[Cyran0]

I think children by the age of five can smell a victim the way sharks smell blood. At the very least, their little eyes pick out social differences with feverish enthusiasm. If you're poor, if you don't have a nice hair cut, if you're wearing hand me downs on the first day, you are immediately judged and placed into your rung in the caste system and few ever move up that social ladder.

I was all of those things and more. I was a gangly, awkward kid with big front teeth and a sort of spastic enthusiasm. I also had a milk allergy and in kindergarten this caused me to occasionally wet my pants. Thus my first nickname was born, yellow smell. How they came up with that, I have no idea but once it was uttered by one of the kids from the right side of town, it was forever.

By first grade my standing as the schools biggest loser was pretty much unchallenged and for the next couple of years playgrounds, bus rides, bus stops, hallways, lunch rooms and bathrooms were a battlefield. Every face I saw I'd hope would be friendly and since we were very young, sometimes they were. Other times I'd find myself pinned down on the playground, a larger boy straddling me with his knees on my arms, rubbing dirt in my face or spitting while other kids snickered and jeered in that evil high pitched cackle that only little kids can make.

I was a wreck. I dreaded school. I frequently sought refuge at an older boys house up the street where we would play secret games that both excited and worried me. Other times I'd go home and play with the five to ten kids my mom babysat. With four brothers at that time, this made for a full house and so the social situation was similar to school. It was the lord of the flies set in a lower middle class, blue-collar back yard.

My greatest nemesis however was my older brother. We'll call him Bill. I was the third in what would ultimately be six boys. Bill was the second. My older brother was too old to relate to. But Bill, he was trouble. He had a short temper and a cruel manner. If he couldn't reduce you to tears with words, he'd do it with his fists. He'd always been that way. In fact, one of my earliest memories is of Bill and my oldest brother having a fistfight. My mother grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the door shouting to my father that, "if this didn't stop she was leaving!"

My father was not a physical man and he wasn't capable of stopping anything.

When Bill lost a fight with my oldest brother, that spelled even worse news for me.

I remember one fall day I was being pulled out of third grade early. My Mom was picking me up. I was going to the hospital for some sort of test. I had missed an incredible amount of school that year (I was faking sick so I could avoid school and enjoy being home without Bill) and the family doctor surmised that I had an ulcer. I was terrified. I didn't know what an ulcer was but I knew I'd been faking sick so whatever it was, I doubted I had one.

I was wrong. I had developed an ulcer from being "a nervous kid." There would be many more tests, all of them horrible. Some involving a tube inserted into my %#@&#! and being filled with fluid so they could watch my entrails on a screen. Not one of my better days.

School continued to get worse. By fourth grade the social scheme in the school had developed to the point of established norms for the various groups. This was bad news for me because I was labeled both fair game and social poison. To associate with me lowered you to outcast status and nobody wanted that. Quickly the kids my mother babysat broke ties with me and joined the mocking chorus of voices that could lash out at any moment.

I was desperate and so I begged for the right jeans, shirts, shoes. But my mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer so my family was down to government blocks of cheese, donated bread, and huge packages of hamburger. I guess we bought those because it was cheaper. But what mattered to me was my selfish desire for name brand stuff and I'd torture my parents, pleading for them.

It was hopeless and so I resigned myself to the ridicule. I started to believe with each cruel name, kick and jab that they were right. I was less than them. I could see it in the mirror when I looked at my face. There was something really wrong with it. There was something really wrong with me. I was different. I hated my laugh, my smile, my teeth, my hair. My pallor was overwhelming and I wanted to climb out of my skin.

I began acting out and calling for help. I would tell anyone I could find that nobody liked me. I would scream that I was ugly and that everyone hated me. I told my parents, my teacher, my Sunday school teacher, and even my grandma. Nobody seemed to know what to do and so nothing was done. Things continued unchanged and everyday I wore my worry, fear and self-hatred on my disfigured, buck toothed face.

By junior high I had learned the fine art of resentment and I gravitated toward the roughest crowd I could find. The heavy metal kids (this was the 80's, what can I say?). I took up guitar, skateboarding, all of it. I sensed the safety in numbers but the problem was that only a few of them wanted me. The rest treated me, well, the way everyone else did. They teased, flung insults, and threw random slaps or wrestled me to the ground until I said mercy.

One boy who took me in as a friend was Lane. He lived in the sprawling trailer court that began across the street from my house. This was the roughest part of town but it was worth getting beat up to hang out with him. It was a year or so before the relationship turned sexual. I guess I sort of loved him in my own way. He was so nice to me, a true friend in every way. We would masturbate each other during sleepovers or sneak away with his father's porn. In many ways it was exactly like the relationship I'd had with another neighborhood boy years earlier save that this time puberty had happened. Until ninth grade I would fantasize about holding him in my hand or maybe even letting him "butt %#@&#! me" as I put it at the time. He was the biggest part of my life.

Being from a blue-collar family, my father was very anti gay. In fact, his view (stated during dinner) that "all gays should be put on an island and we should nuke it" pretty much summed up the attitude of the whole community. I would sit there and listen to him say these things and my heart would sink. I was old enough to know what he was talking about. He was talking about me. I was one of those inhuman things. Since this fit with my general perception of myself as a mutant, why would I doubt it?

It was inevitable that someone would find out about it. What I was. Cyran0 the freak was a ******. My relationship with Lane ended. Senior high became the most violent world I've ever known.

Teasing became harassment. Slaps and jabs became closed fist punches that left me gasping for air. One night in the trailer park I was jumped by four or five kids. I never saw the punch coming. I only saw a red flashing light and some hint that I was heading toward the ground. I propped myself up on my knees and blood poured everywhere. I couldn't really see. I found my feet and stumbled into the street. Where the hell was I? A heavy metal chick (though not one that liked me) was suddenly in front of me and she reached up to my nose. She said something like, "%#@&#! you %#@&#! broke it."

When I got home I finally started crying. I kept repeating that at least I didn't cry in front of them as I rocked backward and forward, pressing a bloody washcloth to my face. My parents watched in dumbstruck horror.

I talked to guidance counselors and teachers but they couldn't help. After all, when an entire school is out to get you, what can they do? I found some refuge in the arts, performing in school plays and speech team. This saved my life. But I still walked the halls and the streets like an abused dog poised to bite anyone who reached out to me.

I was small and weak as guys go so this vicious demeanor probably made things worse. I had become a punk rocker with piercings and multicolored hair. I started doing drugs, drinking and hanging out in Minneapolis (I had discovered refuge in the big city). My crowd was outcasts, artists, musicians, petty hoods, down and out leftist activists and drug dealers. I'd get %#@&#! up and cut up my arms or shove new metal into my face. I still have marks on my arms from cigarette burns. I didn't care. I wanted to die. I was worthless. I had dropped out of high school and left the suburbs.

Like I said, in the end it was the arts that saved me. As it turns out, I was a good performer and a terrific writer. I started making videos, performing in college plays, forming bands. I developed my first true friends and I somehow lucked into my own self worth. I began to pull out of my spiral. I saw hope for the first time and I had a new sense of purpose. With it, I developed an ego and would never let myself be treated that way again.

I still have problems. I still see myself as different and alien. I can't seem to help that. I have a dark perception of the world and a serious self-loathing problem. I'm jealous of people who had a normal life and I hate that I can never be like them. I have trouble feeling love or affection unless it's translated into something physical. I'm obsessed with success in the arts and want the admiration of the whole world. I rarely feel happy and there's something seriously wrong with my face.

But I can write. I can make films. I can act. I can play music.

So I can hope.

Cyran0

[DePressMe]

Hey…I can really relate the feelings of being an outcast. For me the worse part was the humiliation and shame I felt as kids ridiculed me and sometimes hit me or threw food at me. For the most part I just passively accepted it because I believed that is what I deserved. I was the dirty kid—the drunks daughter. Kids were told not to play with me. I can still hear parents saying, “don’t play with her, she is dirty.” They saw the dirt on the outside but I felt it on the inside.

The abuse we suffer in school sticks with us—the adolescence and teen years are when we develop and form our personalities. How was I suppose to grow up to be anything other than a drunk *****? That is what I was trained to be, not just by my peers, but also by the perverts who abused me.

The feelings of being a social outcast still run deep in me. I realize that I don’t fit in and I never will fit in with mainstream society. Yeah, I have a burning desire to be normal and yet there is still a part of me that rejects all of society. Screw them—they are the ones that hurt me. Why would I want to be one of them when they have been the enemy for such a long time?

So, I search out places like PC where I can feel accepted. I search out people that have similar experiences, so I am not as alone. Today, things are better for me—far from perfect—I still find myself somewhat isolated in a world of my own making, but I have come to accept myself as okay. It is okay that I am not and never will be the “girl next door.” I am a pretty amazing person, it is the world that is missing out…

And, you know, I also found some sanctuary in the arts. Amazing to find that those normal people want my art…finally, I have something that they want…but, I will be damn if they are going to get it.

((((((((cyran0)))))

Throughout that whole story one thing stuck out like a vibrant luminous colour to me, through all the pain you wrote about...you are full of courage, you are the best person out of ALL those people you talked about....all those people were wrong, you are where you are now because you are a wonderful, caring human being who deserves everything you want and I know you'll get it....The harder life treats us, the better we become, and you my friend are so honest, courageous and brilliant. This story is heartbreaking, but through it all you have survived and become the person you are.....Hold your head up high and let the world know you made it and how.....

I'll bet half the *** holes who were cruel to you aren't half as successful as you.

Thankyou for this story, thankyou for sharing....

Love and respect for you my friend, Jin xxxxx

[DePressMe]

Cyran0...I forgot to say how much I admire you for not giving up--for fighting against the odds--for doing more than just surviving...

No matter how much the world has tried to beat us down, we have prevailed...

[Cyran0]

Thank you both. It means a lot to have that kind of support. Especially when much of the world tends to dismiss this sort of torture as insignificant (though, a lot less since kids like me have started showing up in schools with shotguns).

I guess that's a lot of why I shared this story. I feel the pain that bullied kids go through every day. I know how much of an effect it can have. Being abused in your home, in your school, in your church, in a foster home, in an orphanage, anywhere, it's all the same. You're trapped, you're hurt, and you pray for rescue.

I hope if there are kids here going through this sort of thing that they feel less alone now and really take to heart the kind words the two of you have posted here. Because despite the pain, I know you're right. I've made it through and they can too.

It really helps to share like this so thank you for reading it.

Cyran0

cyran, please keep posting, get the hurt and pain out, I am here to listen anytime, I feel all that pain myself. You're a great guy, sending you love from across the pond.

Jinny xxxxxxx

[Cyran0]

(((((((jinnyann)))))))

Cyrano, Bullying and getting tortured by other kids IS often looked at as normal - and that is completely entirely,( i cant be emphatic enough about this) WRONG!!!

It is still abuse, I think. I too went through it. I am not up to writing out my story, but I will someday and you will see, you and I are not so very different.

[Cyran0]

I'm very glad to meet you Rainbowzz. I hope one day you feel up to telling your story but there's no rush. For now, it's just good to know others are connecting with my story. That's really comforting.

Cyran0

[salukigirl]

interesting story about my brother:

he was always tiny and scrawny. always picked on and wasnt allowed to play football. well high school comes around and my brother bulks up quite a bit. so one day at one of the high school football games a tiny high school kid got up to go to the bathroom and some bigger guy took his seat. my brother saw this and when the guy refused to give the little guy his seat back my brother told him to get up and give the kid his seat back. well you can imagine how well that went over and long story short my brother pummeled (sp??) the big guy. granted he did get suspended but when my dad went in to talk to his principle my dad said "good. im glad my son had the nerve to stick up to that bully when no one else would. you guys werent going to help the kid out, so my son did"

now i know fighting doesnt solve anything but i was just very glad that after years of being bullied my brother stood up for a kid that couldnt stand up for himself. seems like with people like that they dont understand any other language. personally, me getting bullied was more for my living situation. kids would make fun of my house and how poor my family was. so i just asked my dad to drive me to school so kids wouldnt see my house and make fun of me.

[Cyran0]

Good story about your brother saluki. There were a few instances, here and there, where someone stood up for me. I was always grateful. I wouldn't be surprised if the kid your brother stood up for still remembers him.

Good solution to the house problem. I think all of us who were poor came up with strategies to try to hide it. Unfortunately, the shame of it still haunts you. Or at least it did in my case.

Cyran0

[1oxbowgirl]

Thanks for sharing your story. Having gone through some teasing and bullying I know how painful that can be. You are really brave in sharing your story. And talking about it here with the help and comfort of friends who can relate to what you have been through and provide you with some on-line support and hugs will help you deal with the past as you face your future.

[Twilightzone]

Thank you, Cyran0, for sharing your story. I know I've only been here for a day but I have to say that you're so brave. I can relate to so many things....

And to all of you sharing your stories, you're heroes. I hope I can share my stories one day.

[Cyran0]

Thank you Twilightzone, that means a lot. I look forward to hearing your stories, if for no other reason than I find responses like yours takes some of the pain away. But don't rush yourself. Share when you're ready.

I agree, I see a lot of bravery on this site.

And a lot of love.

Cyran0

[Twilightzone]

I'll share my stories when I'm ready. Right now I'm still trying to get a feel for this place. So far I think it's totally awesome.

[AAAAA]

I do not understand “human nature”, I really don’t. Toddlers are such caring little creatures. If a complete stranger gets a boo boo in the park, they feel the need to make them feel better. How do they go from such wonderful, loving people to little monsters? Why is that empathy and compassion viewed as a weakness? Why does the pack feel the need to stomp it out, ridicule it, do anything to bury it, destroy it? Certainly they cannot understand the hurt that they are causing.

Why is it that I can tell my daughter that she is beautiful, wonderful, intelligent, clever and sweet, and yet the girl has no self esteem? She IS all of those things, yet she is more inclined to believe some little witch that took great pleasure in belittling her. The little witch wound up dropping out of HS as sophomore, but the damage was done. Why would she believe a complete stranger rather than her mother?

Why don’t the teachers/principals/superintendents/playground monitor/parents care anymore? When did this become a “don’t ask don’t tell situation”? When did parents stop being mortified when their child was mean or rude?

My heart bleeds when I read these stories. I think back to all the nights I cried after my kids went to bed because I didn’t know how to explain the cruelty to them. You can only say “they’re unhappy so they want to make someone else more unhappy” so many times. Do these children even remember the heartache they cause once they’re grown?

Kind decent human beings are not the minority, why are things this way? How do we change them?

[salukigirl]

sadly its partly the parents on this one. my brother is kind of messed up and going to s.a. for his sex addiction. he has also been a drug addict, run away from home... all the typical stuff. he is 27 now and is getting help for his problems but a lot of his, and my, problems stem from our father. he constantly had porn lying around the house when we were 5,6 years old. so thats what we were exposed to. i found my dads pipe when i was little and didnt know what it was. then when i was about 16 i found it again, only this time i knew. then my dad told me about the times he had dont cocaine with our neighbor. now that im older my mom is open about stories about my father. she has told me how she was scared for her life during their marriage.

and whats worse is that growing up my dad told us that my mom was trying to brain wash us, when really he was doing the brain washing. my mom could have told me tons of things to make me hate my dad but she kept it in to not destroy our relationship. she held all that inside for so long and here i was blaming her for everything. so its no wonder why my brother is such a misogynist. he cheats on his girlfriends, he has never beaten them but he has grabbed them by the arm and scared the crap out of them. if it werent for my dad going to jail for DUIs, domestic violence etc.... im sure me and my brother would be prefectly normal kids.

it honestly is a lot of the parents during that crucial developmental stage that turns kids "evil". whether it be that the parents are beating the crap out of them or doing the opposite and not disciplining them at all.

you would think after all the school shootings and violence that teachers would be more likely to counsel kids. but instead they get upset about stupid things. the kids with real problems slip through the cracks. then kids who write a narrative that involves killing get suspended when their totally normal kids. teachers dont know what to look for. they look for the obvious ones when its never them. they look for the kids who are outspoken when its usually the kids who sit in a corner and dont talk. they are totally backwards in their accusations.

[Cyran0]

What happened to me happened because we, as a culture, don't see torment in schools as abuse. We minimize, ignore, and expect the victim to get over it. I've been told I should move on and get past it hundreds of times. And while I'm being told that I've watched stories like Columbine unfold.

Our culture must change how we see abuse in schools. I endured severe physical and emotional trauma and one does not just get over such a thing. It stays with you. We must recognize that children with problems at home come to school and visit equal torment on their peers with equally traumatic results. We must also see that simple teasing, when done on a massive scale by countless children, isn't teasing anymore, it's torture. This is especially true when you consider the fragile nature of a child's mental and emotional state during these critical years of public socialization.

To solve this problem and to ensure that what happened to me stops happening to other kids, we need a comprehensive reeducation of our school staff, an increased staffing of counselors trained to recognize and deal with the problem, and more effective outreach programs designed to meet the needs of the bullies and victims alike.

That's what I'd love to see happen but so far there's little public will for such a thing. Token efforts are made after large school shootings but they are localized and short lived. In an era when school funding is being cut in crucial areas such as the arts, I'm not surprised that administrators are not devoting resources to keeping our schools safe for everyone.

There isn't a day that goes by that I'm not hurting from how I grew up. I hope one day this will stop happening to people.

Cyran0

Yes Cyran0 I agree with all you've said.

</font><blockquote><div id="quote"><font class="small">Quote:</font>
We minimize, ignore, and expect the victim to get over it.

</div></font></blockquote><font class="post"> Yea would anyone expect an adult to "get over" such abuse if similar had happened to them?? NO!! they would be in court and getting help!! argh! Just because adults don't take kids seriously doesn't mean that kids don't take other kids seriously. This really hits a nerve with me!!

I don't understand how so much money can be spent on -- movies, sports and other extra things and as a culture we put so little into what will be our future-- the children.

One of my sons was abused mercilessly in 6th grade, I went to the principal only to be told-- "boys will be boys"...... argh!! my son struggles now -- has OCD and self injures. I think most people don't/won't see how much these things affect a young mind.

Cyran0-- I wish I could take all your pain and trauma away-- I'm so sorry.
for what it's worth-- I hear you and understand.

mandy

[Cyran0]

Mandy, I'm so sorry to hear about your boy. Everytime I hear about something like that it just crushes me.

My school principal AND the school counselor said the exact same thing to my Mom, "kids are like that...boys will be boys," etc.

Thanks for your support and understanding. It means a lot.

Cyran0

[silentangel]

wow, for a second there while i was reading, i thought u had been talking about my life and the abuse i endured during school years ((((((((cyrano)))))))) i too have been there, and i feel ur pain, it does stay with u forever, (atleast it has with me) but u have found something ur good at and hopefully that has helped u stay grounded. pthank you for sharing.

[Shellbe]

cyrano....
I'm glad you are telling your story. peace to you.

[Cyran0]

Silent, Shallbe, thank you.

Cyran0

[timeforsleep]

Wow. That is some seriously heavy stuff, Cyran0. You need to publish this.

[Cyran0]

Huh, I've never considered that. Do you mean as a short story or something like that? I wonder, what sort of market is there for something like this?

At any rate, what a wonderful compliment. It caused me to go back and reread it (I rarely read my own writing). Because enough time had passed since it was created, I had a new level of objectivity and found myself connecting to my own words.

Thanks!

Cyran0