To my childhood bullies

It's 3:30 in the morning when I start writing this. I've been sick since yesterday, with a strong fever. I spent my day sleeping, talking to myself, watching TV shows, and thinking.

I have absolutely no idea why, but I can't stop thinking about a period of my life I never think about. And I mean, never. From age 6 to 11.

A mountain of painful memories keeps coming back, keeping me awake, and making me feel the need to write this.

I was in a tiny class of about twenty students, with 8 boys (myself included). Those 7 other boys turned those 5 years of my life into a hell I apparently chose to forget. I was their punching bag. I remember every single one of their names.

I was, I think, quite different from the others: divorced parents, shy, didn't like football, a bit autistic, relatively poor.

Every morning, for 5 years, I had stomach aches before going to school. So severe that I ended up in the hospital several times because they thought I had appendicitis or some other condition.

One day, when I was in second grade, we had swimming with the school. While I was underwater, a boy from my class pulled off my swimsuit and threw it into another pool, behind a wall we couldn't access. The teacher had left, and I found myself completely naked underwater in front of my entire class for several minutes. I never set foot in a pool again. My doctor, a family friend, wrote me an exemption from swimming for the rest of my school years, including middle school and high school.

I didn't like football, but everyone in my class played: so I signed up for the village club. On the first day, since my mom was working, another boy's father drove us there and was supposed to bring me back. Except the boy decided it would be funny to leave without me and not tell his dad he needed to take me home. I waited in the parking lot until it started getting dark (we didn't have cell phones back then), then decided to walk home, through the countryside, in the dark. A woman eventually stopped on the side of the road and drove me home. I never told my mother, and I never went back to football.

I could go on for a long time: they stole my things, hit me regularly, locked me in the bathroom, stopped me from eating at the cafeteria, shoved my head in the sand, etc. I thought about killing myself several times before I was even 10 years old, because I saw it as the only way to stop going to school.

All of this completely shaped who I am today, and I'm realizing it now. I'm wary, not very open with others, quite selfish, and I don't talk much. I cut myself off from my mother at that age, because I didn't dare tell her about any of this. I learned to be alone. I don’t want to have kids.

Things got much better for the rest of my school years, thankfully. It allowed me to rebuild myself, learn to make friends (who I still know today!), and regain some confidence.

I always underestimated the impact that period of my life had on me, simply because I didn't want to think about it.

Today, I feel like I've turned the page. I'm happy, I'm not that damaged, and I don't think about it anymore.

I forgive them.

Finally, I want to conclude this article by addressing parents: talk to your children. Don't let them withdraw into themselves.

And now, I'm going back to bed 😴.

Thomas