PLEASE READ THIS. I KNOW IT IS LONG BUT YOU WILL LIVE. And share it. This is for the people who think words dont hurt. Or that someone will just forget about them someday. This is for the bullys and the bullied. This is for everyone. I’m not the only kid who grew up this way, surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme about sticks and stones; as if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called.. and we got called them all. So we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us; that we’d be lonely forever. That we’d never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their tool shed. So broken heart strings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves.. So we would feel nothing. Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone. That an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away that there’s no way for it to metastasize.. It does She was eight years old. Our first day of grade three when she got called ugly. We both got moved to the back of the class so we would stop get bombarded by spit balls.. But the school halls were a battleground where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day. We used to stay inside for recess; Because outside was worse. Outside we’d have to rehearse running away; Or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there. In grade five they taped a sign to her desk that read beware of dog. To this day despite a loving husband.. She doesnt think she’s beautiful, because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half of her face. Kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase.. but couldnt quite get the job done. And they’ll never understand. She’s raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word mom because they see her heart before they see her skin, because she’s only ever always been amazing. He was a broken branch grafted onto a different family tree. Adopted. Not because his parents opted for a different destiny. He was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone, and two parts tragedy. Started therapy in 8th grade, had a personality made up of tests and pills.. Lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs. Four fifths suicidal. A tidal wave of anti depressants, and an adolescence of being called popper. One part because of the pills, ninety nine parts because of the cruelty. He tried to kill himself in grade ten, when a kid who could still go home to mom and dad had the audacity to tell him........ “get over it” .......... As if depression is something that can be remedied by any of the contents found in a first aid kit. To this day he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends. Could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends, in the moments before it’s about to fall. And despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration, he remains a conversation piece between people who can’t understand. Sometimes becoming drug free has less to do with addiction and more to do with sanity. We werent the only kids who grew up this way. To this day kids are still being called names. The classics were, Hey stupid Hey spaz. Seems like each school has an arsenal of names getting updated every year. And if a kid breaks in a school and no one around chooses to hear do they make a sound? Are they just the background noise of a soundtrack stuck on repeat when people say things like kids can be cruel? Every school was a big top circus tent and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers from clowns to carnies.. All of these were miles ahead of who we were. We were freaks. Lobster claw boys and bearded ladies. Juggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottle trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal. But at night while the others slept we kept walking the tightrope. It was practice. And yes, some of us fell. But I want to tell them that all of this shit is just debris leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be. And if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself get a better mirror. Look a little closer. Stare a little longer. Because there’s something inside you that made you keep trying. Despite everyone who told you to quit. You built a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself. You signed it “They were wrong”. Because maybe you didnt belong to a group or a clique. Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything. Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth to show and tell but never told because how can you hold your ground, if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it, you have to believe that they were wrong. They have to be wrong. Why else would we still be here? We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them. We stem from a root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called. We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway. And if in some way we are.. Don’t worry. We only got out to walk and get gas. We are graduating members from the class of We made it. Not the faded echoes of voices crying out. Names will never hurt me. Of course they did. But our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act that has less to do with pain and more to do with beauty.
Posted on: Sun, 24 Nov 2013 12:59:43 +0000
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