Hey blogosphere,
Me again, with another offering for your eyes!
First things first, thank you for the wonderful reactions to my news in my last post - it was really humbling to see just how many people were there celebrating this success with me. Long may it continue throughout the months and years to come!
Onwards for today...
In honour of Pink Shirt Day (18th May), I thought I’d share some experiences with you all. These are not for the faint of heart, nor are these meant to bring pity or shame. This is simply an offering of hope from someone who has “been there, done that, got the t-shirt and then donated it to the Sallies” and has learnt from it.
For those who know me well, they will tell you two things - I am kind, but I will also not hesitate to knock you down a peg or two should I feel you deserve it. This attitude stems from years of mocking and ridicule I endured when I was younger.
From my first day of school (at the ripe age of five), up until somewhere in my seventeenth year of life, I suffered massive amounts of teasing, bullying, name-calling and whatever else you can think of.
You name it, I probably had some of it when at school.
When I was 19 months old, I had a tumour in my brain, which caused a lot of difficulties, and affected the way I learnt information in an educational context (to put it lightly). I was slower than the other kids my age and had a lot of catching up to do. Kids used this as a way to get to me, and point out just how “different” I was, and how I was never going to be like them, no matter what I said or did.
They were beyond cruel, throwing things at me, pushing me to the ground, tripping me over in the playground - but the worst of all, leaving me out of any games they played at lunchtime.
I always knew I was different, and unusual (as if my name wasn’t enough for them) - I looked different, I sounded different and no matter how hard I tried, I just didn’t fit in anywhere.
Because of the learning difficulties I faced, I was put into the “special” class with every other kid that didn’t fit the narrative for “ordinary school kid” - and it was hell! These kids used this to call me “stupid”, “pathetic”, “dumb”, “retard”, and pretty much every other derogatory term these kids could think of.
Turns out little five and six-year-olds can be hurtful.
Mum stormed down to the school after I told her what these people were doing to me, and she tore shreds off of this woman, who was meant to protect me from these kids - but chose instead to do nothing, and let five-year-old Tessa go through it alone.
This was only the beginning of my issues, and so Mum and I went to another school to see if I could just learn and be a kid, without people pointing out how “different” I was.
The school I moved to had a “zero tolerance” policy towards bullying, which seemed to make a difference. Things were working out and I was doing okay - that was, of course, until someone decided to open their mouth and tell people about the difficulties I was having.
Kids picked on me again, teased me, ripped my school books, and left me out of their games. Teachers tried to be as firm as they could - but of course, kids aren’t going to want to hear any voice of reason, especially if it’s going to tell them to stop doing something.
Again, my Mum came to the school and tore even more shreds off of these people who were meant to help me thrive and learn. Instead, they tossed me aside and told me to ignore the kids “because eventually they’ll get bored and go away”.
For a school that claimed to have a “zero tolerance” policy towards bullying, they sure were pretty tolerant of me being bullied...
I grew older, and with that, came another new school, and another new set of people. I made friends, I found something I enjoyed and spent a lot of time in amongst books and words and people who actually wanted to listen and guide me through this strange place I found myself in.
Unfortunately, my friends had left and I was alone. With my shield gone, the kids came back and teased me - but more relentlessly, because they were older and a whole new raft of ways to make my life more hellish than it already was.
Once, a girl broke my helmet because I wouldn’t let her go in front of me while we were lining up to go inside the classroom.
I discovered the helmet, smashed to pieces, next to my bag just before it was time to go home for the day.
Neither me or my older sister were impressed.
After that, things got worse and I’d often get home and go straight to sleep, so as to not have to tell anyone what happened at school that day. It became unbearable and I refused to talk to just about anyone - which proved rather problematic.
Then came high school - the four years of teen hell, with lots of hormones, lots of homework and nothing to stop the thoughts in your head.
For me to say that my high school experience was an absolute blast would be a complete, bald-faced lie. It was beyond crap, and it turns out teenagers can be even crueller and horrible.
I thought it couldn’t get worse - but it did.
The same girl who broke my helmet was also the one to punch me in the face, simply because little miss thirteen-year-old penned a note telling her exactly how I felt about her actions, and what I would do if she didn’t stop.
I was still different, and not one of the “cool kids”, but I managed to surround myself with people who were like me, and learnt over time to embrace it and help others realise that it’s okay to not be like everyone else.
While I hate the cliche “I woke up one morning and...” - it totally happened to me. In my second to last year of high school, I came to a realisation of sorts. I was only going to be at school for another year, so what was the point in letting these horrible people get inside my head and mess me up more when they won’t even be there to see me on the other side, with a diploma in my hand.
Thus I became the “no-holds-barred”, sarcastic and writing-obsessed human you see before you, and let me tell you, it’s been the best transformation I’ve ever gone through.
Of course, there are still days where I hear the teasing and cruelty of those kids in my head, but on the whole, I am a better person for all the stuff I went through - and if my story helps even one person, then I consider it to be a job well done.
There are days when all I hear in my head is the jarring screams of the names I was called, and I struggle to get through my day without retreating to the nearest bathroom to cry until the voices stop - and there are days when I physically can’t get out of bed. Thankfully, these are few and far between and are the times I use my friends and family to help me get through it all and see the other side.
Now I’m an awkward and word-filled human with all the dreams and ambitions to fill a small village. Armed with a fancy bit of paper with my name on it and the ability to craft words on pages to help people feel not so overwhelmed with the world.
Life gets better, and I can’t wait to see where this thing goes!
Until next time,
Tessa
