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Reflection

I just watched a movie.

It wasn’t really a great movie. I probably shouldn’t even say it was good because I feel like there are a lot of things that could’ve been done better.

It was called ‘Cyberbully,’ starring Emily Osment and then some unimportant other people. Emily Osment plays a high school girl, whom, as I’m sure you can guess based on the movies title, was cyber bullied.

The movie was kind of lame. She got cyber bullied on a pretend version of facebook by mean girls at her school who randomly, without any sort of provocation, decided they hated her and wanted to start talking crap on her facebook…or, whatever the imaginary version the movie created. I don’t feel much like getting into it because thinking about it reminds me of how lame it was, but long story short, she gets bullied, tries to kill herself, fails, and then goes to therapy to get better and then a magical law is passed in her state against cyber bullying.

I thought it was too idealistic. But the part that struck me was the part where she tried to kill herself.

Emily Osment is a pretty decent actress, and watching her in this movie made me decide I was disappointed in the roles she gets, because she could star in better things. Anyway, that’s just a sidenote.

At the part where she tries to kill herself, she portrays a very broken teenage girl who doesn’t know what else to do. Someone who hates herself as much as everyone else hates her without reason. And even if I thought the bullying in the movie was stupid and irrelevant to anything, I felt really bad for her right then, and then I was a little heart broken. Why? Because she reminded me of myself.

I’ve never tried to kill myself and I was never cyber bullied.

But I was bullied in real life during my middle school years. And I used to cut myself because of it. Now, as a twenty one year old who’s grown far beyond those years, I often look back at that time and think, “Well, I probably would’ve picked on me too,” (Granted, if I had, it wouldn’t have been to my face.) or, “I was so lame…I was like an emo kid and I had no reason to cut myself.”

However, as I watched this part of the movie, watched this girl try to kill herself, I remembered how badly I wanted to make it stop too. I remembered that I wanted something else to hurt, I wanted something else to hurt more than the things that were said and that happened to me at school. I gained a better understanding of who I was back then.

I hated going to school because every day, someone would say or do something. They’d probably make fun of me passing a test, or try to take my glasses; maybe someone would try to cut my hair again, or maybe someone else would try to shove me out a window. Maybe, someone would actually hit me. I never knew what was going to happen. I always went in with my guard up but my head down, and ninja’d my way through the hallways, looking for any sort of thing recognizing something good I had done; student of the month, passing a test, receiving the highest score on the Sanford 9 [or at least thats what I think that test was called]…I would look for anything with my name in the halls so that I could tear it down before someone defaced it. I would ask my teachers to go to the bathroom so that I could scour the halls for anything, a picture, a test, a slip with my name stapled onto a board with other ‘good’ students names, just so that I could rip it off before the end of the day, where, if I’d failed to remove anything, I would be subject to reading something mean about myself or see someone scribble on my face or write a name on it.

It was terrible, and my teachers sympathised with me. Sometimes, they would let me not-go to class so that I could stay with them and talk about anything else, or play games on their computers. Sometimes they’d get me slushies or give me tutoring I didn’t need. I guess it was their way of saving me from those other kids for at least an hour of the school day. I still appreciate all of them for it. But they couldn’t do anything about it, and they knew that. They couldn’t hold an assembly and say, ‘Hey guys, you should all stop being mean to Leah, she’s a pretty great kid,’ because it would only result in things getting worse for me.

I couldn’t tell my mom about any of it either, because she’d get mad - not at me, but at those other kids. She would’ve complained to the principal, given names, and sure, they would’ve gotten a detention or something, and maybe they would’ve been forced to apologize, but it wouldn’t have meant anything. They would’ve just come back for me, twice as badly as they had the first time.

And so, I was alone.

At this age, I had been given my first computer, and I had access to the internet. I watched a lot of anime, listened to a lot of music, sang songs, talked to online friends, and I read fanfiction. I read a lot of ‘dark’ fanfiction, involving the characters engaging in some sort of depression caused self mutilation. And I thought it was absolutely glorious. The feelings, the emotions of relief and temporary happiness caused by pain described in those stories appealed to me so much. The idea of feeling liberated by hurting myself was oh so appealing.

And so, by the age of twelve, I picked up my first razor and dragged it across my arm. Two very small gashes that resembled slashes on my left arm. And as I did it, I couldn’t really think of why I was doing it. I tried to justify it with reasons that I didn’t mean. For some reason, I would say it was because my mom liked my brothers more than me. Or because I missed my older brother who had passed away a couple of years before. Honestly, it had nothing to do with either of those things. While sometimes I do think my mom favors my brothers over me a bit, it didn’t affect me enough to want to hurt myself, and honestly, I’ve never missed my brother as much as I feel that I should. I don’t know why I didn’t admit to myself that the things that happened in school hurt so much that I wanted to see myself bleed.

It became addicting for a little while. Soon, two gashes turned into four, four to eight, and eventually, both of my arms were scarred. And to me, they looked beautiful, I was so proud. My personality had changed. I felt so tough. At school, I avoided speaking as much as I could; I sat in the back. I smirked at certain things and would make the occasional sarcastic remark. Eventually, a couple of other kids began to find me amusing this way. This dark humored sarcastic girl was at least, no longer alone; sure, most of the student population still hated me, but at least I didn’t sit completely alone in class or at lunch. They would see my cuts peeking out from my sleeves and ask about them, and I guess they were fascinated that someone would do this to themselves. They asked me why I did it and if it hurt. No one ever said I should stop or get help, and so, I didn’t. One girl I guess found me so interesting that she went home and told her mother about me. The next day, she told me she wasn’t allowed to sit with me anymore. Her mother told her so. Her words were, “I don’t want you talking to that girl - she’s a cutter! I’ve seen them on tv…she’s a bad influence!” And I laughed. Not a funny ha-ha laugh, but I guess it came out of pride. Now I’m important enough to be a bad influence, I guess I thought.

My mom knew, I think. One of my older cousins, another ‘cutter,’ asked me about it vaguely at the kitchen table one morning. She tried not to be too specific, but I guess my mom understood her and she made a remark about how there’s no reason I should’ve been doing it, I had a good enough life. My cousin and I exchanged glances and ate the rest of our cereal without saying anything.

But my mom really didn’t try to stop me.

One day she even lifted my sleeve - my left sleeve - and she saw the marks. She asked me to stop, and I said I would, even though on the inside I just scoffed a bit and thought that I was lucky she hadn’t lifted my right sleeve instead. My right arm was my main victim.

I think I did it again that night, but that night, it wasn’t so much out of hurting than it was out of spite. Or maybe I was hurting, because she didn’t try harder to stop me. Who knows?

Anyway, I did stop eventually - when I got to high school. When I got to high school, I tried to maintain the same persona, but it didn’t work out - For some reason, people actually genuinely wanted to be around me. People sat with me at lunch, they looked for me. Two students, actually - both from my middle school, one I’d never had an issue with and another that was sometimes an issue and sometimes a friend. Eventually they found their own crowds and I was left to sit alone at lunch again. I’d gained friends, but I wasn’t really part of a group… at lunch, the groups sat together, so I sat alone. I soon met a senior though, and I can’t remember where or how I met him, but one day he sat with me in the cafeteria and asked why I was alone. I told him I didn’t know and that I usually was, and every day after that, he would come sit with me, and sometimes buy something for us to share or pick at my lunch and talk to me. I didn’t have a crush on him, but he became sort of like a brother to me. I trusted him, and he made me happy. He made me feel safe, and like I wasn’t alone anymore.

And so then, I promised myself to stop cutting myself, because I didn’t have to anymore. I kept that promise.

So here I am today at twenty one. I have a wonderful boyfriend, I have a few good friends, I laugh, and sometimes I get sad like anyone else does. I go places on weekends, I have the occasional drink. I have friends to call or text if something interesting or funny happens, and I’m no longer the target of a joke. And its good. When I was in middle school, I thought that pain and sadness would never go away. I thought I would be alone for the rest of my life, but I’m not.

I don’t really know why this stupid movie made me feel like writing an essay. Maybe I just like writing and miss it, or maybe I think too highly of myself and the things I’ve been through and feel like they’re worth sharing. I don’t think anyone will bother to read it except for maybe a friend or two.

But I guess that if anyone does read it, maybe someone who gets bullied and does what I did or thinks of killing themselves…I guess I just wanted to say that it does get better.

Even if right now you don’t think so…I promise it does.

That’s it.