Peculiar how it all started, I suppose

Perhaps they didn’t like the style of my clothes

Or maybe they looked at my school picture 

And didn’t like my pose, perhaps no one knows. 

I was walking home from an extracurricular activity

Drama club certainly required a lot of creativity

I didn’t have time for all their negativity

I was too focused on tomorrow’s science test

Which was on the Theory of Relativity

There was a group of boys shouting obscene insults

I looked around but unfortunately could see no adults

I didn’t deserve what they said to me

I mean, sure I had my faults--I didn’t want to fight back

They were looking for a result. 

I was ridiculed at the scene

My terrible walk home could not have been foreseen

Noone in the houses nearby seemed to want to intervene

The boys were so much taller than me, and I was only thirteen.

The group of boys left me alone at last

It had all happened so fast

Why didn’t you run?  My mother asked.

I didn’t really know, but it made me feel numb

When I was harassed. I went to school the next day

And was called into my teacher’s room

The look on his face was painted with gloom.

He asked multiple questions, trying to help me I assume.

I had to sit and write a statement about my experience

Next to a girl wearing a strong scent of perfume

Most stories seem to have a happy ending, 

I suppose that’s what you’re expecting, 

And I suppose that’s what my teacher was intending

But they never found the boys

So they are free to keep offending.

I was no longer allowed to walk home without a chaperone

All thanks to those sickening boys’ slurs, I still silently scared

To walk down that dreadful avenue even if it’s the past. 

Who cares? I do. 

Who Cares? I do. I’ve been bullied and abused. I’ve been treated like a disease. I’ve been called names. I’ve cried myself to sleep. And sometimes, that’s made me want to end it all. The pain, the lies, the torment, It’s all a part of me. A part of who I’ve become. Those names, those looks, those jokes have shaped me into the strong young woman I am now. 

I may be weak physically, but emotionally, I’m as strong as steel. You may be wondering about my story, why I’m here now telling you my struggles. It kind of started about 2 years ago--I was around 13. I started to feel down, felt depressed and didn’t want to leave my room, I never wanted to participate in the class activities. I became an outcast in a school of jocks and popular kids. 

So, of course, I became the target of all their hate. I was small, weak and very insecure, (still am), so they took advantage of it all. I got dirty looks. I got called names. I got pushed around. I got made fun of for being homosexual--and that’s one of the worst things to be bullied for especially in a closed minded, redneck, conservative community. Judgemental pricks eating away at my self-esteem and confidence? It’s painful. So painful that I asked myself, “Is it worth it? Is it worth living in pain, or should I just end it?”And because of them, I almost did. I journaled about those feelings. I cried about the hate they gave, and I hurt myself. A lot. Whether it was starving myself or scratching my arms or thighs, I hurt my body in the worst ways. 

I suffered from so much physical and mental abuse, it hurt me. I’ve been lost but I found myself. I didn’t let anyone else pick up my pieces--I had to do it. I gained strength and battled through all of the hate. I made sure that I was strong enough to keep myself together until I reached my bed. I let myself go in the safety of my room. I keep it all bottled up and to myself until it was almost too late. It’s not a good thing at all. It’s not healthy. You can get hurt if you continue to bottle it up. 

I know I can get help, and I have. I got help and I spent five days in a Children's Mental Health Facility. I don’t like to call it a mental hospital because it makes me seem like I’m actually crazy and have schizophrenia or something. I don’t like other people calling it that either. It’s rude to the people who go there to get help for their suicidal thoughts and attempts. I feel that getting help is the best way to actually get through it all, and to fight through it. Get past those voices screaming inside telling you you’re not good enough, or that you are ugly and nobody likes you. People need to get that help sometimes. That’s why I stopped asking myself “Who cares?” and start responding with “I do” I care about my life and if I’ll be able to live it and start a family.