5th Grade - Welcome to Hell - Part II

I've never recovered emotionally. The fear that I felt everyday still floods me like a hurricane when I think of it. Every second of everyday was terror. When was the insult or attack going to come? It became impossible to have a positive attitude. I imagine WWI soldiers didn't feel overly positive in their trenches everyday but at least they had each other. The worst times were on the bus in the morning, where I often had someone already sitting in a seat move to the edge to keep me from sitting down. "Don't you know you're social garbage, fucker?" was what the move said every time. In class, I was at least a little safe, though I dreaded the classes where the bullies were close to me because they liked whispering insults to each other about me. The breaks in the hall between classes were horrible because I was vulnerable. There were occasional insults and the occasional physical attack at me. I remember the fear and am reliving it even as I'm typing this now. Break outside was another terror because of vulnerability. Girls would be disgusted if I came by. The boys would throw a football to me because they could gang up and tackle me on the ice cold turf. People would kick me out of their lunch room tables until I had to eat by myself or insult me as I sat there. One girl, supposedly the nicest one in school, attacked me in gym class and almost tore my shirt off. Stunned, I just sat down on the bleachers with my head in my hands. The gym teacher did nothing. It was like they were all in it together. Another time we played dodgeball. One of my bullies crossed the line, tapped me on the shoulder and threw a dodgeball in my face when I turned around. Everyone laughed. I laughed, too. Doesn't everyone laugh at the joke? Emotionally, this was devastating and I am still suffering today. I tried to fit in many times, basically a Stockholm Syndrome kind of thing. Then there were the attempts try and mitigate the damage. My Mom was my emotional support and I tried to learn things from her about what they were saying. I tried to learn jokes to impress them. My family told me it was my fault because I got upset at the insults. They were trying to help. They didn't know they were giving the bullies a free pass. My mother told me to try laughing myself. So there was me being bullied and I laughed at getting hurt. I've since felt and learned the dysfunction in my family and how crappy their advice was. Finally, after coming home on the verge of tears many times, Mom just told me to go punch one of them in the nose. As a Catholic kid, their previous advice had been to turn the other cheek. Now I'm supposed to hit someone! I wasn't like that at the time. It took me years of abuse before I got the point where I would fight if I had to. That wasn't me then at all. Everyday after school and before the next day became my heaven. That's when I tried to be happy. As the time came closer for sleep, I'd check the clock every five minutes. I tried to live every second of my life in those hours before I had to get beaten up again the next day. The shame and guilt and fear and embarrassment and depression and feelings of utter worthlessness return when I relive these memories. I have to get to the point where they don't destroy me anymore. I have to get to the point where that traumatized little boy feels safe and happy and worthwhile again.