create a “false” me.

Not that there’s anything wrong with doing any of those things.  It is good for your back to walk and sit straight.  Make-up, styled hair, and fashionable clothes can exude confidence in a woman.  But nothing I ever did could hide this body of mine. 

So I gave up on make-up.  I cut my hair to shoulder length.  I still get it colored and permed (due to genetic factors I also grayed early).  I don’t wear fancy clothes anymore.  I wear jeans and tops.  Comfortable clothes that still manage to look good on my body. 

I started instead to eat better and exercise.  Instead of my body being a curse, it was something I needed to take care of.  It’s going to be with me until I die, so if I want quality of life, I better be healthy. 

Now I like to look at myself in the mirror.  I focus on the good parts: my figure, clear complexion, hazel eyes, full lips, slim body, hands and feet.    I still can’t see myself on video, my stiff movements, or hear myself on audio, my stuffy childish voice.  But I love me and like me.  After forty years. 

I like to think that in Heaven, I’ll get a perfect body, with perfect voice, and perfect movements.  I’ll finally be able to sing without anyone yelling at me to shut up, and dance without looking like a robot.  Until then, I will just have to pretend I have the voice of an angel and the dance of a ballerina. 

Update

A month ago I dislocated my shoulder walking a big obnoxious dog at the humane society.  In excruciating pain my mom took me to urgent care and they put the shoulder back in place.  I was told I would feel a lot better when they did that, and when I heard the pop as it went back in place, I thought yay the pain is over.  I don't normally swear but on those first few days but the expletives were flying.

I could not type for a month as I was strapped into a sling that was attached to my body.  Kind of like a straight jacket.  That is why the last few weeks I posted clips from google images. 

I feel better now, but still have sore muscles.  I am going to physical therapy three times a week, and contrary to popular opinion, it is am immense relief.

I send kudos to my parents for taking care of me, my mom helping me to dress and even wash my hair.  My parents driving me to and from my apartment to feed my cat and clean his boxes.

An update on Chocolate: he started urinating in front of the balcony, so after watching My Cat from Hell, I learned to put a box in front of it.  So now he goes in there instead of the carpet!  He is doing that to mark his territory.  The steroids he is on makes him more manly I guess.

I was actually relieved to have a break from writing.  I apparently needed it as I was stressing out over my writing class I am taking this summer.  I don't know why I do that.  Logically I know that it is a class and they are there to help me.  I just don't like criticism from the teacher.  But I know she is there to help me.  Nevertheless, I am tired of editing my memoir.  Writing is great when the words are flowing and you get a positive response.  But it sucks when your mind is a blank and people don't like what you have to say.

I have also been watching a lot of FOX news, not being to volunteer at some places and having to sit around with an ice pack.  There is nothing else on.  But I just get madder and madder watching that. 

Maybe I did need a break from my life.  I was tired and bored.  But now I miss volunteering.  I appreciate my cat more, even if he is more interested in food than anything else.  I have to remember he is old, and what do old people do in nursing homes?  Not much! 

I look at him and smile, him laying on the floor facing the kitchen, his front legs crossed like a lady.  He still goes on the balcony, so that gives him something else to think about.  Otherwise, he lays around, eats, drinks, pees, and poops.  I suppose when and if I get old I will just do that too.  I worry he is not happy.  I worry that he is suffering.  But then I think maybe he doesn't think like we do.  So I just have to take it one day at a time, trusting that God is in control.

That is what I was reminded of.  That God is in control, and He is with me.  To take it one day at a time.  To appreciate what I have.  To appreciate what I do.

Psalm 91:4

He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

First Amendment

Independence Day