A record of a bullied girl.
If there was one stereotype character I think I was, it’ll be the damsel in distress.
Growing up, people around me always treated me as if I was some sort of fragile creature. As if I was made of glass. I hardly ran, cussed, or got dirty. You’ve probably seen girls like me: pretty, perfect little princesses who always got their cheeks pinched, who always got praised. I was accustomed to being special, to being asked what I wanted, to be served and not move a finger. Well, of course, like an ordinary human being, I do errands at home. But outside, everyone looks at me like I was a demure angel with a halo on my head.
Let’s not call is “spoiled”. Let’s call it being overly loved, and overly protected. Even I thought I was special. I got good grades and I was inclined to the arts. I am that girl who sad down and gets patted (and sometimes, I silently try so hard for those pats).
When I was bullied was the first time I felt something different. I was unwanted. Here is a bunch of little girls who wouldn’t want me to sit with them. Do I smell? Do I look ugly? I do have bad breath? I yearned for their friendship and I did everything I could so that they’d accept me. I was probably 5 or six, in a children’s choir, when I first experienced being an outcast. That sent my heart whirling; I felt so different.
As years went by, I tried wading into a world without knowing who I really am. One side of my world loves me and the other side mocks me. During my teens, I wanted to reach that other side and establish that I can be friendly with anyone. I never knew that there are really people who’d just won’t like you, no matter what.
Because of my inner belief that I was fragile, I never learned to stand on my own two feet. That I must always rely on someone to help me. That I should have a right hand or a left hand because I can’t do it all.
Well, I never tried.
Until, things happened.
Things happened and my upside-down world turned upside down again. It’s moving, it’s rotating, it’s spinning on a dash. It invites me to run and makes me lose my breath in the process. No stopping. No going back. Just move forward and keep at it.
Now, I know better. I know now that the great love people gave me was meant to fill me and share that kind of love to someone else. That the world balances itself; those who get broken and bruised breaks and bruises. Those who were cradled and cared for will cradle and care.
You just got to find who you are, where you are now, and where you’re supposed to go.
I found myself after wading through the ocean of self-doubts, insecurities, lies, sickness, failings and scars. I’m proud of these wounds because right now, I feel so much alive.I feel so much myself.
I am not a damsel in distress. I am a knight. I have always been one and I won’t let this identity be taken from me. I can run lapses. I can lift heavy stuff. I can climb ladders and change my lights. I won’t stay still and be served and patted. I will be doing the things they say I can do, because I’ll do it for the heartbeats. For the thrill. For the feeling I’m alive. I am not perfect, I don’t have porcelain skin, and I have a lot of scars flesh out and in.
Oh, and I’d probably end up doing something astonishing because that’s what knights are; do some questing, beat dragons to a pulp, and end up dying with a medal in their honor.