Dignity

1. the state or quality of being worthy of honour and respect.
2. a composed or serious manner or style: “he bowed with great dignity.”

I’ve tried for a very long time to retain or earn some kind of dignity. I achieved it at some jobs, which shocked me because until then, all I knew was ridicule or just being ignored. The workplace – when I was still mentally well enough to work – wasn’t as bad as what I went through at school. The minute you say “school bullying”, people tend to look at you with a strange but obvious mix of pity (that you are apparently still affected by it) and scorn that, well, you’re still affected by it. They imagine simple teasing. It was not like that at all.

Every day I went to that place, my heart would start racing. I’d look calm, if unhappy, on the outside, but inside, I was deeply afraid. Especially when I knew I shared classes with Them. There was a lot of Them and they were relentless. One girl in particular was scary: the others just jeered, sneered, and made mocking comments if I read anything aloud or talked about my asparions of being a writer. But NS – I’ll give her the dignity of not naming her directly, even though the part of me that still thirsts for revenge would like to do otherwise. Why give her dignity? I guess I don’t want to stoop to their level – it was something else.

Her hatred of me seemed very personal, and I have no idea why. She kicked, pushed, and hit me. I told the teachers, they did nothing but make her apologise: she did. Then, she got right back on her, making Emma’s life a misery (redacting my real last name).

On our last days, we were all told to pick up our Records of Achievement from the reception. The receptionist was nasty. When I went to get mine, it wasn’t there. The only one with my first name that was there belonged to a girl who was a part of the pack, one of Them.

I knew immediately what had happened.

The receptionist had just heard the name “Emma” and given it to her. I’m sure they had a great time destroying and defacing my achievements. I wasn’t even allowed the dignity of that, proof of my successes and achievements I had received before I became something of a delinquent.

When I insisted I had not picked it up, the receptionist waved me away like an irritating fly, insisting someone must have picked it up. She didn’t care who that someone was, and it was clear she thought of me as an annoying little shit bothering her, wasting her time.

I walked away near tears. I walked away with my usual posture – hunched shoulders and my head looking down at the floor, trying to make myself invisible somehow. In fact, all it did was scream victim. People from different years targeted me because everything my body language screamed “prey.” I would find this out later on, and learned to walk with my head held high, heart thumbing faster and faster when I pass teenagers. I’m almost 40 and still feel fear when I pass a group of teenagers.

This was not “teasing.” This was daily torture. When I went to the bigger site that was for years 10 and 11, plus the sixth form, when I discovered I was still in classes with Them, I started skiving. Nobody would listen to me, so fuck them. Fuck everyone became my attitude, and I was often joined by a dear friend of mine, who had his own problems, although they were at home. He hated school too. Eventually, after constantly getting in trouble and trying to explain that I wasn’t going because they kept ignoring my complaints about the people who made my life a constant misery, I tried to kill myself. I got no sympathy. My head of year mocked me with this line: “You must have had a terrible headache.”

I’ve never forgotten those words, Miss Dwyer. Never. And I will name you because you were a fucking grown up. Yet you treated me just like they did, but even more evil than they could come up with. I found out later on they had laughed amongst themselves about it. That they had driven me to this didn’t concern them one bit. My parents just yelled at me. I was sent to a child psychologist, but I told him nothing. I didn’t trust anyone anymore

I look at all the people who sighed my shirt on the last day. So many people, so many kind words. I wish I could remember the good times I had – and there were good times with my friends – but all I have are fragments. The bad things – NS shoving me against the lockers, the mockery from Miss Dwyer, those are clear, precise memories. A fault of human memory is that it often remembers the bad. If any of those friends are out there, thank you for bringing me happiness during dark times. I hope you are well.

One funny thing that happened was NS got kicked out of Their crowd over something I never quite understood, and she immediately switched schools.

I remember feeling amazement that someone who had made it their personal mission to make me feel as worthless and hated that eventually I too hated myself, hated myself and hated how no one cared or listened (my sister later told me that most of the time my father never rang the school when I begged him to make a formal complaint against NS. Honestly? I think he didn’t make any). I hated myself so much that I didn’t want to live.

And still no one cared.

I’d like to say there’s a happy ending to this, but there isn’t. I’m just a broken, nearly middle-aged woman who still doesn’t want to exist. A nearly middle-aged woman who has no dignity, just mental illnesses and epilepsy.

I still fear people. I’m left with all the demons in my head, bringing out intrusive memories when they feel like it.

That’s what I live with every day. They probably sleep well at night.

Me? I struggle with chronic insomnia.