Forgotten

Storytelling has never been one of my strengths. I consider the wicked truths of the world beautiful because I myself am a wicked truth. Maybe it was how my parents raised me or the trauma they raised me under without realizing it. Maybe this was just how I was supposed to end up. But I hate myself, and here are a few reasons why.

I am a bully. People come to me with concerns over their personal lives and I give them either hard-hitting advice or a “Look how stupid you are” kind of look. When I was younger, my older brothers would pick on me daily if no one was home. Mom and Dad babied me to such an extent that even if I made up a lie about my brothers hurting me they would believe me. The power was nice and I don’t think I ever truly let it go.

Over the years I was bullied in elementary and middle school. This wasn’t surprising since Maryland’s public school system strongly depends on bullying as an outlet for angst. If you were gay, a minority in that school, or just downright weird, then you got bullied. I was downright weird. I tried too hard and I still do. But looking back when I think of how being bullied meant being told I smelled or having the same hair style everyday, I brush it off since there are bigger bullies out there hiding behind their racism and homophobia and costing lives.

My own development as a bully came through a series of tests however. I understood what power was at a ripe age of four and used it when I could. From getting my brothers grounded to guilting my parents into buying a toy. I was a bratty as they come. Now as an adult I see the danger it has caused in my life. There are two types of bullies: those that bully for fun and those that bully to hide pain. I believe that both have components of the other, but it just may be heavier leaning towards one more than the other. When I was younger I bullied for fun. To see the person squirm in discomfort because I wanted to see what it was like for others but not go through it myself. As an adult I bullied as a wall. I found it easier to deflect the feelings of others than give my true opinion.

Changing is a difficult practice. Recognizing what needs the change is a strong first step, but when you have bad habits that make you a bad person it is hard to take those broken pieces out of yourself and still expect to be complete. I blame all my misfortune on karma now. The people I have wronged in my life have put energy in the world that comes crashing down thunderously every few months. The karma delivery is similar to a child holding their breath while playing hide and seek, but quickly that breath becomes a longer moment than you thought because the panic inside is rising as the seeker inches closer and closer.

I had forgotten how hard it is to stay focused on my own ambitions in light of the dark mindset I torment myself with daily. Depression must be so common in middle-class millennials with a selfish, spoiled backgrounds. We went to school for thirteen years with a scheduled day. We were embraced by our parents that we could be anything we wanted to be because our parents probably didn’t fulfill that piece of themselves. We were expected to have our next fifteen years stitched together on a quilt of obligation for our parents and peers to “ooh” and “aah” over. But then you have months of unemployment. Misdirection. You find you are alone with yourself the most you ever imagined. You realize you had forgotten how to be alone, and the worst bully to face is your self.

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