Alone. That’s the first word that comes to my mind when I think about school. The fact that, although the room is filled with twenty more people, I have nobody to talk with. Nobody wants to sit with me, nobody invites me to their birthday party, nobody asks me to even borrow a pen.
It’s like I am invisible.
I am not a part of this world. Others sit near me, talking about homework, about parties, but never talking to me. Their brains don’t even acknowledge the view of me sitting next to them. It’s like the light rays just pass through me, it’s like my body doesn’t fill any space. I am nothing. Physically nothing.
What other reason might there be for them to throw things at me?
Sometimes I wonder if they even know how a book tossed in your chest feels. The pressure of it pushing your skin and your pain receptors exploding. It’s like you have been hit right in the bones. And the worst part is that the pain stays. It’s not a simple one-second ache like a needle. You feel the hit for many more seconds after your have actually been hit.
But this is not the worst part.
People calling you names is the worst part. Every single person in the room telling you you’re ugly, stupid, fat and so many more. They come up with a joke that they would repeat for a week or so and then they move to another joke or another of your traits that they don’t like.
It never ends.
Sometimes I wonder is there anything good about me?
My mother forbids me to wear makeup, so I look natural. And let’s face it - natural doesn’t look good. Boys don’t like my deep blue eyes, because they don’t look big enough without eyeliner or mascara. And how are they supposed to even think of kissing me when my lips are not painted bright red. They just don’t notice I have lips. The fact that I don’t highlight features adds up to the reasons for my invisibility. The same fact also adds up to the reasons for people to bully me.
But even if I was the most beautiful girl in the world and I wore a thick layer of makeup, I would still be bullied. Because, instead of going to parties and posting pictures in Facebook, I stay home and do my homework. I work to get the perfect grades so that I can go to university and have a dream job. I don’t have time for anything else. So nobody would ever see a picture of me in a swimsuit or see me wearing a short skirt. And what is the point of being hot, if you can’t show it?
So I have to accept I am simply not destined to be popular and try to live with myself without getting a depression or ending up in hospital.
When I go home my mother is waiting for me. She has nothing better to do than take care of me. So she annoys me all the time.
“How was your day, sweetheart? Anything interesting?”
So annoyingly cheery. Like the whole world is one big happy place and we all walk on rainbows and ride unicorns. How can she not get that life is a continuous cycle of *&%^@ ?
“No mom, just a regular day.”
Just another day when books were thrown at me and I was called a hundred offensive things.
“That’s nice. There is soup on the … what is wrong with your wrist?”
Oh no! I forgot to pull my sleeve and now my mom can see the bruise the size of an apple. If I need another bad thing in my day that’s definitely it.
Not that there is a point of me saying that, because to her it sounds like I just said somebody beat me to death and I am afraid to tell who it is, because they might do it again.
“Do I have to talk with someone? Just tell me, please.”
“No! I don’t want you to do anything. Just keep going with your life as if nothing has happened and let me cope on my own.”
Of course my mother doesn’t understand that I can cope on my own, because I am just a little innocent girl, who can’t handle anything, because I am too young.
“How do you expect me to do that? You obviously have a problem and as your mother I have a duty to solve it.”
“No, you don’t need to solve it. You entering the situation will just cause everyone to hate me more and I will start coming back with three bruises instead of one. So please just forget it happened and let’s move on.”
“People hate you? But why? You are smart, creative, friendly. What is there to hate?”
“Nobody cares about this mom! I am not wearing short skirts and high heels and I don’t go to parties like they do. I am just a weird kid.”
There is a moment of silence in the room, while my mother is trying to accept the ugly truth that I am not living a very happy life. In fact, that I am living a very horrible life.
Then she looks at me and says:
“Listen to me, these people live worthless lives. You hear me? Worthless. Their happiness is based on looks and money. You are not fake like them and that’s what’s important.”
“Who cares if I am fake or not? At least they have happiness. They laugh and have friends, I cry alone in the toilet.”
“But you are going to have happiness. You will meet other people and they will be your friends because of you. You just have to wait, my dear.”
“Just shut up, mom. I am not five, I don’t believe in fairytales. Stop being such a kid and act like a grown woman. Just because movies and books have a happy ending this doesn’t mean life does”
“But … you just … have to wait …”
I can see my mom trying to explain her point, but sadly she can’t. Because happy endings don’t exist. And they never will.
I shut the door and go to my room, because I can’t stand looking at mother who is fooling herself and even worse - trying to fool me.
As I enter my room I see my seven year old sister playing on her bed and waiting for me.
“You came back!” I see the excitement in her eyes as she runs to me and hands me a paper. ”Look, I got full marks on the test today! My teacher said I am number one in my class.”
“So what?” I ask and I see her smile getting less wide. ”Just because you have good grades doesn’t mean you are better.”
“But … mommy said …” I can see tears starting to wet her eyes.
“What? She told you that as long as you are smart everybody will love you? And you will have a great life? I can’t believe you can be such a stupid naïve nerd!”
I crumple the paper and throw it on the floor while my sister is running to the bathroom crying.
The power of hurting someone feels good.