Me – recent

 {Editor’s Note: October is Anti-Bullying Month and I’ve asked my writers to do an article about their bullying experiences. I’ve asked them to do this because of 2 reasons; 1. Everyone gets bullied, no matter who you are. 2. It is survivable. I want our readers to know that if they are being bullied or have been bullied in the past, you are not alone and there is a way to stop it.}

I was a chubby kid. Keep in mind that in the 50’s and 60’s, fat babies were in vogue – they were seen as not only cute, but well-fed and healthy. So I was well-fed and healthy… and have battled my weight my entire life.

By the time I was seven years old I had learned to hate my name. It lent itself so easily to rhyme. “Fatty Patty, 2 by 4, can’t get through the bathroom door.” Forty-nine years later, I still remember. The only people I let call me “Patty” are relatives of my mother’s generation. I used to be real vicious about that, but I’ve finally learned to let it go.

Disney’s Cinderella

What made the taunting even more devastating was that I didn’t encounter it until I started school at almost five years old. I had been sheltered in our little suburban enclave on Long Island. I woke up with a smile on my face. I loved the world and was convinced that the world loved me.

I can still remember the day I looked in a mirror, and instead of the Disney princess I had always seen, I saw the little fat girl… I was horrified. I went, in my own mind, from lovable to unlovable. I still struggle with that.

Flash forward to fifth grade in a small Vermont town. I kept coming home with headaches and my mother got concerned (being a nurse, she had a pretty vivid imagination for worst-case scenarios). She started asking all kinds of questions, trying to nail down a cause for the headaches… and went somewhat ballistic when I finally told her about the boy in class who always rapped me on the top of the head with his pencils when he went to sharpen them. Several times a day.

My mom & me 1980′s

My mom was my hero that week. She and my dad went to the school principal and demanded that the boy’s seat in class be changed so he didn’t walk anywhere near me on his way to anyplace in the classroom. They also reamed the teacher a new one for allowing the abuse to happen. Amazingly, the principal agreed, my tormenter was moved, and the headaches stopped.

I was teased all through my childhood, mostly for being chunky, but also for being smart. That was my refuge and my revenge. I figured that if I didn’t have any friends, I’d crawl into books and live there, and in the process show up all the clodhoppers who didn’t want anything to do with me, except to cop a quick feel behind the classroom piano. Coming from an advanced school in suburban Long Island, I had a distinct educational advantage over my “peers” in that Vermont farm town. I ran with it.

Teachers responded in very different ways. Third grade loved me, fourth ignored me, fifth was baffled and sixth fed my insatiable desire to read. By then I had finally become friends with the two other smart fat girls, and we bolstered each other in the face of our peers’ disdain. It didn’t hurt any less, but at least we had someone who understood. I never did tell them about being raped at nine – some things you just didn’t share, even with your best friends. I spent four years terrified that I would hit menarche and be pregnant, until I finally found a book that told me that sperm only live for 24 hours. I remember the relief. Maybe if I had seen a therapist back then, things would have been different, but nobody thought of therapeutic help for “teasing”. We were supposed to ignore it, grow a thick skin, rise above it… the platitudes were endless, and useless.

So what happens, short of suicide, when a child’s self-image is destroyed at such a young age? Well, I lost track of the alcohol-fueled one-night stands as a young woman. You know the kind, the mornings that start with “Where the hell am I, and who the hell are you?” Adult relationships have been one sort of abuse after another. In the worst times I’ve described myself as ‘good enough to fuck, but not good enough to marry’. I’ve never gotten over that early lesson that I was fat, ugly and unlovable… and my love-life has just reinforced it.

But I learned along the way to hide that self-hatred, to project self-confidence, to show the world an intelligent, together sort of person. Part of it was survival and part of it was the need to give my daughter a decent role model. Funny thing – after awhile, the roles we play become part of us. While I may cringe inside at times, no one sees it, and I ignore it. Most of the time.

I was the one who ultimately walked away from a couple of those destructive relationships, finding I had too much pride to take it anymore, whatever “it” was with that particular person. Don’t get me wrong, I deeply loved three of them… still do, if truth be told. I lost all three of them to younger, prettier women. That hurt. Still does.

Each time, I would shut down for awhile, go cold inside, and swear “Never again.” I even have a coffee cup that says “I’ve given up on love… fortunately, there’s still sex.” But… part of me is still that Disney princess, absolutely convinced that somewhere out there is my prince… or pirate. At this stage in my life I’m not looking for a savior… no, sorry, learned to take care of myself and my family alone, thank you very much. I’d like someone to grow old with. I’d like a friend as much as a lover, someone who thinks strolling hand in hand through the farmers market is a great way to spend a Saturday morning. I’d like someone to watch TV with, even if we do have a debate over what to watch. Someone who sees the value inside me, not the outside package. Someone to talk with, to laugh with, to cry with, to cuddle with. I think I deserve that.

Quinn & the 3 kittens

But listen, it does get better. Through all these years, while there may not have been a partner, there have been my daughter, my family, my cats, my adopted kids and grandkids. There have been my students, my co-workers, my friends. There is now my blood grandson. There has been joy leavening the pain. There have been successes along with the failures.

My little love

Ultimately, the bullies didn’t win. I have. I’m still here.

Related articles

• An Open Letter To The Fat Girl (thefrisky.com)
• Shoes Helping Students Teach Anti-Bullying Lessons (nbc4i.com)
• October is Bully Awareness Month : JSS has Resources! (jadethunter.wordpress.com)
• Bullying Affect Everyone (hungouttobuy.com)