Why I am Me

He came up to me, all hundred and fifty kilos of him. 

"You should just join the girls section already. I heard they have discounts for admission now." 


Sniggers from the crowd that watched on. 


This was all part of what had become our daily routine; he’d walk up to me with a bunch of his cronies, humiliate me in some morbid way, and then leave. 


Always followed by tumultuous laughter. 


Ask anyone who’s ever been bullied, and they’ll tell you the same: the most painful parts were never the swirlies, wedgies, or insensitive slurs that bullies throw at you. The most painful part was the silence of the people whom you believed cared about you, and the laughter of those whom you hoped that did.  


At that point, I was through. 


Somewhere, in the back of my head, I had this absurd notion that if I fought back in any way, these people would kill me. 


But back then, I figured, there wasn’t another more honorable way to go. 


For the first time in six long years, I retaliated.


 "Too bad you wouldn't even have that choice. You look too pregnant to still be in school." 


Silence. Glorious, glorious silence. 


And then it all ended. 


With that one comeback ended six years’ worth of boos, catcalls, emotional trauma on the whole. 1850 days of pure anguish, where I just hoped I could melt into a little puddle of nothingness, days I told myself would never end.      




In a way, I was right, though. In a way, none of it would ever end. 


Because taking away the pain doesn't bring back what was already irreparably lost; 


An innocence. 


It's like a bit of rust on the fender of a car; slowly, but surely, eating through the metal. You could cover it up with a bit of putty, of course. You could paint over it, gloss it over, and no one would know the difference. 


But therein lies the rub: no one else would know, but you would. You know that the fender isn't pristine. You know that it just masquerades as perfection; in actuality, it is just another coverup, and nothing but. 


You know that all it takes is one little push from God knows where, and you could be tumbling right back into that abyss that you once called your life. You know one person laughing at your mistakes could be the catalyst that plunges you into that place you promised yourself you’d never, ever return to. 


And that haunts you, forever. And ever. 


Paranoia, pessimism, cynicism everywhere, little things you’ve convinced yourself are absolutely necessary to stay hanging off that precipice you’re one gust of wind short of falling off from. 


Before long, it won’t be others that stop putting eggs in your basket: it’ll be you you. You’ll give up on yourself before others ever give up on you. 


And that makes all the difference. 

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RANDOMOSITY (is that a word?)

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