2004 - Vol. 1, Issue 5

Recently I was very ill for several months. I have a chronic illness, so in itself that's not too shocking. However, the devastating level of sickness I experienced of late is like when I was first felled by disability and could only lie still for days on end, coming to grips with the challenge of not doing a thing, but simply being. Letting thoughts sift through my mind, my body so demonstrably fragile, led me to think about death — to feel its closeness. Following in the wake of this physical struggle came an emotional one, where I sometimes felt death would be a release from my seemingly endless suffering. And the more I thought about death, the more I came to the obvious conclusion: there's a humor column in here.

Some people might find it odd to choose the ultimate "See ya!" as a topic for mirth. But since I have a business called "Sick Humor" it can hardly be a surprise that I have a morbid streak.

In fact, I remember one of the earliest and most striking moments of humor I encountered. I was watching the TV show, M*A*S*H. Hawkeye gets sick and must undergo surgery. It is his odious bunkmate, Charles Emerson Winchester III, who performs the lifesaving operation. Hawkeye is so ticked off that Winchester now has bragging rights for saving his life that he wisecracks to Hunnicutt, "I should have died on the operating table! That would have shown him!"

I remember literally rolling with laughter on my parents' big bed, while my brothers looked on, astonished at my excessive delight in this morbid irony: taking joy in the thought of one's own death to spite a rival. Maybe I found this bit so hilarious because it was a grown-up version of what all kids surely think at one time or another: I'll die and then they (parents, schoolmates, siblings, fill-in-the-blank tormentors here) will be sorry. And we picture our funerals — everyone sobbing with grief and shame at how they mistreated and misunderstood us. And we feel tremendous vindication. The problem with this scenario of course is that (a) we would actually have to die to achieve the desired result and (b) even death would probably not achieve the desired result.

I base this conclusion on a conversation I had with my friend Laurel, when she was reading the book Odd Girl Out: The Hidden Culture of Aggression in Girls by Rachel Simmons. Odd Girl Out discusses the terribly common problem of bullying of girls by other girls and the lasting emotional scars that this abuse causes. Immediately, as Laurel described the book, a slew of incidents clamored to the forefront of my consciousness: all the times that other girls picked on me, and the hurt and humiliation that went along with those experiences.

So, if you think this column will be a bummer because it's about death, you're wrong. This column will be a bummer because it's about bullying.

No, seriously, I think those of us who grew up in some way "different" from other kids will definitely be able to relate. Those of us who were disabled or fat or skinny, or wore glasses or braces, or were of a minority race or religion, or were in any way physically or mentally "odd" — in other words, all of us, especially you, were easy prey on the play ground. (For those of you who didn't get picked on relentlessly, I am sorry to have to inform you that there is something terribly flawed in your personality and you should feel very guilty.)

Some of these memories contain a nugget of pride; these were the encounters that were mitigated in some way by my cleverness or toughness. For instance, there was the day I challenged Dori (her real name), the school bully, to a fight because I was so fed up with her constant belittling of my appearance (an obeisance to pop culture that blended the funky stylings — and excess hair and jewelry — of Michael Jackson, Cyndi Lauper, and Madonna). I fully expected to be pummeled, but I'd run out of other tactics and had reached the point where I was too angry to care what happened. And she, Ms. Tough Girl — probably as surprised as I was by me, geakoid brainiac and full-time fashion catastrophe, standing up to her — backed down and left me alone. For good.

There was also the time that, after almost a year of abuse, usually involving sitting or walking behind me and calling me names or whispering insults just loud enough that other kids could hear but quiet enough that the teachers didn't intervene, I whirled on Megan (her real name) and her sidekick, Adrienne (her real name), and accused, "What did I ever do to you?" And Adrienne — who seemed incapable of a thought or emotion that was not provided to her in a specially marked tube labeled "Megan says do this" — turned to Megan, waiting to hear a list of my grievous offenses. And Megan just stood there, not really saying anything, maybe stuttering something incomprehensible. And Adrienne, catching on that nothing of substance was forthcoming, turned on Megan, too. Arms crossed, Adrienne raised her eyebrows, "Yeah, what did she do?" And Megan stood there, her cheeks going splotchy pink. Apparently Adrienne had assumed that I'd done something to earn their nasty treatment. The fact that she'd been duped into bullying me for no good reason for an entire year seemed to really piss her off. Imagine the injustice she'd suffered! Wasting her obsequious bullying on an unworthy subject! And I like to think that, if only for that fleeting, golden moment, Adrienne enjoyed a glimmer of what it would be like to have her own separate identity from Megan. (By the way, there were actually two Megans in high school who were mean to me. So, Megan, if you're out there reading this and you're wondering if I'm referring to you, I am.)

So, after that, Megan ignored me. And Adrienne seemed to make a point of being nice to me — especially when Megan was around — even going so far as to give me "cutsies" in the lunch line at the cafeteria!

Another instance of bullying can still bring up feelings of shame and hurt, anger and humiliation, over twenty years later. This was when Tracy (her real name), my former best friend, turned on me, in what was surely a carefully calculated — and extremely successful — move to improve her social status. She employed an all-out campaign to label me as a geek, nerd, and general weirdo, so that nobody in the sixth grade would talk to me or even come near me. In fact, the only person who was nice to me at all was Jessica (her real name), who had also been my (and Tracy's) best friend the previous year. But even Jessica would only talk to me, briefly, in hushed tones, when none of our other classmates were around.

One particular instance of my junior high horror-show existence was when, as I wandered, lonely and bored on the soccer field, waiting for recess to be over, Tracy screamed at me, loudly enough that it reverberated around all the outdoor fields, that I was so happy about my new dog (true) because nobody else would go near me (also true) and that I was therefore some sicko freakazoid who was in love with my dog and wanted to have sex with and marry her. This was not true, although it's a fine example of just why I so strongly preferred the company of non-homosapiens to my so-called peers at that time.

According to Simmons, the scene above is a textbook example of typical girl-on-girl bullying. (Why does that sound like a "Playboy Channel" special?) Simmons theorizes that in suburban, upper-to-middle-class environments "nice" girls are not allowed to express most forms of aggression, thus they take out their anger and frustration on their peers — often by using psychological information that was gleaned from a previously close relationship.

But really, you might think, isn't it silly, after all these years, to hold a grudge against former schoolmates? Especially since I now have a rich, rewarding life filled with dear, loyal friends, pursuing a writing career that is the fulfillment of my dreams — whereas they are all probably lonely, pathetic, guilt-ridden individuals, floundering in a pool of their own shame and self-loathing for having been such total #@‡% heads to their less popular peers? OK, you make a good point. Except for that last part. Because, Simmons says, most former bullies, when confronted as adults with their youthful meanness, don't remember being the aggressor. Although they are likely to remember other situations, involving other kids, wherein they were the victims of such bullying.

I saw this phenomenon played out just the other day on a TV show called "Classmates" — and apparently, it's not limited to girls. "Classmates" reunites people with someone they went to high school with. (Further proof, as if any was needed, that some losers will do anything to get on TV. And additional proof that even bigger losers, such as me, will watch it.) On one segment of this show, a woman is reunited with a man who used to bully and taunt her viciously. One of his antics was to pretend to try to run her down in his car, which was, of course, filled with his laughing, cheering, jeering friends. He would gun the engine and race after her as she walked home from school. But he stopped short of actually hitting her. He also called her some really horrifying names, which mostly indicated his opinion of her looks (ugly) in a variety of ways.

So, the woman sets up this meeting because she's been traumatized since high school and she's basically looking for some healing and an apology from him. But when they meet, the guy only vaguely remembers her, and to his recollection, they were friends! Of course, she recalls it all vividly. So she recounts, in a quiet, trembling voice, repeatedly saying "sorry"(!), some of the terrible things he did to her. And his response is that (1) he's actually a really nice guy and (2) of course he's matured now, but (3) she misunderstood his behavior toward her back in high school. To bolster his position that he's truly super-sweet, he tells her that he has a lot of friends. Seeing as how almost every incident I've encountered of adolescent bullying is by a popular kid waging psychological warfare on a social outcast, using one's popularity as a character reference is hardly convincing. He might as well have said, "I don't pretend to run down people in my old Chevy convertible anymore. Now I drive a Lexus!"

Anyway, my point is that when I eventually do die, probably a lot of people who were really crummy to me will get a little misty and hearken back to the good old days of our (nonexistent) friendship, how we shared a special understanding, the good times we had, etc. So my childhood fantasy of getting even by dying — and having my former bullies repent their shabby treatment of me — will not come to pass, and thus my death will not be satisfying at all!

Thus I want to take this opportunity now, while I am still alive, to heal the past. So, to those of you who made my adolescence hellish, especially Tracy, who tried to shame me for reveling in the pure, unconditional love of my dog Lady, the only being at that time who made me feel that life was worth living, I want you to know: Lady died. It was after I'd graduated from college, but my point is, she's dead and I hope you're happy. If you'd like to e-mail me an apology, I'm at sickhumor2@aol.com.

P.S. If — God, I really hope this isn't true — there is anyone out there whom I bullied and tortured (aside from immediate family), please e-mail me and let me know. For what it's worth, I'm really, really sorry.

"To All the Girls I've Loathed Before" first appeared in Clamor, Issue 25, March/April 2004.