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#My third grade teacher mocked me for crying in front of the entire class. Who the fuck does that? I was very rarely bullied by peers

mandareeboo · 3 years

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ok now im curious what your most petty thing is (regarding the dp post)

Oooh boy, here we go! Buckle up fuckers this is gonna be a longer one.

My senior year of high school, I took a creative writing class. Partially because I needed to fill the slot, mostly because I wanted to improve my writing (spoiler: I did not). Now, my high school was a three floor building- first was mostly gym, second was general, and the third was senior lockers and art classes. I spent a good chunk of my schedule senior year on the second and third floor, going between an art class to my earth science (I took that one entirely as filler, but also bc I like science) to my locker and so on.

Creative writing? Creative writing was in the fucking basement. Go to the first floor, go to a corner generally used for health and development classes, to another corner, follow a ramp and some stairs, and boom there it is kind of basement. (Side note but this teacher was REALLY into attendance and would get you in trouble if you were late which was really annoying since basically no other class was in that part of the building).

My creative writing teacher wasn't bad, per se. I've had worse teachers. I had an algebra teacher who delighted in making freshman girls cry and mocking them for it. I had a journalism teacher who would use her class time reporting how Hilary was secretly ill during the election. I had a history teacher say trans people weren't real to an openly gender nonconforming student (I didn't know them well enough to ask for specifics on their alignment, but they were using they/them at that point) and set up assignments just to mock students on the take they were told to make. It was more that she was uncreative and took it out on the kids doing creative writing.

She gave us two books to read. Basically “how I write” by published authors. I don’t remember the first one well enough and I donated it ages ago, but the second was Stephen King’s “On Writing”. It was 3/4′s personal stories about his life and 1/4′s “also write a bit every day”. I mostly remember the first author bc she had those fake dreadlocks white people do when they destroy their hair and she gleefully told a story about making her son have a meltdown at a party or wedding or something bc he got overwhelmed and she wanted him to learn that “sometimes you don’t get what you want”. So. You know. Not much there.

She also instructed us to write in a journal every day, which she would check every few months or so. It had to be at least half a page. She would leave little comments in every one else’s journals when she checked them, but not mine- I realized pretty quickly she was a bit uncomfortable with LGBT+ content, so I made it my mission to make every journal drabble as gay as possible bc I was bored and she couldn’t mark them WRONG when she just stated we needed to write.

But it doesn’t end there! Through the entire class, we got exactly five writing projects. Stories that follow very specific guidelines that we would then read in front of the class, group proofread, and then have the teacher give final grades for. These things were approximately like a thousand words a piece, and I was writing out my 10,000 word “It Starts off Small” story in class when I got bored, so it wasn’t difficult.

Our first project was a character going through a difficult decision. Or... something? I honestly forget the criteria. Anyway, I was HYPE. I’d had this idea for a long time now a human choosing between peaceful death or reincarnation, and this gave me the push to write it! I had a whole thing planned with death being a deer and reincarnation being a wolpertinger (bc reincarnation leads to many possibilities, ed boy, so a Frankenstein bunny made sense to me). Anyway I poured my heart and soul into this bastard and, bright eyed and bushy tailed, handed it in. My classmates all thought it was pretty good. Not to toot m’own horn, but there was some pretty bad ones going in, so I thought I’d get a solid B or something.

I got a D. I guess the struggle was too metaphorical, or it didn’t perfectly fit her criteria. I was devastated. Then I was mad. Bc I was a bored senior who thought they’d made something pretty decent for this completely optional class and her refusal to see that really hurt me at sixteen (I was always a year younger than my other classmates, so despite being a senior I didn’t turn eighteen until almost a year after graduation)

Well, fuck it, I decided. I’m going to parody the shit out of this class.

Our next project was a fantasy story. I was bitter and grumpy. The other fantasy stories read aloud were stuff like “yeah this dude fought a wizard and got a girl, then they went home and banged” (this was not hyperbole, he would’ve written and read the smut if allowed, I knew him personally) and “this girl that NO ONE UNDERSTOOD was called CRAZY but this S@!$ cheerleader who Stole Her Boyfriend so she killed them all” (fun fact: the girl who wrote that was my age and a sort of half-friend from middle school. She was a yaoi fangirl who didn’t mind lesbians as long as they, you know, didn’t FLIRT with her or something.)

So I get up there. It’s the last day of presentations. And I present with a polite cheer. My story is about two magical shepherd type figures who are called Sister Brighten and Brother Dick as they chase down a werewolf who was drunk off his ass and accidentally bit someone else. They then revealed they were basically supernatural designated drivers for the whole town. I made Brighten mention that Dick’s name wasn’t even Richard. I titled it “His Favorite Brand is Grayhound”. It fit every single criteria. I got an A. I could tell she didn’t want to, because there was no comments or anything like everyone else’s, but she had to follow her own criteria.

Our third was a conjoined effort thing so I didn’t pull any fuckery there, but the fourth one was about common myths and spinning them into real or fake. One girl did the hook-handed door handle thing and the boyfriend ended up above his truck hanging (somehow???). I think someone did the age-old adage of a haunted wedding dress? I kind of read through those presentations.

Now, I’m salty-salty at this point. I wasn’t expecting His Favorite Brand is Grayhound to get me a good grade. I half-assed a lot of it. I am in full Not Happy Teenager at this point. I grab a daddy long leg and settle in.

My fourth story of the year is “Paperskin.”

Paperskin is about a boy named Billy with the thinnest skin membrane ever. Just full on body horror. You could see his teeth behind his lips. Billy gets bored one day and wanders out of his house, tries to kick a soccer ball, and breaks a leg. As he’s laying in the grass a daddy long leg bites him- and his skin is so flimsy the fangs sink in and he dies. I’m actually still pretty proud of Paperskin. It’s a horrifying, Edgar Allen Poe of a monstrosity, but it made people squirm, which was the point. The teacher is clearly a bit unnerved at this point, but she gives me another A.

I wrote a more “normal” story after that of a contentious objector forced to house kids going to see if any confirmed soldier deaths were any of their parents as my final one and I could feel her spite as she gave me a B.

So, yeah. That’s the story of when I tormented my creative writing teacher with The Gays and my weird ass sense of humor after she called one of my best works at that age a piece of shit.

Here’s a google drive of these bad boys, because yes I do still have these things. I turned these fuckers in for grades, people.

#Ask #Anon #Question Mandar #Life #Humor #Writing #I was a good kid I swear #I didn't make much noise and I didn't argue much #It was just this one lady

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zelvyth · 4 years

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From a very young age it was reinforced that my ADHD was a disability I was meant to overcome rather than a tool I could use to better myself. I didn’t even know that I had been diagnosed, and that my mother had chosen not to medicate me, until I was partway through highschool. By that point I had already begun to give up on ever truly “making it” in life. The hurdles I needed to overcome had demoralized me to the point of near total apathy. Between my sexuality and early coming out in a small town highschool, and my various mental health problems, I felt like no one in the world saw things from my point of view. The last blow to my self esteem came when my grade 12 english teacher, the true decider of fate to any young person, told me my final thesis on Lady Macbeth being one of the greatest example of the flaws in Machiavelli’s “The Prince” was brilliant, but due to formatting and scattered grammar issues, she could give me no higher than a 60%. After years of getting consistent high 90’s in my english classes as well as other subjects, I had failed this extremely crucial essay due to the idiosyncrasies of the most frustrating language known to humankind. I passed that class with a 68, and felt like my fate was sealed. No chance at getting into any University in the country without redoing 5 months of work because one person believed that following the rules was a more important indication of intelligence than original ideas and the ability to make an argument. It crushed me. I admit that I didn’t put in the effort, but I had spent my entire life being told I was incredibly intelligent. It was the one thing I held onto. I felt betrayed by the education system. Though it was also due to many other factors at the time, this contributed to the second of my four suicide attempts. Today, I reject that philosophy.

When a person with ADHD is thinking, they connect ideas in their heads much faster than the average person. It can be confusing and disorienting to the people around them. I constantly have to explain how I got from point A to point B because the points connect automatically in my head. It’s exhausting, so I frequently do not bother to try. It’s extremely helpful when crafting an argument, however it can be debilitating in many aspects of modern life. Things the average person doesn’t think about, can be crippling for me. Without a true passion towards something, my ability to focus becomes hazy and my thoughts become scattered. I spend the majority of the day stuck in my head having conversations with myself instead of doing “normal” things with my time. I have spent my life being told that ADHD is my weakness, today I can tell you with the utmost certainty that it is my greatest strength.

When the international pandemic of the respiratory disease “Covid-19” truly began and the world went into full nationwide lockdown, the bistro that I had, for the most part, happily been employed at shut down. After 8 years of honing my culinary craft certain that my skills, though undervalued, would always be needed somewhere, I was out of a job. Indefinitely. So was most of the country that worked with their hands or, in some capacity, physically with other people. Unless you were able to conduct business through zoom conferences or were a suddenly “essential” employee like a fast food worker, you were left with little to do but sit and think or try desperately to distract yourself from the increasingly troubling world around you. Luckily, to my surprise, the conservative government had pledged to keep us all fed and watered as best they could. What deeply worried me was the knowledge that my friends south of the border, through no fault of their own, and already mostly furious with their government, were not being treated with the same bare minimum of respect. I knew it was a recipe for true disaster and widespread civil unrest as early as march.

I watched while the culture of social media, at least from my own lgbt bias, slowly started to shift and I picked up a lot of the big picture through memes and personally shared anecdotes. Celebrities were being ripped apart as they tried to get our attention again from their huge mansions while people sat at home worried about how to feed their children. Using insensitive phrasing like “we’re all in this together” when they undeniably weren’t. It quickly became a social caste system. The desperately poor trying to creatively make money any way they could. The often needlessly endangered. And the upper class for whom, little had changed besides the inability to do whatever they want at any given time. The lines were very clearly drawn. While the rich bemoaned their accessibility to haircuts, the poor argued with landlords about rent. All the while another group was frequently paid minimum wage to work on the proverbial front lines; flipping hamburgers, being yelled at by the rich because you were out of everything with the supply chain so damaged, or literally saving peoples lives. The anger and frustration quickly took over nearly every form of social media. Subtly, but day by day it grew. There was only so much one could do from inside their apartments, and globally, the havenots found solace and comfort with one another. The narratives of meme culture, which had matured and specialized far beyond the early days of “lolcats” and “trollface” comics, became almost exclusively about mocking the rich and their inability to deal with slight inconveniences.

Nearly every month of 2020 was a new major nationwide crisis and people had little else to do but talk about it or ignore it. The year kicked off with serious threat of a third world war because Donald Trump was tweeting intentionally inflammatory remarks towards the fascist leader of North Korea. All while nearly the entire country of Australia was ravaged by forest/bush fire. January saw a clearly corrupt president unbelievably not be impeached. Sparking outrage among, in my humble opinion, any sane individual. This also exposed, to anyone who knew all the facts, that the systems to hold those in power accountable was clearly broken and corruptible. Towards the end of January, beloved basketball player Kobe Bryant died in a horrible helicopter accident involving his daughter. Late February leading into early March was when global fears over Coronavirus began to be taken extremely seriously by every government in the world, the exception being the United States and the Trump administration. By late April, the country had over a hundred thousand dead, and nearly a quarter of its population out of a job. The irony of this, is that the calls to reopen the country didn’t come from those that had lost their jobs, but the upper class that had grown restless deprived from their usual comforts. Meanwhile we openly mocked them on instagram, tumblr, and twitter. Trying desperately to make light of a horrible situation and bring at least a little levity to their lives. News that a new breed of dangerously fatal hornets had migrated to North America was derided as a filler episode. One of my personal favourite takes on the year as a whole so far was a comparison to the four horseman of the apocalypse. January representing War, February representing Pestilence, March representing Famine, and April representing Death. In fact a lot of meme culture started to take on an extremely apocalyptic vibe. The message for many was clear, and depressing.

Then things started to happen really fast, so fast that for many it would make your head spin looking at it from the outside. It began with a video featuring a white Canadian woman from Waterloo named Amy Cooper that went viral across the globe. In the Ramble area of Central Park in NYC, this woman was filmed by a clearly peaceful, yet insistent, black man named Christian Cooper, no relation, asking her to leash her dog. This is a bylaw of the area. The woman refused and began to become very distressed, roughly handling her dog by the collar. She started dailing 911 and accused the man of assaulting her to the dispatcher. What many understood about this act, and rightfully called her out in outrage over, is that she was using her knowledge of how police handle black people in America to threaten this mans life over leashing her dog. She has been fired, and the shelter has taken her dog back.

Two days later, as I was travelling to my family’s cottage to “get away from it all and unplug”, a friend sent me a snapchat video from Minneapolis. It was on fire. I immediately did everything I could to try to find out what had happened. That, is when I saw the video of 8 minutes and 46 seconds of a police officer with his knee on the neck of another human being. This did not shock, nor suprise me. I had followed the many accounts of police killing people on video since 2014 when I was 16. When the Ferguson protests over Michael Brown’s killing by police officers were broadcast over most of the developed world. I had seen little change, despite Barrack Obama being President. This continued to happen for the next 6 years, though there were no more protests. Some of the people of those original protests that started the Black Lives Matter Movement, went missing over the next several years. Mainly those that had been photographed.

George Floyd’s death, I feel, was the straw that broke the camels’ back. Which is how anyone who has personally experienced police mistreatment and injustice would understand watching that video. A societal contract had been broken. And Minneapolis started to burn down the city that would let this happen to their friend, their neighbour, their father, their brother, and most importantly, their son. The words that chilled me to my very core… And continue to make me cry when I think about. Continue to make me want to punch every cop I run into.The words that have caused me to continue having this argument every day with everyone I know. The words that make me want to scream and rage and burn that country to the ground…. “Mama”

In his dying breaths this man called out to his mother. Who had died 2 years earlier. Who could not come save him. The police officer casually, with his hands in his pockets, knowing he could get away with it, murdered that man while he called out for his dead mother. Suffocated him to death in the middle of a global pandemic driven by respiratory disease. If I had been in Minneapolis that night, I would have helped burn it to the ground.

Something I didn’t expect happened then. Something I didn’t expect when I saw the fires and the rage from mostly black citizens of the city. As I watched Fox News try to turn the story into a conversation about rioting and looting rather than Police accountability. Other peaceful protests started up in other cities. My entire social media feed from multiple sources was filled with people discussing their anger and vowing to protest it. I don’t like to admit that I didn’t see this coming. But on May 26th, as I ravenously tried to keep up from the comfort of a cottage on Crystal Lake Ontario, a spark of hope for humanity that I had lost a long time ago started to ignite.

Something interesting happens when you get most of your information from social media. It either makes you hyper critical of everything you’re told and willing to research anything important, or it makes you willing to believe anything your friends tell you. As the protests kicked off in major cities across America, after months of inactivity, my ADHD kicked into high gear. I used every neuron of my brain power to follow the protests from as many different angles as I could. Most importantly, I followed the story from the people who were at them. That’s what growing up in modern society makes you do. After months if not years if not decades of being lied to for personal gain constantly. It makes you pay attention to the people who have nothing to gain.

I got back to my appartment from my cottage a day later, still glued to my phone. Barely talking, barely eating, barely sleeping. I watched police officers in riot gear throw tear gas into peaceful protests in every city in America. Tear gas, by the way, is an international war crime in combat situations. I watched media with an implicitly right wing bias condemn the protests. Convincing people that looting was worth a war crime. I watched it work. It worked with my own father. It did not work for me. I watched the news from political biases of both sides but took most of it with a grain of salt. That’s what I had been taught to do from as young as 14 by the world I grew up in. The news could give me general information. However, the story was on the ground and I knew from experience that people would try to bury it so I had to watch it as quickly as possible. I watched friends of mine in the states get tear gassed and beaten while exercising their first amendment rights. I watched the news condemn the protests. I was horrified. I watched the peaceful protesters of police brutality in New York get beaten and gassed from a minimum of 30 different perspectives of the people I knew and trusted, and those I didn’t. I watched the peaceful protestors in LA get beaten and gassed from the same amount of perspectives. I watched them throw flash bombs and shoot rubber coated bullets into the faces of my friends in every city in America. I watched the President of the United States order the peaceful protestors in front of the White House to be beaten and gassed so he could have an awkward photo-op with a fucking bible. I watched this for a week straight from every angle available. Day in and day out. Every hour I was conscious, I watched fascism try to grab power in in every city in America. I watched people in powerful positions deny it.

It wasn’t just paying attention to the protests and the news of them explicitly. I wasn’t just filled with horror. I was also watching something wonderfully unexpected happen. I watched my black friends, my gay friends, my asain friends, and my intelligent friends, begin to weaponize social media. I watched them beg all of their friends to do the same. So did I, even though I felt like there wasn’t anything I could really do from cozy liberal Waterloo. I watched us all turn the algorithms against the people who made them. I did everything I could to make sure you couldn’t turn away. I told my gay white friends condemning the actions of protestors that his rights came from a riot. I watched them shrink in fear of my voice. My father told me I was getting caught up in left wing rhetoric. I tore his arguments to shreds. He told me broad angry statements don’t do anything. I told him broad angry statements create the conversation we’re having. Resistance is a highway with many lanes, and I knew my lane.

You grow up, especially in my age, especially when you’re gay, especially when you are exposed to a lifetime of stories of rebellion against tyranny, hearing about the power of resistance. As I marched in Waterloo with over thirty thousand people I didn’t know, I realized that I have never truly understood that power. How it surges through your body like electricity as you scream until your voice is hoarse. It’s a high better than any drug known to man, than any pride parade where I was pandered to by corporations for hours. It took my fear, and my anger, and my helplessness and turned it into raw power exploding from my body. I continued to watch people I knew deny reality.

The protests grew. They spread across the world like wildfire. I went to facebook, a place I avoid because I don’t agree with the majority of people on it, and told anyone who would listen to me that this is what Pride means. What it truly means to be proud of your community. Not a rainbow flag in a store window, not a corporation asking you to buy it’s rainbow backpack. But turning apathy in face of evil into raw unbridled electricity. I watched the protests spread to Montreal and Toronto, I watched the police mishandle things there too. I watched violence perpetuated by the state against my friends, people I’ve known for years. The power I felt merely grew. It grew with every flash grenade and bullet and tear gas canister shot at my friends. It will not subside till this is over or until I die. I’m going to spend the next decade giving up the comfortable life of good food, great drinks, and fantastic company that I found in the restaurant industry. I’m going to spend a decade getting my Law degree to fight for every last one of us in the courtroom because that is a place I can make it count.

Today is June 8th of the year 2020 and I began writing this piece at Noon, it is now 4:11 P.M. I have done zero editing and I refuse to. I submit this as my revised final essay. I want to know when you got behind the protests. Because if it was as you were reading this, I deem you unworthy to judge my critical thinking skills. If it was yesterday I think you should be ashamed of yourself. I was with them from hour one. You should have been too. How dare you spend years teaching children about racism and oppression. How dare you tell me that I’m not worthy of higher education in any form. Telling children that wikipedia is unreliable as a source is idiotic, it’s one of the most peer reviewed encyclopedia’s to ever exist. How dare you tell me and the young adults you teach that you don’t give out scores higher than ninety percent. What is the point of forcing teenagers to write in cursive. Why must I live the experiences you write about in your precious properly formatted essays. In this country a 68 is two percent shy of getting into any University. It’s sentencing an intelligent person with an array of disabilities a life of believing they have no power. Despite my own mistakes at the time and the amount I have grown as a person since, I will hold you personally accountable for that.

As a closing statement, to every English teacher in this province, no, to every English teacher in the great country of Canada. Think very hard about when exactly you put your full support behind this movement. Because your curriculum is outdated, and absolutely useless in the real world. And your racism is showing.

Post Script.

There is no bibliography of unbiased sources because all sources are biased. You have a supercomputer in your pocket and this should all be public information. Look it up.

#blm #nojusticenopeace #adhd #adhd brain #protests #canada #manic

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momo-de-avis · 5 years

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I am going to tell a story I have never, not once, told anyone before. Not any of my friends, not my family, not my boyfriend, not even my therapist, who would be the one person to benefit from this. I have no idea why, there isn’t a single logical reason, except maybe because I’ve been holding on to it for over fifteen years.

between the ages of 8 and 13 was when my life was at the lowest point. It’s not something that became clear to me until very recently, to be honest.

When I was 7, I had a best friend. Let’s call her R. R and I were little shits. We were mischievous little creatures. We got into detention constantly, the teachers kept sending our parents cards, and we didn’t care. R was bossy as hell too, but I didn’t mind. I like her. She loved barbies. Her mom bought her a barbie wedding dress one day and this bitch showed up at school--this was kindergarten--with that wedding dress to marry a boy because she decided to. That’s the sort of person R was. People thought she was too bossy but I didn’t, and I didn’t care. We were little shits together.

Then one day, in second grade, out of the fucking blue, she didn’t show up. I remember that morning the director came into our classroom and told us she had bad news. She said R had left the school and wasn’t coming back, that her parents had decided she shouldn’t attend our school any longer, but never told us why. This was right in the middle of the school year and I was shaken. Literally overnight, I lost my best friend. She called over our house several times after that, but never gave me an explanation--and in any way, I was fucking 7. I couldn’t understand, but didn’t care. She still invited me to her birthday parties, or to go play with her at the S. João park, or to spend time at the beach, and that was cool for me. But I had lost my one friend at school.

Then came third grade, the moment my life spiralled out of control.

In third grade, we had a new kid. Let’s call her M. Nobody liked M, and I didn’t understand why. I didn’t care. M got close to me. I don’t remember how we started talking, but I remember vividly seeing this lonely kid shunned by others and thinking that wasn’t right, that I understood her. So I became her friend.

All around me, the other kids kept telling me M wasn’t to be trusted. That she was a bitch. I didn’t understand why---she was nice to me, she liked hanging out with me, and I just thought she was lonely. I was all she had.

And then, people started to get to know M. And she made more friends. And out of the blue, M turned every single kid on me. And she embarked on a journey to antagonize me that would last until my eighth grade.

This kid liked to be at the centre, it became clear to me. She wanted the attention. As soon as someone else grabbed her attention, she stopped talking to me. Her attitude changed: she was rude, dismissive. She mocked me in front of others, called me names, called me a baby, called this and that. And I was completely lost. I couldn’t explain it. The very people who had called her a bitch behind her back to me were now her friends, and she kept antagonizing me. throughout the rest of the school year, until fourth grade, I lost whatever friend I had. I don’t think I spent another recess in the company of anyone at all until I was 14.

A person like this, of course, became nothing short of an absolute demon when puberty hit. Youse, M wasn’t just suddenly popular by acting mean and being a bully. She was the hot one as well. She had porcelain white skin, she blushed easily, she had these light eyes---I forgot the colour---and her body developed faster than any other girl. At 12, she had boobs, and she used that to her advantage. In 2002, she would show up in school wearing those keds shoes that were popular at the time, and she wore piggy-tails and chewed gum. She knew she was hot and she used that to her benefit. She played truth or dare with everyone, she kissed every boy in the class, she let the guys grope her boobs because she had them bigger than all of us. She would brag about this too.

Every bad boy there was, she got them sniffing after her ass. There was P, who dated her---12 years later, I learn he is a drug addict and lost everything. There was that other dude, I think they called him Bubba, who kept getting into detention (never heard from him again). And there was a group of bad boys in my clss who just adored how bold she was.

It should be noted this was private school. In private school, there’s no mercy. These kids will be out there fucking at 13 and binge drinking at 14, and if you don’t do it, you’re bound to be ostracized. Which is what happened to me. Because the only kid who befriended this bitch when she was 8 had a really soft spot for making me hurt. She made me cry, alone and humiliated, in front of everyone in class so often I dead ass lost count. She made fun of everything about me when it came to being a girl---no boobs, no puberty, no this, no that, look at me, I’m such a girly girl, and you’re a little boy. One day, she even put fucking sand in my hair! Because she really, truly knew no limit.

But this was private school. In private school, especially when you attend it for nine fucking years, teachers don’t care. I’ve seen more bullying in that school---including teachers---than I saw any sort of violence in public school. The teachers thought I was a whiney baby. Because, you see, my brother attended that school, and he was a genius---a smart student, good grades, hot boy who had all the girls after him and he had tons of friends. So why wasn’t I up his league? It had to be my fault.

And this bitch M, she was an above average student as well. And she never got in trouble. She always got away with it. There was a charm to her---she was an alpha sort of person. She got whatever she wanted out everyone, and she mostly used her femininty and her body to obtain what she wanted of her friends.

And the teachers really believed I was at fault. I remember this one time, so vividly it still baffles me, when I was upset about something but I was keeping it to myself. When I sat at my desk, I took my jacket off and flung it over my shoulder, and the zipper hit the desk. The desks weren’t made of wood, but plastic, so the bang was super loud and hollow. My teacher---who had so often praised my brother and then tell my mother ‘I just don’t get why she’s not at his level’---stopped the entire class and decided to teach me a lesson. He said, and I still remember the words (and their tone): “You think you’re always the victim, don’t you? You think you are always the poor one being victimized, but look at you, you can’t even act normally.”

Everyone was staring back at me, I was burning up and I had no idea what I had just done. I held my tears as best as I could and just.... bore with the rest of the day.

And as the years progressed, M just got a lot more demonic. I have sincerely forgotten most of it, I think for my sake and not from my decision per se, but the scar it left just hasn’t healed yet. I remember her yelling at everyone in school I had lice. I remember someone inviting me to their house for a sleepover, and because I was so fucking deprived of humanity I went, only for that person to share details with her and have M profess before school stupid shit I forgot about me. “She wears kiddies’ underwear!” I was terrified of getting undressed in the locker room because M loved pointing out the littlest things that only rich kids in private school care about. One of them once complained that the fact that my socks were worn out at the sole was ‘disgusting’ and I was, obviously, just poor. Because in private school, ‘poor’ is an insult.

I remember crying myself to sleep every single night on our trip to Serra da Estrela. I remember M driving me to the edge so violently I stormed out in the middle of an event---I don’t even remember why---with tears in my eyes, barely breathing.

And I remember what the teachers told me: stop being a baby, stop playing the victim, you always think you’re right, don’t you?

And here’s where my life got even better.

My mom was at her absolue worst. It was precisely in this moment that she had decided that, whatever happened in her life, I was going to pay for it. And my brother signed up for it as her usual accomplice.

At 12 years old, I was barely anorexic. I wasn’t eating, I was crying myself to sleep and I had ‘mysterious bruises all over my body’ that not a fucking adult in my life dared to wonder why they were there. I didn’t study. I didn’t read a book. I didn’t live. I didn’t breathe at all. Every time I pick one of my diaries up and read the words of that 12 year old kid, I cry at the thought of just how miserably isolated I was. Everything that should have been a red flag is there, so crudely, so raw, I just... Cannot understand how every single adult in my life missed it: suicide ideation, begging God for things to change, begging God to get M out of my life. Every single entry starts with either ‘another shit day at school’ or ‘something different happened’. Every story is a story of betrayal: someone I thought was my friend, again, sided with M to humiliate me in public. Mom is losing her mind again. Mom is pissed. Mom is unbearable.

I developed serious rage issues pretty young. I used to throw dolls and water bottles at the walls only to swallow a scream. I punched doors and one day broke the computer screen with a single punch. I ruined my things because I got suddenly so blinded by rage that, if I didn’t let it go, I would suffocate to death. And I just hit whatever was there. I grabbed things and I crushed them with my hands. I punched my legs and knees because at least nobody could see it and it didn’t make a noise and the pain just felt relieving. I just had to let that rage out there, and the entire universe had come together to let me know that, whatever was happening, it was my fault. My whole fucking fault. And I believed it.

My dad was never really around for complicated reasons I shouldn’t get into, but there was a time, between 11 and 13, when he tried to connect. We went skiing together twice. I visited him in his home (Porto) often.

And my mom hated my dad. And I was the one who was going to pay for it.

She would go on a ramble, throwing a tantrum like a child. The day before I would leave for a trip, she would find every lose end possible to humiliate me. She would barge into my room and yell ‘you are a pig, look at the pigsty you live in’. I had to pack my bags completely alone. If I asked for help, she wouldn’t help me. ‘I’m too busy’, ‘leave me alone’, ‘I work 8 hours a day and come to home to deal with this---how do you not know how to pack a bag?’ I was also 11, 12, 13.

Every single time I visited my dad, this happened. My mom would go on a rage---never in front of my brother---and she would make sure I was going to pay for being the daughter of this man she hated. She humiliated me so often i shrivelled and winced and hid away. I started finding solutions to problems on my own. I never sought her help for anything.

So, between this and M’s doings, I was a few steps below depressed. And not ONE adult noticed. Not a single teacher at school---in fact, they were convinced of the opposite. Because you see, I am the daughter of an important man in our country. He is rich and he has connections and everyone knows him. And that was enough for people to see that I never had problems---I had everything! Being called an ungrateful spoiled child was a common thing. One time, I accidentally burned the top shelf of my bookcase---it was superficial only, but it left a black mark on the wood. My mom wouldn’t have it. She lost her mind, and whenever I did something ‘wrong’, she would call my brother.

My brother, very calmly, looked me in the eye and said “Mom could have you kicked out if she wanted, do you know why? Because this bookcase isn’t yours, it’s hers. It belongs to her. So she could sue you for property damage.” Yes, a 23 year old told his 13 year old sister that her mom would sue her for accidentally burning a shelf superficially. And my mom never did a thing about it either. She stood and watched.

I had no one for years. My mom isolated me from my family and the world. When I wanted to join extracurricular activities, she forbade me---because I’m a girl, and I had to be controlled. Every single summer, I spent it isolated. Every school break, I spent inside my home. My grandmother, who very much admitted to my face she preferred my brother over me, considered me a nuisance. My mother NEVER played with me. And my brother... Boy, he was the major bully.

When I was 12, one time, my report card came home. I was nearly failing two classes---math and portuguese. I only excelled in languages---I was always top student in english and above average in french. But math, I sucked at it. And even though I was already developing a taste for writing, I sucked at portuguese. But I had a 2 out of 5 at both.

My brother screamed at me for hours. He asked me how was I not ashamed. He asked me what was I doing.

He then grabbed me by my wrist and dragged me across the house, shoved me into my room and said: You are not leaving this room until school starts again, and all you are going to do is study. And then, he slammed the door shut and locked it.

At night, my grandmother came in behind his back to bring me a plate of food. I wasn’t even allowed to eat, but I guess she felt sorry.

The very next day, he had forgotten about it. And I didn’t see him for weeks.

Shortly after, my mom---for some FUCKING reason---decided I should visit a therapist. Except she never told me it was a therapist. She said it was a ‘special doctor’. When I got there, I was wondering what the fuck kind of doctor talked.

He pulled out this whiteboard and drew three stick figures: a woman, a man and a child. He said: imagine this is a family, and they’re going out on a cruise. What do you think happens to them?

I did what any kid in my position would: shrugged and looked away. It took me about ten minutes to say: they all died.

When I told this to my therapist—you know, the one I actually picked for myself—she explained it was merely a child’s way of getting out of there fast. But for years I wondered—how the fuck do you let a kid get away with this?

Thoughts of death to me were so constant there is fucking murder ideation in my diaries. I wrote down with red pens in a confusing, horrifying handwriting ‘I hope my mom dies’ because I couldn’t deal with this any longer. And I knew my mom was reading them too! Because I caught her stealing my diary from my desk more than once.

At thirteen, I was on the brink of just... I don’t know. Looking back, I swear to God I don’t know how I survived. It was around this time that I started getting head-first into writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote on every margin of every textbook, on my notebooks and every scrap of paper I could find. I carried a notebook with me where I wrote poems—I remember the other kids trying to steal it from me to read it.

And my teachers thought I was distracted. My grades kept plummeting, my attention span was that of an ant on LSD and all I did with any hint of passion was write. And every single person tried to steal that from me—because it was distracting.

Eight grade is pretty much erased from my mind. That was probably when a lot more was done than single punches, but I don’t recall. I do believe a part of me just deleted everything for survival, but the diaries I kept are evidence of it was like, because everything remained: M was still a bitch, harassing me, chasing after me, humiliating me, and my mom was still unbearable, still screaming at me, still complaining about every single thing I did, and my brother still called me stupid and dumb and said I was a shame and all that—it’s all in the back of my head. I do know that was when the infamous Serra da Estrela episode happened—what’s more ironic is that I actually have pictures. I took a fucking film camera with me and had those pictures developed.

And then... It all stopped.

In ninth grade, M left. Apparently, her parents were done with her shit. And things changed. The kids who had ganged up on me suddenly realized I was... Kind of cool. I started hanging out with those who had once been M’s friends and they... Liked me. I changed the way I looked and turned into a fucking star of a 2000s music video, and people followed my trend? They actually saw me as human, and a cool one at that.

All it took was for one fucking demon to go away.

The last I heard of that bitch, she was sent to the north of the country by her parents because she couldn’t stop fucking up. And also, she is living in Poland now, and guess what she is? Just guess what this fucking demonic human being does in her life?

Animals’ Rights Activist. Because of fucking course you would, you fucking cow.

This is a period of my life I try not to think about. It’s there and it’s almost untouched by me. It’s locked in a box that I don’t let many access to. But it defined me in the worst way possible. It fucking broke me to pieces, and whatever good things I had about myself, they were plucked away. When I look back, I can’t hold my tears because I was surrounded by adults who should have seen the signs, because they were so fucking clear, but they all willingly ignored them. As if it wasn’t enough to be ganged on by one girl who apparently made it her life mission to ruin my life, the teachers signed up for it too. Not because she was that good—but because I was the daughter of an important man, and the sister of a former brilliant student.

And I just so happened to be a fucking screw-up in everything I did as well.

Rebuilding my confidence from that is nearly impossible on most days. I am 29 today and I still wince at the thought of those things. I still haven’t recovered from this shit.

Every time I refuse to hang out with my family and have to bear with people’s judgement because family is family, I am sent back to that day when my brother dragged me across the house like an animal after calling me stupid and dumb and lazy and locking me in my room. I’m sent back to the time when I was 6 years old and he forced me to sit down at the kitchen table with the book open to do my homework after I told him I didn’t understand it and expected for the teacher to explain. But he wouldn’t have it. He would force me to stay up until 1AM, and wouldn’t let me go to bed until I finished. And when that wasn’t enough, he’d beat me. Just slaps after slaps to the back of my head until I cried and begged my mom to do something—but she just watched. Every time I am sent back to those days when my mom called me pig and treated me like shit simply because I dared to have a dad. I am sent to those days when she joined my brother in humiliating me.

And these days, she stands next to my boyfriend, telling funny stories about me when I was a kid, speaking proudly of just how I was always an artist! Smiling and full of cheers while my brother casually holds a glass of wine, leans into my boyfriend and says: the box of shame is opening up!, uh-oh, Ana, are you ready?—all of them, acting like normal people, acting like what I ever was mattered to them in the least, like this was how it always was—and I looked at them and I think: how fucking dare you?

I am 29 and still undoing the mess you caused, and you smile and toast with wine glasses like nothing happened. No matter how much you lie to others, there is a stack of diaries from a terrified 11, 12, 13 year old, wishing on every page that she would die, begging God to kill everyone around her because she couldn’t deal with it any longer, just wishing to go to sleep and never wake up again. A girl who was underweight because she refused to eat, who slept ten hours a day and who cried herself to sleep every night, a girl who punched walls and herself and who broke thins because no one fucking listened to me until I showed it in your beloved materialistic things turning up broken—alone, isolated, with not a single friend, developing mental issues that would prevail for the rest of her life. And these people cheer and make fun jokes about how much I used to scream, or how creative I always was as a kid.

Go to fucking hell every single one of you.

I’m sorry about this. I don’t know what went through my head, but here you have it. It’s seven in the morning and I can’t sleep, so I figured I’d put this to good use, considering I somehow couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And M, wherever you are, I swear to fucking God I will break your fucking nose one day, you slimy bitch.

One thing I have to concede: M gave up her innocence willingly in the name of popularity. She was an object at every guy’s hands. She let boys do to her whatever they wanted just to be popular. And that has got to be the saddest thing ever. I never cared about that because I considered myself ugly—not because I believed it, but because everyone told me—even though I enjoyed pampering myself. But whenever I saw sticking her tongue into everyone’s mouth or taking her bra off in front of other kids, that was too much for me. And when I look back, I realize she made herself an object for the sake of popularity.

And my god, that was so sad that I truly pity her.

#personal #long post #very personal #to delete #like in the morning when i wake up lol

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hollyjjangu · 7 years

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Ohmygod this is so incredibly late and i’m so so sorry for that! I just got really busy with school and other personal things, however, we promise now that the new year has come to be a lot more active on this blog because our ask box is just filled with so many requests so there will be a lot coming your way!

- admin artemis *:･ﾟ✧ ♡

“Four-eyes, you finished that physics assignment, right?” Jeongguk calls him nonchalantly, lean figure resting against the lockers in front of Kim Taehyung’s, who was currently retrieving his textbooks and shoving them into his bookbag.

Taehyung blows his bangs out from his face, pushing up his glasses.

“‘Course I did, you’d kill me if I didn’t.” He states simply, shoving the finished assignment onto Jeongguk’s chest. “Don’t copy it word for word, Mr. Kwon is anal about copying.”

That was just Taehyung’s everyday routine. Jeon Jeongguk hasn’t completed a single homework assignment, review packet, essay in seemingly months. Not with Kim Taehyung around, absolutely submissive and terrified of the younger boy despite the age difference. Taehyung was skinny, body lanky and small. He wore clothing much too large for his tiny frame, hair always in disheveled curls, thick large frames perched atop of his nose bridge.

He was the perfect target.

Sure he was occasionally sassy, threw in a snarky remark here and there but he never once did anything about Jeon Jeongguk’s prying eyes on his test sheet during calculus.

He knew better not to, if he did, there would be consequences.

Jeongguk likes to think of it as something akin to a trade-off. Taehyung does all of Jeongguk’s school work, and in return, Jeongguk doesn’t beat the living shit out of him.

So every morning, Jeongguk waits impatiently at Taehyung’s locker, foot tapping in irritance and he inwardly curses the older boy for taking so damn long. His excuse for being late was always something that was awfully pleasant and sweet of him that made Jeongguk absolutely sick to his stomach.

And sure his caring personality was rather admirable, but Jeongguk’s grade in physics was far from it.

It isn’t anything out of the ordinary for Taehyung to be shoved up against a locker, Jeongguk’s fingers grasped tightly against the older boy’s collar.

“What did I say about being late? You think you can do everything on your time? We had an agreement, Kim!” His grip only tightens, slamming the boy against his locker again.

“S-sorry.. I—”

“Oh, let me guess, little Soonshimie wanted to play in the snow!” He mocks with an overly high-pitched voice.

“I said sorry! I did the fucking review packet, let me go damn it.” Taehyung huffs, hand reaching up to shove Jeongguk’s arm away from his throat. He finally loosens his grip and Taehyung doesn’t waste a moment to break free from his grasp, not bothering to hide the angered expression on his face.

Like any other morning, he opens his physics folder, hands him the copy with Jeongguk’s name written neatly on the top and zips up his bag, throwing it around his shoulder before curving around the younger boy and making his way to his own class.

Jeongguk watches him as he walks away, he watches him walk confidently with his chin held up high.

And in class, Jeongguk is seated right beside him, watching the boy who is tentative to the teacher scribbling formulas onto the board, lips pursed into a pout, hand keeping his chin held up and with the ridiculously large glasses framing his face.

He looks… cute.

It’s bizarre, really.

Jeon Jeongguk is nothing but rugged clothing, disheveled hair, smudged eyeliner and a scowl never budging from his face.

The complete opposite of the sun that was Kim Taehyung to simplify.

Something about the focused yet slight confused expression on his soft plush features causes Jeongguk’s heart to contract in his chest. So he softens for a moment, admiring the boy and his angelic features. It doesn’t last very long however, it lasts a good ten minutes only to return to his usual stoic douche-canoe persona.

“I hope you understand this shit Kim, I'm not settling for a B.” Jeongguk reminds in a hushed whisper, Taehyung doesn't bother to reply, only giving him the roll of his eyes in response.

Rolling his eyes is the farthest he'll go, otherwise consequences were sure to follow.

The first time had been after school, the third day in which Jeongguk had begun copying Taehyung’s school work and the boy had stood up for himself, had told him he wasn’t allowed to take credit for all of his efforts and that earned him a pretty shiner on his left cheek.

He hasn’t had a voice since. Just witty remarks that he somehow managed to get away with. He knew where his limit was, he knew how far he could push it before Jeongguk would really give it to him.

Jeongguk didn’t say anything to him again that day.

But he was at his locker the following morning.

As per usual, physics and calculus homework. But what was out of the ordinary, was the sight of Hanbin, towering over a fearful looking Taehyung with a nose dripping blood.

“Do you know what I went through when I got home? All because you forgot to finish a fucking problem? You’re fucking good for nothing.” He spits, Taehyung finds his eyes pouring out tears he can’t bring himself to suppress, he finds his lip quivering uncontrollably as the overbearing urge to just say something overwhelms him.

He doesn’t have to though, because the fingers around his neck are gone and Hanbin is so suddenly lying on the ground.

“Don’t ever fucking touch him again. Understood?”

He grabs Hanbin by his shirt, “find a new nerd, this one’s mine.” Jeongguk quite literally spits in this boy’s face, not bothering to keep his saliva at bay that seems to be attracted to Hanbin’s face like a damn magnet. And with that, he throws the boy back onto the ground.

Without a moment to spare, Jeongguk’s fingers latch onto Taehyung’s thin wrist, yanking the boy up onto his feet and makes way down the hall and away from the scene hastily.

“W-where are you taking me?” Taehyung croaks weakly.

“Just stop talking.” Is his curt response.

“I’m going to be late to class—”

“You’re bleeding, damn it, can’t you put school aside for one second?” And then Jeongguk halts, he’s taken him to the 26th hallway, an unused hallway strictly off limits. There aren’t ever any classes in session down this hall, it has absolutely no supervision and thus is blocked off from any students.

“We aren’t allowed to be in here..” An unsettling feeling consumes him, he’s never been down here before, anyone who is caught gets an immediate suspension.

“Doesn’t matter, tilt your head up.” Jeongguk states flatly, as he reaches down into his bag, withdrawing his gym clothes and holding the fabric of his t-shirt to his nose, finger resting below Taehyung’s chin, he lifts his head.

“Blow.”

Taehyung does as commanded, wincing softly when his nose stings in response. Jeongguk pinches his nose clean from the last traces of blood, pulling away the now dirtied shirt and taking a good look at Taehyung’s face.

The boy’s eyes are puffy and glossy, probably from all that crying he had done moments ago. His hair sits atop of his head in a mess of curls, falling over his glasses frame messily and it’s so ridiculously adorable Jeongguk has no idea what comes over him when he so suddenly brushes his fringe away from his eyebrows.

Taehyung’s entire face flushes, it isn’t until then that they both take in the fact that they’re actually quite close to one another.

Taehyung blinks, repeatedly, waiting for the younger to take a step back but he doesn’t.

He does the exact opposite actually. It’s seemingly just a blink of Tae’s eyes and Jeongguk has him pressed against the wall, arms caging him in.

“Is this the first time that bastard Hanbin has hurt you? And tell me the truth, don’t fuckin’ lie.” He says words that he would normally spit at him, but this time, he says them gently, even his swears, they’re nothing above a whisper. And with his breath, tickling at Taehyung’s cheeks, the older boy can only flush a deeper shade of red, turning his gaze away from Jeongguk’s.

“It’s.. it’s not.” He admits, eyes falling to the floor, only for Jeongguk’s fingers to lace around his chin and tilt his head upwards again.

“Look at me, Tae.” He commands, Taehyung has no choice to follow, as the grip he has around his chin isn’t anything he can break free from.

“No one is allowed to hurt you, nobody is allowed to even touch so much as a hair on your head.” He hisses, eyes filled with fury. Jeongguk doesn’t even know why the hell he’s so mad, he has no place to be angered.

Taehyung can’t quite understand that either.

“W-what the fuck do you mean?” He yanks his head away from Jeongguk’s touch, hands pushing up against Jeongguk’s chest in an attempt to push the boy away from him, to tear down his arms that stand as sturdy, unmoving walls.

It’s futile, for he is too weak and Jeongguk’s biceps might as well be made from steel.

“You fucking bully me every damn day of my life and now you want to get all possessive and protective of me all of a sudden?” He spits, no longer the feeble boy he was just moments ago, and there it goes again.

Taehyung being angry, it’s ridiculously fucking adorable.

His cheeks red, lips pouty, eyebrows furrowed together frustratedly and Jeongguk is swooning.

He’s softening, his hard exterior breaking down and turning to absolute mush like his insides, Taehyung is just so cute. Jeongguk cups his cheeks gently, a small smile on his face,

“It’s complicated okay?” Jeongguk tries to explain, Taehyung only scowls, attempting to push his touch away but next thing he knows Jeongguk’s swooping down to claim his lips as his own.

And even with the frustration still strong and bubbling in his abdomen, Taehyung finds himself relaxing into his hold, for some illogical reason he’s been oddly enough craving this as well, allowing Jeongguk to press him against the peeling paint walls, allows his hands to find their way down to his hips to pull him closer, allows Jeongguk to breathe in his breaths and to bite down on his lips hungrily.

When Jeongguk finally pulls away, staring holes down into the even more flustered Taehyung, he leans forward one last time and pecks his lips gently.

“You’re mine now.” Jeongguk states simply.

“W-what?” Is all Taehyung manages to mutter.

“How else am I supposed to make sure nobody lays a finger on you?” Jeongguk explains earnestly, interlacing their fingers together before grabbing his backpack up and off of the floor, leading Taehyung back in the direction of their classroom.

Needless to say, nobody has laid a finger on Taehyung since.

(and with the help from his new boyfriend, Jeongguk actually starts turning in assignments done 100% by himself.)

wow we posted after 8947359 years, thats what finals does to people yo. we’re currently open and taking request! stop by our ask box and leave a request bbys! xx

- admin artemis (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ *:･ﾟ✧ ♡

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chaoticghost21 · 6 years

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I need to rant for a second (tw)

All my life I’ve heard people call freckles ugly; people with freckles were ugly. I was told that freckles were the ugliest thing a person could have on their face and I was covered in them. It became ingrained in my brain, and it still is, that freckles are ugly and that I need to cover them up. At 18 I still try and cover my freckles up with makeup. A new makeup trend is to put fake freckles on with makeup. I was told all of my life that they were something ugly that you should be ashamed of and now they’re a beauty trend?

When I first got glasses I was so upset. I remember crying because I was embarrassed to be wearing them because no one else in my class had them. It was October, around Halloween and I had gotten a brand new movie, it was a Dora Halloween movie (I was 5 okay) and I really wanted to watch it but no one would let me watch it until I agreed to put on my glasses but I finally did. In elementary school at recess my friends and I would play games and we’d play Scooby Doo and they all forced me to be Velma. I was fine with it until one day I wanted to be someone else and they told me I couldn’t. I was told that I wasn’t allowed to be anyone else because I had glasses. They said that I had to be either Velma or Daphne because I was a girl but that I wasn’t pretty enough to be Daphne and that Velma was ugly with glasses and that I was too so I had to be her. I think I was about 10 or so and they made me hate the way I looked. I’ve worn glasses for 13 years now and I still hate it.

I was always a quiet kid with not too many friends, no one actually stayed. One time my teacher told me that she forgot I had ever been in her class before; that was my third year in her class. Public performance is something I’ve always loved and my class was putting on a play, I wanted to prove that I could do this, that I could use my voice but my teacher told me that I couldn’t even try out for it because I was too quiet. She didn’t even give me a chance to help me with my public speaking she just shot me down and didn’t let me even try out. I later on had people call me ‘special’ because I was quiet and they thought I was different. I have asthma and my school wouldn’t let me keep my inhaler, they’d take it and keep it in the office and I’d have to come to them to get it. I was too embarrassed to go to the office and get it. This is a medical issue that I’ve had since I was born but I was too embarrassed to get my medicine for it. It got to the point where if anyone in my class heard me wheeze they’d tell the teacher and I’d get sent to the office because they knew I wouldn’t go any other way. I sneeze really loud (like my sneeze is so loud that the house shakes when I sneeze) and I blow my nose even louder. I blew my nose in class in either 4th or 5th grade and a kid told me I wasn’t allowed to blow my nose in school because it was too loud. I haven’t blown my nose in public since.

Once I got to middle school I finally found friends that were just like me and for the first time ever I showed who I actually was and nobody liked it. I actually had people telling me they hated me so I left that friend group. I was also the child that had size D cup breasts at age 13 so I tried to cover them up because everyone else had A or B cups so I was embarrassed and I got in trouble for wearing my coat to hide myself. My teacher wouldn’t let me into the classroom until I took off my coat but she did it to no one else. I, now at a DDD cup that’s actually too small, still try and hide them.

In class if a teacher would mention weight (like health class or something) the entire class would turn and stare at me. I stopped eating at school because I was too embarrassed to eat at school. My grades started to go downhill because I stopped caring. I was kicked out of pre algebra for not being ‘smart enough’ and that’s what I was told in front of my entire class. I had a teacher tell me I read too much and she said I wasn’t allowed to read anymore, that I had to cut back (we had to write a paragraph and turn it in on every book we read so she knew how much I read) and since then I can’t read like I used to. I ended up developing dyslexia and ADHD. I have a weak immune system so I miss a lot of school and I’m always terrified to go back because I used to get yelled at for not being there but if I showed up sick they’d still yell at me.

My first boyfriend cheated on me with 8 girls. My second one cheated on me too. I found out that both of them were only with me because they wanted my boobs, one even grabbed them in front of the entire school even though I told him no. A teacher saw this and just walked by. She heard me tell him no and saw him continue to grab me but just kept walking. He even mocked my mental health and broke up with me a week later because I wouldn’t do anything sexual with him and because I was too depressed.

These people, adults even, made me hate myself starting at age 5. They made a 5 year old think they weren’t good enough. I still think I’m not good enough. I feel bad if I write or if I read because I was told it was a bad thing. I can’t do things a person should be able to do because at a young age I was told that I shouldn’t do this. I had to move schools to get away from this. I’m in grade 13, yeah I had to repeat my senior year because of all of this. This is what’s wrong with society. Teachers don’t care and people teach you to hate yourself at a young age and you don’t recover from that/

#rant

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