“Once you let go, it’ll show up, magically.” – Jessica Wen
“A Different Kind of Bully”
Fiction. Based on a True High School Scandal.
by The Lily Maiden
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.
I guess I should write about you.
I don’t want to; I don’t even want to think about you. But that’s not how life works, is it?
I’m sure you don’t want to think about me either. You didn’t want to before, but I know you did anyway. It made you itch, watching me sit alone, reading intently and brushing a strand of hair behind my ear now and then. It made you sweat and grind your teeth when, as you’d lean your stupid elbows on my desk and ask why I always studied so hard, I’d give you these wide, confused, hurting eyes that begged, “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
One time you even lost your guard, and told me that I was “the most amazing girl” you’d ever knew, or something along those lines. Everyone around ooooed, snorted, laughed uncomfortably, while I blushed deeply and said nothing.
You should know though, that the silence didn’t mean I wasn’t flattered, didn’t mean I didn’t want to hug you and sob into your neck because you were the first person (male and female) who’d ever said something like that to me. But I was shocked, flabbergasted, confused– for an instant I even thought you were mocking me. You were this beacon of glory, filled with cocky arrogance that was obviously masking some form of insecurity, and I was a tiny, skittish mouse afraid that if I dared to make a sound I’d be swatted at and kicked into the corner. I didn’t realize that you were serious, that maybe someone in this hell-hole called grade school actually thought I was a worthwhile person.
The day I snapped at you, it wasn’t about you– there were tears in my soul, no blood in my veins, I was reduced to bones and skin and agony. I’m sorry for that.
I tried to apologize a few weeks ago, but it’s hard after so many years to say things that no longer even matter, that can barely even be recollected.
What matters is that a wafting presence circles my room when the lights extinguish, cradles me to its chest, breathes in my hair and tells me that I am okay.
And you just happen to be the one buried underneath it.