2004-02-13

Two entries in one night? I must be insane. Change it to definitely. If you want to know why, see below. I was watching the news tonight. There was a story of some kid who got ganged up on and beat on a bus and it was taped. He was around twelve or thirteen, I'm guessing. There was nothing very wrong with this kid, according to the story. Some other, bigger boys just got it in their head that he needed a beating. The kid will probably spend all of his free time holed up in his room now. And the fact that this got on the news will only provoke them to get him in other ways. Because they refuse to see themselves as wrong. The odd kid in that group that knew it was wrong probably ignored it. Because everyone else was doing it.

I hate the way kids are sometimes. They're sometimes too close to nature in the worst way. There's this pack mentality that goes exactly the wrong way. I'm no expert, but I thought the purpose of animals travelling in packs was for protection. So no one gets left behind or killed - for the betterment of their tiny community. I see nerds in packs this way. Nerds travel together for protection. Because the groups that would terrorize one or two of them doesn't step up to the whole group. Together, they're stronger. But there's the oddball that gets left out of any kind of group. The kid that the other kids sort of ostracise. Maybe the reason is perfectly reasonable- like he picks his boogers.

We had a kid like that in my Catholic grade school. Ed "Booger" Korupchuck. As if it wasn't bad enough having the end of your name say upchuck, the kid picked and ate his own nose product. But this kid was left alone. He was feared more than victimized. I mean, we've all snatched at the odd cliffhanger, but this kid? Right in public. Unashamed. In your face. I mean, that's scary. So the kid most likely to get shit did not. I'll give you one guess who picked up the slack. If you don't know- I'lkl hint you. You're reading something she wrote this very second.

They didn't beat me up. They just hounded me every second. The girls started it, the boys continued and perfected it. I was the Pariah of St. Laurence Grade School. Maybe I'm placing too much importance on myself, but i can't help thinking it's true. Every day, the higher grades had to go down to the "observatory"- a glorified playground that was a little bit off school grounds- for recess. I would step onto this path with dread. Because I knew what was coming. The guys playing football in front of the rectory would immediately stop their game to shadow me all the way down to the observatory. They'd call me fat and ugly and spice it up with fake compliments. Like "Dan loves you." "Wil you go out with me?" And they'd laugh and laugh and laugh because they were all just so clever.

I mostly stayed quiet till I got away from them. Sarcastic comments got you in bigger trouble. The whole grade would hear what you said and corner you and scold you over it. Because it's okay if they do it. Not if you do. I cried a few times, but they hardly stopped. Tears are a sign of weakness. It's like showing fear to a dog. They smell it and they attack. I did find a way to deal with it at the time. I went to my piano teacher to get permission to spend lunch in the practice rooms so I wouldn't have to go outside. I spent my last year of grade school in those rooms. Sometimes, I'd venture out to see if it was safe to go outside. Maybe all that time I was away, they'd grown up. But they never did. They probably still haven't.

I still don't really trust guys. I always think they think I'm ugly and fat. If they tell me otherwise, I end up getting offended. Because I don't think they mean it. I think they're setting me up for some kind of punch line just like those other guys. I know this might not be the case. But my first reaction to guys is usually fear. Even attraction is coupled with fear. So I've never had a boyfriend. Maybe I never will. I'd like to think I'll meet someone who can heal me. But I should be able to heal myself. So I constantly analyze myself, as I've said. And I don't seem to get any benefit from it. Others do, though. I'm extremely circumspect in what I say to people. I hardly ever say a word in anger. I save it up and write it out. And you get an entry like this. Maybe I'm saying things I've said before. But I occasionally need to say them and put them on the web. It's a release. It's what we get from these diaries.

But I have to wonder- I've come out of these experiences with scars. Did they? Do they ever think of me with regret? Do they ever realize what they did? They probably don't. They probably hardly know I exist now. And it pisses me off that I give them all this power over me when it was so many years ago. A part of me hopes they read it and know that they were the bad guys in my life. They were the villains. They made me hide in a practice room playing piano badly (seriously- no gift for it). They were the bad guys.

Sorry about that. That news item, combined with novel two (where I relive the horror) brought this out of me. I need to put it behind me, but I find it impossible. When will that life-changing event come? That one that makes me feel like somebody. It happens in movies and books and to people on talk shows, but not me. I just want to feel like people aren't ultimately out to humiliate me. I know there's the odd asshole that has to do that to people- and it's to make themselves feel better. But realizing this seems to be no help. Where does that leave me? Still fucked up. And I hate that. Maybe naming my torturers would help. Should I list them? I think I will. This is scary, but here it is:

Mike McFarland

Jeff Hickey

Dan Hamilton

Pam Steel

Diane Raiburn

Erica DiAntonio

There were third tier tormentors. But these were the worst. You people? Disgusting excuses for human beings. You all said things and did things that had no other purpose than to make someone who wasn't too hot on herself feel even worse. You are the essence of all evil. I kind of hope you spend all your spare time getting drunked up and you work at nowhere jobs. If life was Lord of the Flies- you killed Piggy. You suck. You are not the hero. You are the villain. Hope you're clear on that.

That felt kind of good. Maybe they'll come across this. I hope they do and that they don't. They might feel pleased with themselves. They might laugh at it. I don't want that.

The moral of the story? Think really fucking hard before you humiliate a peer. Because they might never get over it. And you want to be the hero or the friendly sidekick. You don't want to be Catra. You are a born She-ra. There.

Sorry if this entry was annoying. If ya'll thought I was this extremely secure, together kind of girl, I have thoroughly disillusined you. I'm also afraid of dolls. I'll save that one for another night.