The One with the Bullies
Trigger Warning: Child Abuse, Bullying, Self Hatred will be discussed in today’s post.
Raise your hand if you’ve been bullied before?
I unfortunately have had more than my fair share of bullies throughout my life. I’m not really sure why I was always a target, but reflecting back, it was a prevailing theme through childhood into adulthood.
The bullying first began when I went off to school. I was an unfortunate looking child with a severe overbite and horrible haircuts that makes me question my mother’s motives. Comments about my “bucked teeth” or “bad haircut” or what I wore were mercilessly criticized.
What became typical normal mean kid behavior grew into a real monster with my 2nd grade teacher. At this time my parents were divorcing, my oldest big brother just left for the Navy who happened to be my savior from the at home bully, my second oldest brother, we moved from “the farm” to town, and I’m not sure where mom was on a regular basis. (Many years later I found out she was balancing school and work). A lot of changes in Little Lisa’s life without much support.
Instead of seeing the heartbroken child from a broken home, this “teacher” instead found an opportunity to continuously embarrass me in front of the entire class. Specifically when it came to our spelling words for the week. Each week, when we would get a new list of words, I was asked to define every word and spell them correctly in front of the class, without any notes. If I got anything wrong, including providing the wrong definition, she would shame me, make me go back to my desk to write each of the words multiple times until the next day when I would repeat the exercise until Friday, when the spelling test would take place. What made this even worse than the shaming or humiliation, was that looking back, I’m pretty sure I suffered from undiagnosed dyslexia.
At this time, Little Lisa was full of large and small life changes that caused her to feel different emotions that she was not used to or could not fully understand. And worst of all, she had no one to help her sort through them. She hated going to school because the teacher terrified me. It got so bad that if they asked me a simple question, I would just burst into tears for fear of what they were going to make me do in front of the class.
One instance I remember, I was up at their desk for some reason tears streaming down my little cheeks, when they asked me why I was crying. Having to think quickly and not to admit to your abuser that they are the reason for the tears, I made up a story about being afraid of my oldest brother blowing up in a submarine. (I had recently gotten a letter from him telling me that he was in living in a submarine. Kids say the darnedest things). Because of that quick thinking, I found myself being sent to the school counselor’s office to speak with him about my “fear”. I don’t actually remember what we talked about, but what I do remember was that his office was on the very top floor of the old part of the school and it was a horrific color green with green speckled carpet that had been patted down over the decades of use. His office looked down at the two main roads crossing in our tiny little town, where I had a great vantage point to watch the cars go by until I was taken back to my classroom. Some 30 years later, I will still look down at passing traffic finding it soothing.
As the year wrapped up, this teacher spoke to my mother about holding me back because they didn’t believe I could handle the 3rd grade curriculum. I’m sure she had her reasons, but thankfully my mother disagreed and allowed me to move forward with my class to the 3rd grade where we got a new teacher who everyone loved, including me. It was a night and day experience for Little Lisa.
This is just one instance of bullying that I’ve endured throughout my life. But even as sad as this story is, I think the worst of the bullying I’ve had to suffer from has come from my own self.
The comments I make to myself on a regular basis would make any grown man cry. They are the most vial, hateful, disgusting comments that anyone has said to me and yet I take them as truth, even reframing them as a “self pep talk”. Why do I do this to myself? Why can’t I speak LIFE into myself and believe that I am enough? Isn’t there plenty of other messages informing me of how I’m lacking or not good enough in the world? Why am I adding to these messages?
Simply put, its because I don’t think I’m good enough for the love of our merciful God. I have never been good enough and will never be good enough. I have on my person, a scarlet letter that everyone can see and God also takes notice of. But this isn’t true is it?
Nah, if anything, the letter that I have on my person is “F” for forgiven. “L” for loved. “W” for worthy.
It is easier said than to believe. Believing takes a tremendous amount of effort to combat the enemy’s voice. Let’s be real, that’s who is really saying those mean, nasty things about ourselves. The master of disguise, using our own voice against ourselves.
So often, I would believe what the enemy had to say, that I wasn’t ready for the good things that others had. I wasn’t smart enough to be successful in my career. I wasn’t worthy of a loving, devoted partnership. I didn’t deserve a nice home. However, by doing the work of tapping into my “shadow self” and acknowledging the hurt that I’ve endured, providing myself with love and support that Little Lisa didn’t get, I’m able to slowly accept the truth. There are no qualifications.
“But to you who are listening I say: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.” Luke 6:27-28
Jesus spoke this commandment to encourage His followers to be radically different from everyone else. Instead of spreading hatred, He wants us to spread love. Instead of serving justice, He wants us to forgive and move on. As an Enneagram 1 (The Reformer/The Perfectionist) I STRUGGLE with this one! I want justice to be served! However, that is not my place. My place is to practice Jesus's radical message. Be different than the rest. Don’t be defined by their words or actions.
I’ve always wanted to be a writer and speaker. I get a thrill whenever I have the opportunity to speak about a topic I’m passionate about. But with that thrill came the same anxiety I felt as Little Lisa in 2nd grade before her classmates. The words of my teacher swirling around me, telling me that I wasn’t smart enough held me back from sharing most of my writing/creative endeavors. Why am I allowing this person from over decades ago dictate what I do today? Who cares if I misspell a word or use the word incorrectly? Is it really that big of a deal? In the grand scheme of life, it’s not.
Although Ms. Christenson was a villain in my story, she is forgiven. Her words and actions had hurt me but they no longer do. I’m choosing to live radically different.
