“I’m a bully, I was a bully.” The hardest words I’ve ever had to say to myself. Realizing I hurt someone, and didn’t care. Actually laughed at the things I had caused them to do. A horrible feeling not at the moment: however, starting freshman year with no one was a feeling that stung every minute. Middle school was a breeze when I had friends to laugh, and point, and pick on other kids. Teenagers my own age, dealing with similar problems, maybe even bigger than mine. Being so conceited and cruel took a toll, and I learned the hard way that being the bully only gets you so far. I needed to change, I decided to apologize.
The one person I thought about when I was getting ready for freshman orientation was a girl. Someone I used to think was meaningless, she meant nothing to me. But now a long, lonely summer later I pictured the things I caused, I remember telling her she was nobody and to stop standing up for herself because no one cared. The next day a school official told me the teen was found punching holes in the girls bathroom, and crying because the things I had said. In a perfect world I probably should have felt bad and stopped my tyranny, but I laughed and used it against her instead. I took it further and wrote things about her where I knew she’d see it. Funny thing is I had “friends” then, to laugh with but when it was over and our victim had lost their will to fight back, I was the one who was left. Who became meaningless, with no one?
I friended the wrong people, and believed they needed me as much as I depended on them. Being a bully alone is like becoming a victim of only you. Some people are strong enough to look past the things I’ve said and done, but she, who I’ve chosen to remain nameless, can never. And somehow I guess it’s for the best. So I can’t hurt her again, and from a distance I can see she’s happy. Because she had true friends, ones that didn’t care if she cried or if she was made fun of. I someday hope to become that content with myself and the people around me.