I wasn't bullied at school. Or rather, how to say... I read a lot, was short and rather weak, and most importantly, I was naive and often didn't understand what was going on here, what they were joking about and what all these people wanted. At the same time, I studied well; my lack of ingenuity was evident in everyday and social situations. Actually, I was a pretty good target for bullying, but I was “lucky” — I had a girl in my class (I'll call her Sveta) who was shorter, wore glasses, stuttered a little... And they chose her.
It turned out that she reacted to the bullying as a victim. I tried to persuade the offenders not to touch her. She ran away. I cried. I complained to adults.
They were trying to help, these adults. All teachers at school were aware of the Light Problems. Her mom came to school several times. But nothing has changed, and it only got worse from year to year.
When I think about it, I realize that not many people were bullying her. Boys rarely paid attention to her; the girls either thought they were better than that or quietly felt sorry for her. There were two or three constant offenders, sometimes just as many more were added to them. And there were also “spectators”, extras who didn't touch her themselves, but laughed when they humiliated her. But it looked like the whole world was against her. They didn't let her through at all. You could write an article about her every day...
Yes, I felt sorry for her. I sometimes talked to her about books after school and occasionally went to visit her. But I never talked to her in class; I was afraid that she would “drag” me after me, that seeing us nearby, my classmates would think that I was also a very good object for ridicule. Sometimes I hated myself. Sometimes them. Sometimes, most often, to Sveta. She made me feel like a jerk. She didn't fight back against her offenders and made them even bigger bastards.
In eighth grade, I think, the boys in our grade finally saw me as a potential victim. I said to myself, “As long as I don't recognize myself as a victim, I won't be a victim.” I made it a rule to respond with a blow to every hit. It was difficult. Boys at this age are already stronger than girls. I bit, scratched, hit me anywhere; heavy textbooks that could stab me on the head helped me a lot. I kept up even the smallest aggression, and if I couldn't quickly come up with a witty response to an insult, I responded with a blow. She let go of her long fingernails, and always tried to scratch or bite them until she bled. I thought it would scare them off. But I was losing and I saw it for myself. There were more of them, they were stronger, and they were not offended by my pungent words, whereas I reacted very sharply to any ridicule. I became tired, and I was increasingly deviating from my “always fight back” rule. And I also worried about each such incident for a long time...
I remember a moment when I felt desperate. Someone came to me from behind and I jumped back and raised my hand to cover my head. They laughed at me, but I stood and thought: will I always be like this now?..
It seems that the idea of uniting with Sveta did not even arise. She was hurt by girls, and I was hurt by boys. Two completely different camps. Adults rarely noticed our conflicts, and if they did, my offenders showed their bruises and abrasions, and the teachers shrugged their shoulders. And I didn't expect them to help me. So they wanted to help Sveta, and what did they do?
After ninth grade, almost all the boys who offended me graduated from school; there was only one left, and we occasionally exchanged pokes and insults out of habit, but without the support of the extras he was no longer interested. But nothing has changed for Sveta; it even seems to have gotten worse. Girls were more consistent in their violence.
It's been fifteen years now. I recently talked to Sveta. She looks confident and cheerful. She has a favorite job, has many friends, and the team respects her. As for me, my life has been good too. I'm married to someone I love and have two kids. However, I'm not very kind. Deep down, I believe that if someone wants to hurt you, they should hurt them back. I easily get into skirmishes between queues and transport, because I don't leave the slightest rudeness unanswered, and I try to insult me more and pour out maximum contempt and hostility on the person. Get it and get it.
I sometimes wonder how this has affected us all. In the Light. To those who hurt her. To those who kept silent and pretended nothing bad was happening. At me. Sometimes I think that over the years that this nightmare lasted, we've become kind of crazy; something in our character has broken, bent and mutilated forever.
And I know that if Svetlana had asked me for advice on what to do then, I would say fight. Hit the nose — that's the easiest way to hit you with blood. Hit the legs — there are pain points. Keep several textbooks on your desk; hitting with a stack of books can hurt more than with one book... I would say it's better to hate than to be afraid.
But the truth is, I'm not sure I know the right answer. It would probably be best to fight for her. To finally kill your own childhood, but in your own eyes to be a knight on a white horse. But how much I would hate her then! And I'm not going to hide the fact that I just wouldn't have the courage to do such a thing. So what's the solution? What will I tell my own children if they face similar problems and come to me for help?..
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