This is my story on bullying.

First grade

I moved from my old town into a new school. I didn't want to move because the old house was small from my parents' point of view, but cozy from mine. I was intimidated by all the new kids. I didn't even know their names, yet I was expected to be friends with them. Eventually, though, I knew what role I played in the school. I had a best friend that was identical to me, and for a while, everything was fine. Kids called me weird, but I was okay with it. I loved my best friend, and she loved me back. But I was still always scared of the kids and rarely spoke to them.

Fourth grade

We did a project on the moon while we were studying the solar system. My best friend worked on the project with me. I took the project very seriously, because I've always loved the solar system. But when it was time to present, every single person in the class kept cackling like hyenas. My friend and I were both shy and nervous to present. We were confused about why everyone was laughing. I felt trapped in a cage of giggling, not allowed to escape. The teacher seemed to be very interested in her lipstick, but not in the class. Eventually, I ripped the project into threads. I was driven to tears. The teacher still wouldn't pay attention to me.

When we were done presenting, I asked a student what was so funny. She just giggled, looked me right in the eyes and said, "you were both so scared and (friend) was shaking so much that her fat was jiggling. " Those words echoed in my head for months, and I wondered what was wrong with me that I only had one person who liked me.

Fifth grade

This is the year when everything changed. I stopped being friends with (best friend) because I decided she was too cool for me. This was where I messed up. Nobody besides (best friend) ever loved me. Why would I think that would change?

It was also the year when we got lockers. There was one day that I don't remember much about. Except pitch black. I was shoved into a cold, cramped, square of metal. A foot by a foot. No matter how loud I shrieked, nobody heard me. Nobody would ever hear me. No matter how loud I would scream. It was as if I was invisible. Eventually, a janitor took my out at the very end of the school day. The kids who shoved me in the locker never got in trouble, but I wondered what I did that made them hate me so much. I decided that there were a lot of things to hate about me and I felt hopeless. I was going to tell somebody, but decided against it. Who needs to hear my whine about my life?

This journal entry pretty clearly sums up sixth grade:

8-26-2014

Summer rain pours down my back and onto my cheetah print leggings. Rain is one of my favorite things, but it makes me feel cold and sticky tonight. It's fine, Summer, I murmur to myself over and over, even though it is obvious that nothing is okay. In a day, I would be in a horrific building most kids call school.

I'm not going to pretend that I didn't love school two years ago, but everything changed seemingly overnight in sixth grade. Before sixth grade, I was always THAT girl. That girl, who is either unnoticed or hated. That girl, who may be stepped on and smushed because it seemed as if no one could see or hear her. You get the picture.

By the time sixth grade rolled around, I was sick of being that girl. My mom told me to stick to who I was, but I didn't know who or what I was. Maybe I was supposed to be popular, I told myself. That's also how I coaxed myself into sitting next to the two most popular girls in the grade on the first day of sixth grade. Their names were friend 1 and 2, and I was about to be their latest best friend. Usually, friend 1 and 2 grew out of their friends the same way that their long legs grew out of their Seven jeans.

As sixth grade progressed, I still didn't know who I was. Friend 1, 2 and I became closer, going to the mall every Saturday, flirting with every guy who walked by.

Towards the middle of the year, I didn't know myself. Still. I just knew who I wasn't. I wasn't friend 1 and 2. They made up a code to talk about people behind their back. An ok sign meant ass hole, a thumbs up meant bitch, and a clap meant slut. They also had symbols for every girl in the grade, so that they could talk about girls even in front of their faces. They called short people weird, and they always told me that they were girly. Why did girls have one adjective just for themselves? So that they could be made fun of? And why did friend 1 and 2 perpetuate these stereotypes and call innocent sixth graders sluts? I waited and waited and waited for them to catch on and say that they were sorry, but they never did.

Mostly, though, friend 1 was the problem. She had a boyfriend. She was famous in the middle of the year because she was the first girl in the girl to date. And she didn't just have a boyfriend. She had a football-playing boyfriend. What more could you expect from a girl like friend 1? In January, she told her boyfriend that I was in love with him. As in, mad, crazy in love. That I wanted to marry him someday. In fact, she told this to the whole sixth grade. I'm not sure how she painted this picture in her head. I hated her boyfriend.

On April Fool's Day, she put a sign on friend 2's back that read "Kick me." Except that, as she was putting it on friend 2's back, the principal walked by and she put my hand on the sign to make it look like it was my idea. I spent my lunch at the principal's office, listening to the principal rant about bullying, as friend 1 was putting the sign on friend 2's back. And I am not exactly the school troublemaker.

Before friend 1 and boyfriend started dating, Friend 1 had an insane crush on boyfriend (you know, the one that I was supposed to have on him.) She didn't want to flirt with him in person, so she asked me to do it for him. By calling him daddy. Eventually, boyfriend thought that I had mental issues, but somehow believed that friend 1 was the greatest person alive. After all, which boy doesn't fall for those blond curls that fall at the shoulders in loose waves? Or for those intoxicating blue-green eyes and rosy pink cheeks? Or for that body that the boys in the grade decided was "the best choice" in fifth grade? This was fifth grade, when I was still friend 1 and 2's number one target, and when I was probably too busy reading to notice all the latest gossip.

At the same time, though, friend 1 made me feel loved. She always told me that I had a place, as long as I was friends with her. I figured out that the whole year, she was ditching me to go over somebody else's house who invited her later than I did. So why did I still love her? Because she was one of the only people who loved me. And I absolutely loved being loved by her.

☀️☔️

Over the summer, while I didn't have friend 1 to worry about, I discovered who I truly was. I was a writer who couldn't breathe if she wasn't carrying her notebook. I was an explorer, who loved catching tadpoles in vernal pools and who hugged trees before they were cut down. Basically, I was anybody but friend 1 and 2. I wasn't going to pretend that I loved going to the salon with them, when I watched the clock every time I got pedicures with them. I wasn't going to pretend that I liked to stay inside on rainy days, when I actually liked to run around and swim when it rains outside. Friend 1 and I were polar opposites.

Then, one day, I decided to truly show who I was. The overnight camp that I went to had an interviewer who asked everybody what they wanted to be when they grew up. I told most people that I wanted to be a hairdresser, even though the thought of being in someone else's greasy hair all day made me cringe. That day, I told myself, was the perfect time to tell people that I wasn't this girl I told everyone I was.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" asked the middle-aged lady with mousy brown hair and kind, big eyes.

"An author." I tried speaking confidently, but my hands betrayed me. They trembled noticeably. And my voice shook as if it were a tightrope walker about to walk across Niagara Falls.

"Why do you want to be an author?" she asked slowly and sweetly, as if I had a disability and couldn't process what she was saying.

I never thought of an answer to this question. Why couldn't I just be an author because I've always dreamed of it? Or because I love to write? Or because I like the way the words flow out of the computer so freely and easily, but my mouth can never quite catch up? But no. These were obviously not good enough reasons. And so, I decided on, "Because I like to think." There were so many things I could have said right then, and I decided on liking to think? I don't even particularly enjoy thinking, I just do too much of it. That doesn't make me Shakespeare.

The interviewer nodded politely, and that should have been a sign for me. A sign that everything was about to come crumbling down. People repeated my words to me, over and over again (except when they said it, they made it sound childish and stupid, not controlled and sophisticated.) They told me that I shouldn't be an author. That there's more to writing than thinking. As if they knew more about writing than I did. They cackled and put notes on my cot where they knew I would find them. I decided to never tell anybody who I truly was ever again.

Except that there was one problem: Friend 1. She was 50% why I couldn't be who I was without being judged. She was meaner by the second. She spread a rumor that one girl was lesbian, then put tampons in her backpack and shoved her into lockers. She got into fistfights with boys at lunch. Brad and friend 1 broke up in April, so she decided to tell the school how ugly he looked with his shirt off. Friend 1 was completely, utterly, shockingly out of control.

In August, she ran into me at the mall. I pretended not to see her. "Hey!" Friend1 hollered. "Hey! Wait up, Summer Rain!"

"Yeah? What do you want?" I looked friend 1 straight in the eye to show that I wasn't afraid of her.

"Jeez. Is it cranky time or something, Summer?"

"Just cut to the chase."

"I just wanted to know if you wanted to come over today. "

"No."

"Um, excuse me?" friend 1 asked. I could tell that she wasn't used to being told no.

"No, (friend 1.) I only go over good people's homes," I said calmly and flatly.

"Oh, " Friend 1 said calmly and flatly. A little too calmly and flatly. "Oh," she said, louder this time. "OH." She shrieked. I think that even the deaf people at the mall could hear her. (Friend 1) walked away, but not very quickly. Her shoes were impractical, and the wedges in them were so high that you could use them as bulletin boards. She slipped, and looked at me, as if it were somehow my fault. I turned away, satisfied. I kept (friend 1) as a friend so that I could still be popular, but (friend 1) would change into a nice person. I could feel it in my gut. She'd learned her lesson.

I thought this. I convinced myself of it as I walked away. I told myself that she would be friendly towards me now.

I thought this until three minutes later, when I felt ten ounces of sticky, disgusting, pink smoothie mess pour down the first shirt that I ever bought at a store that wasn't a thrift shop. To most people, an ice-cold smoothie down their back would feel great on a heat wave. To me, though, the smoothie soaked through my shirt and onto my skin. It made me feel sticky and uncomfortable. It didn't make me feel cool, but it felt like a million tiny sharp needles were pricking my back and icy hands were climbing my spine.

"What was that for?" I yelled. Now it was my turn to wake the dead.

"That was me telling you how rude and annoying you've always been. And to tell you I can't be friends with a loser like you, " (Friend 1) hissed. With that, her mouth twisted up into an evil, twisted smile. She was caught up with everything. A beat ahead of the everlasting, everchanging symphony of life.

While I was still a full phrase behind, as I always was. Friend1 was right. She always told me that I was rude, annoying, precocious, pretentious, and stubborn. I suppose I can be all of these adjectives, but a week later, I realized that both (friend 1) and I were wrong.

I was who I was, for better or for worse. I was never going to change just because people wanted me to, and people weren't going to change because I wanted them to. (Friend 1) might always find amusement in making other people feel low, but I wasn't going to be the person to change her.

People have weapons. Their words are their greatest weapons. They're the ones that can be beautiful and loving. They're also the ones that can sting like bees and bring hot, salty tears to your eyes for days on end. That's what (friend 1) weapon did to me.

Some words, though, are easily disproved. I knew, at that moment, that (friend 1) was never my friend and never would be again. I was glad that (friend 1) stopped being my friend weeks ago, because now I could be who I was. I was no longer drawn to her like a moth is drawn to a flame. Instead, we had a magnetic force field that kept us separated. One moment, inseparable. The next, sworn enemies. Welcome to my school.

☀️☔️

I haven't talked to (friend 1) for weeks. I've finally realized that I don't need her. But something still seems... Off.

I love the rain. I love how our quaint town in the mountains smells like cow maneuver in the summer. Everything is fine. Except that it isn't.

I can't go back to school and be torn apart by (friend 1) rumors again. I can't. I had spent so much time in sixth grade being popular that I forgot to be friendly towards anyone else. I don't know what to say to anybody or how to make friends. I don't know how to show that I'm not a clone of (friend 1 and 2) anymore. I don't know what to say when (friend 1) rumors about me spread like the plague.

I am sunk, and I know it.

☀️☔️

Seventh grade:

I eventually made friends with friend 2 and another girl named friend 3. Friend 1 had shut up long ago and moved on to her next victim. Friend 3 had been bullied by friend 1 last year. Friend 1 always put notes in my locker telling me not to be friends with friend 3, but I never listened. I trusted her sweet, innocent smile, and her red hair that framed her freckled face. It was hard to believe that anyone could ever dislike her.

Lately, I've been realizing why so many people disliked friend 3. She was mean and overbearing and bullied anybody who dared come her way. She used Friend 1's code, but also verbally abused people. She told people they were worthless and that they were a mistake. She shouted at people, saying that their face was seriously screwed up. I tried to tell her to stop bullying, and I also tried to tell her that we couldn't be friends. She always cried, saying that I wasn't bullied enough to know that she is bullying. She begged me to be her friend, and I couldn't stay away from her.

I usually don't tell anybody about when I am bullied, but later, I decided to finally tell my mom about friend 3. She said to stay friends with her and see what happens. I have stayed friends with her, and nothing has changed. I still can't stand her.

At the same time, I was being cyberbullied. I have been receiving text messages from a blocked ID that tell me that they will kill me, and that they watch me in my sleep. I got a call from them, too, and my phone said that the call was from (the other side of the country.) I showed my mom, and she said to ask who bully is. She/he just keeps sending them. He/she never listens.

I had a boyfriend from eighth grade, too, until he tried to take my pants off while we were sitting in the tree house earlier in the year. And I am only in seventh grade. That is ridiculous. I am a girl, still learning about how to solve proportions, and I almost lost my virginity. Boyfriend seemed sweet and funny and nice and smart, but that was when I broke up with him.

After I broke up with boyfriend, there was a new boy who was really smart and won the spelling bee after just a week of living in the town. He was smart and nice and funny and I loved him more and more every day. I was going to ask him to the dance, when friend 3 told me he had a girlfriend from his old school. I believed her, until I saw her, slow dancing with her head resting on his chest, his hands reaching dangerously high, his reaching a little too low.

Then, I hacked onto my brother's phone. I knew his passcode, and thought it would be fun, so I read his text messages. He texted his girlfriend his life story, and he tried commiting suicide in the seventh grade. The same age as I am now. He tried commiting suicide because he was being bullied.

I am still bullied and working everything out. I am still quiet and shy and haven't told anyone my story. But I am trying to work through it.

Peace to all. I hope that everyone can get through bullying like I can't.