When I was twelve years old, the bullying I was dealing with at my small private school came to a head. It had been going on for a long time, and it was always psychological, leaving me too embarrassed and feeling too powerless to ask for help. When we lined up for picture day, the blonde bully would call out over the whole line as the mirror passed to me for checking my appearance, “What are you doing? Counting the number of zits you have today?” It was a good day when something like this didn’t happen. I was made fun of for my clothes, my hair, my habit of frequently brushing my hair, the number of times per day I put on lip gloss, the way I played kickball, the way I stood, the way I spoke. You get the idea. I was alternately humiliated and ignored, could cry from relief (in private) if someone even addressed me by name, and I don’t remember a single time anyone stood up for me, though I did have a few friends who quietly supported me through it all.

One day, I decided I was tired of living in fear that these girls were watching me at every turn, waiting for me to slip up and give them some material to use to make fun of me. I decided that I would write down my innermost thoughts. I wrote that I wished someone could see through my glasses and my acne and my braces and just love me for who I was. I wrote that even my mom’s friend had said I had skin of peaches and cream, showing me that a caring adult, however generous, could see I had real beauty underneath my awkwardness. That’s all I wrote. Then I decided to fight back further against the paranoia I was developing that these girls might even plant cameras in my house to catch me relaxing even for a moment, and I threw out this piece of paper along with some old homework at school.

My fear apparently was justified. The bullies went through the trash to see what I had thrown away (I guess I was pretty interesting for a loser, huh?), and they found what they were looking for. For three days in mid-March, my seventh-grade year, they read my note aloud in front of classes when I wasn’t there. They passed it to the boys. They passed it to other schools. When I found out what was going on, I asked for it back, and they said they didn’t know what I was talking about and that they didn’t know where it was. Of course.

I had written about 100 poems that year, which helped me cope with my situation. Thank goodness they didn’t find these, but after this particular incident of bullying, I felt my creativity shutting down, slipping away. There seemed to be nothing I could do. I just couldn’t cope with that direct of a blow to my personal expression. Talk about rejection. My very hope to find a single person who could love me for who I was, expressed through my writing, was met with raucous laughter and another year of followup bullying until I escaped to a sane world in high school.

However. However, however. After years of climbing my way back out of this hole to find my creativity again, and after writing two novels and taking a leap of faith in believing–really knowing–that this was what I was destined to do all along, I have started to write poetry again. And just to prove that bullies don’t win and that I have recovered my bravery (after suffering for years with an anxiety disorder I needed some bravery to start a career as a novelist), I am going to post my first four poems here, for you. They are not perfect. I have not written a poem in eighteen years. If you have ever bullied anyone, would you read that again? Eighteen years to get back to writing poetry. That’s what really makes me sad, even years after forgiving and moving on. But I’m doing it. And these imperfect poems are me and they are where I’m at right now, and that is okay. And I trust that the community I will find on this site will do me a better turn than those bullies.

In fact, one of the reasons I am doing this today is to tell all the people who have been bullied and who are being bullied at school or at home that it is possible to beat bullying in your life. It is possible to succeed even if you feel you are walking through life bleeding all over everyone. Sometimes it takes some time and some self-care, but you can do what you were meant to do no matter how anyone treats you and no matter what they say about who you are.

If you would like to overcome the rejection of your past, please feel free to post your own poems or short story excerpts in comments. There’s something very important about putting yourself out there as an artist, as a person. For me, today is that day. Will you join me?
Blessings,

Laura

Late September Sun

The golden sun goes round the sky,

shimmering through yellowed leaves

grown shivery with first frost.

One moment the sky’s brightest blue,

the next surprises–sharp outlines of towering clouds.

But they don’t remain,

hurrying over horizon to the cold east.

In the sun, the sun, poison ivy burns,

virginia creeper and the maple blush

a burgundy reserved for these woods.

A praying mantis twitches only to relax,

happy on the gravel of our lonely road.

Even if the world existed for a day,

it would be worth it

for this beauty.

Nothing Lasts Forever

When the money rolls in and we

don’t even know

what to do with it

embarrassed,

July lasts a year, waves rolling in,

and my hair

bleaches teenage blonde in

the sun

I sigh

Nothing lasts forever.

When the emails roll in, diagnosis cancer,

hits friends, first one, soon six,

the cures don’t work,

and the work

stops rolling in,

the nights are long and

the days

filled with urgent errands,

a cranky child,

the writing’s in the drawer

I say

Nothing lasts forever.

Gold Leaf Gray Sky

Summer is always

just a few weeks

away from fall.

To Be A Hickory Tree

To be a hickory tree is to stand

silent among the rushing children

to drop green nuts in fertile soil

all carried off by squirrels.

To be a hickory tree is to stand

not too tall lest you attract the

unwanted attentions of men,

used up like a beautiful woman.

To be a hickory tree is to stand

paved in gold

ignoring the jealousy of milder trees

enjoying the favor of God.

To be a hickory tree is to stand

stark and waving in the winter winds

faithful to remind the men of spring

to thrum with quiet confidence.

To be a hickory tree is to stand.