On a side note...

I've been asked to come speak to a group of teenagers about my experience in fifth grade – classic "mean girls" experience, or "relational aggression," as they now call it. I'm nervous, but not because I have to talk about what happened to me. I'm nervous because these are 14-15 year old kids that I don't know at all, and I have to try to get the point across to them, try to say something meaningful, relevant, interesting... and this is my own personal hell. So if they don't care, that's going to hurt.

For third grade, I transferred to a different school to be in a gifted program. I only knew the 30-40 kids in my program, so I had a limited social circle. In third grade, I had a few friends who dumped me when we got to fourth grade for the cooler girls. In fourth grade, I became friends with two girls, S and C. We were very close, had lots in common, and had the same circle of friends. In fifth grade, however, they turned on me, and not in a small way.

At age 10, I became an outcast. Of the 30 or so kids in my class, two would speak to me, at least 10 were out to get me, and the rest didn't care if I existed. S was the general and C was her lieutenant, and the rest followed their lead. They formed "hate clubs" about me, which they claimed — when the teacher confronted them after I complained — were really animal lovers' clubs. They came up with the stupidest insults based on my name, took away the few friends I had left, and made my life a living hell.

I walked home crying from school every day. I tried to tell my parents, but they didn't understand. Their answer was always "Oh, they're just trying to get a rise out of you. If you ignore them, they'll go away." My teacher didn't believe me, and S&C would lie when he asked them about it.

By the time my mother realized that this was really a problem, it was way too late. I was emotionally scarred for life. She took me out of the program and I went back to my original elementary school, where I tried to become invisible. I hit puberty, developed mild acne, body dysmorphic disorder, and PMDD.

In junior high, I worked even harder at becoming invisible, until in high school I was convinced that people couldn't see me — not literally, but they didn't remember my face, would bump into me in the hall, and just generally ignored my existence.

I also struggled mightily with suicide, especially with PMDD layered in on top of BDD. I wanted so badly to kill myself for so long, and I thought it would never be possible for me to be happy. I cut myself, thought I was a lazy anorexic, and generally hated my existence.

For the next 10 years I tried desperately to figure out why they had picked me, what was wrong with me that made them single me out. Finally one of my close female friends — one of two, since I don't trust girls at all — said "Maybe there was no good reason." I had quite a struggle with that idea, but finally realized that she must be right, because it's just what girls do to each other, and I happened to be the weakest in the pack, I suppose.*

But now it's my personal, quiet crusade to try to keep this from happening to any other girls. I know it will continue to happen, but whatever I can do to prevent it, I will. I ended up talking to my aunt and uncle about it when my lovely, sweet teen-age cousin was experiencing something similar in junior high.

* 08/04/11 ETA: A couple months ago, my therapist suggested that these girls picked on me because I am highly sensitive. As my friend put it, "You were the toy that squeaked the loudest." This fits so well that I can't believe I never thought of it, but it has radically changed my understanding of who I am, what I have to offer, and how I fit into the world.

For years, I assumed that these girls picked on me because there was something fundamentally flawed in me that I needed to hide from the world, but I didn't know what it was. Now I believe that it was simply because of my sensitive nature, which I have learned can be a useful tool but also needs to be protected. (It also explains why my Dad would constantly tell me "You're too sensitive!" "Don't be so sensitive!") Sadly, the adults in my life didn't know how to protect me, and it's taken me 20+ years to recover.

This is a related post from 04/15/08 about my first memory of PMDD-induced insanity.