My ten-year-old jumped in the front seat of the van from the car rider line and slammed the door. I sensed that she had a rough day by her scowling expression. Of course, my parental instincts kick in and the first thing that I want to ask is, “how was your day?” I have never gotten a good response that way, it is always a short reply of, “good,” or “okay” but never an elaboration of what exactly that entailed. I took a breath and tried to think about what I could say not to set her off and help her know that I genuinely care and wanted to know about her day. I started asking questions that I thought she would appreciate better, “what did you learn today?” and "How did your presentation go?" This didn't seem to work as she let out an irritated sigh, “Mom, I had a long day.” She continued to look out the window, I could tell that she felt like I wouldn't understand what she was going through, I mean how could a lame old Mom like me possibly understand what her kids were going through? I had never been young once, right? I needed to hear what was happening in her world, because even though she was only ten and it may seem like she shouldn't have much to worry about from a grown up perspective, I had to understand that she's growing up in a different world than I did. Her emotions and problems would be much different than what I faced when I was her age. I admit, I am guilty of thinking; "what in the world could she be facing that was so horrible at her age?" However, she needed to know that I would always be a listening ear, her safe place to come to about anything. That was important. With caution, I started speaking, “When I was in fifth grade,” waiting for her to let out an annoyed sigh, I paused briefly. She sat silent, so I continued, “I felt alone. I didn't have many friends, I certainly didn't dress like a cool kid, and I was shy. Nobody really wanted to talk to a shy girl or try to hang around a dorky kid with beat up sneakers. If they approached me to try to play with me or talk to me, I always thought that it was a mistake, I didn't feel good enough to be around them, so I kept quiet most of the time. Some would poke at me and laugh and I knew the jokes were about me, but I would laugh with them or smile back. I willed myself not to let their actions bother me, though it was hard. I can honestly say that it did hurt, but I got through it because I knew that it wouldn't last forever. No matter how bad I felt, I didn't let them see it. They didn't get the best of me. It didn't bother me to be alone, most of the time I had my thoughts and that was good enough for me. Even though it was hard, I would stay myself. It can be easy to lose yourself when you're trying to discover who you are or where you fit in, but your heart always knows what's best and you need to listen to it. Despite hard times, my fifth-grade year ended up being one of my favorite years in school, I learned so much and had a lot of fun.” I hoped that something in that story would help, anything. I was going on nothing, walking into this world of hers with my eyes closed in hopes to help her through any darkness and push her to her light. She watched me while I told her about my younger years, her expression changing. When we pulled up to a red light, her demeanor softened, “Mom, I want to be a bully.” I was completely caught off guard, and for an instant, my heart was plagued with panic. I have always raised my kids to be kind to others, instilling in them that being mean or bullying is the wrong way to go. I was not expecting that to come from my story at all. Parenting is hard, often I feel like I am a failure at it, and this was most certainly one of those times. I closed my eyes, trying to hide my emotions, and willed myself to see it from her point of view. I stayed quiet and let her continue. “Listen Mom," she began as she watched me intently, "there's this kid and she's been picking on me and my friends for a while. We have tried to be kind and make friends, but it's like the harder we try, the worse she gets. She tells lies about us to our other friends and classmates, it makes us feel bad. I know that maybe her home life has a lot to do with it, but I would like to step into her shoes; the shoes of a bully and truly see how she's feeling. I want to understand why she feels like she needs to mistreat others to make herself feel better so that I can find a way to make her, and others like her see that they don't have to be like that. I just want to understand it." Glancing over at me, she smiled, "I know what you were thinking, Mom. I don't want to bully others. I wouldn't want anyone to feel bad. I want to understand what drives a bully to be a bully and help them.” I couldn't stop my mouth from falling open, I was lost. My heart was filled with pride for her and my mind was blown. often I ask who the parent is. I learn the most from my children, even when I think I know better.

As a nine-year-old, I had no idea how long-lasting words genuinely are. Yet, nearly six years later, one afternoon that was routine for many still lies embedded in my memory like a fiery flame that cannot be extinguished. ________________________________________________________________________________________ I stood there, looking for a way out. No escape was visible, except to once again endure the torment. I knew that I did nothing wrong, yet rarely looked in the mirror anymore without disgust and resent. “Fluffy,” the boy teased as he poked my stomach. He ran away in laughter, only to return to his friends and report as if he were Hermes of Athens. The other boys listened intently, then erupted in hysteria. It is these moments that I wish I could take back, redo, and use my voice; my voice that I now know is so incredibly powerful, that can be used to either build or shatter within seconds. But of course, no such knowledge ever comes to you when you so desperately need it most. Everything that followed soon after would leave me questioning whether we truly are innocent until proven guilty. I was playing by myself, picking dandelions, when my so-called friends came over. They all stood at a distance as if I held a contagious disease. Then, the boy's sister, who had targeted me continuously for some time, walked up and stood alongside the others. For privacy purposes, I'll refer to her as Leah. For many months prior, I had endured her torment, filled with her calling me “fat,” “a whale,” “disgusting,” and so much more. I dealt with this on the bus, on the playground, and anywhere else out of an adult's earshot. When confronted by an adult, her reply was always, “I was just joking.” Remembering this all, I walked towards Leah with hurt in my eyes and shoved her with my shoulder. “Look what you've done,” I whispered. Leah then ignited in a fury, pushing me backward. In retaliation, I went to push back. After she thrust me a second time, I fell to the ground, filled with anger, hurt, and embarrassment. When I got up and walked over to reciprocate, Leah punched the side of my face, leaving me speechless. As any other fourth grader might do, I went to an adult. Later, this same adult whom I confided in would claim that she witnessed the entire exchange and would even argue that she made an effort to separate Leah and me. As I sat in the principal's office later that day, I was in sheer disbelief. I did nothing to deserve the treatment Leah had given me for many months prior, yet I was being treated with indifference and suspicion. Ultimately, I was suspended for several days, despite being a victim of bullying and harassment. This infuriated both my mother and I. I had been in the principal's office countless times, reporting the bullying I fell victim to, inevitably leaving with no solution. However, I was being punished in an identical manner to Leah when I finally stood up for myself. My mother, therefore, made many phone calls preceding my return, discussing this injustice. After much consideration, I was permitted to return to school a day earlier than Leah. Prior to my departure, I was asked one simple question by the two girls who I considered my true friends: “Did it hurt?” Although I understood what they were asking, I still replied with, “Yes.” Though, not because the impact physically hurt. It hurt that I was constantly a target and could do nothing to stop it. It hurt that it took people physically placing their hands on me for Leah's cruel actions to be recognized and dealt with. It hurt that an adult would blatantly lie, making me seem deceitful. But above all, Leah's words hurt. Not only in the moment did I feel their sting, but to this day I still bear some of the weight of her words and actions. Through the entire ordeal, however, one message has been made crystal clear: sticks and stones may break my bones, but words take incredibly longer to heal.

Looking at the mirror, I see myself with a sense of peace today. Devoid of any makeup or accessory, late at night, my reflection smiles back at me. Sometimes it is a smile of joy and victory, sometimes of heart-wrenching sadness. But these is always an odd sort of comfort, like the feeling of slipping into your favorite pair of worn out pajamas. Or the feeling of coming back home after a long, tiring day. This solace was earned, not gifted. I was born as a confident and happy child. Never really caring about my looks, I do not remember ever worrying about how people saw me. My teenage years were not so carefree, however. They were tainted by remarks about how my ugly self did not deserve any company, let alone sympathy. I looked at the mirror then too, but with feelings of contempt and despair. My confidence hit rock-bottom. I did things to myself I am not proud of. I have always had long hair, now I hid my face behind it. Walking through the school corridors, I hung my head low. I had few friends; people distanced themselves from me as if I carried an infectious disease. It can take years of contemplation to make a change happen, but in hindsight you can always find a turning point that acted as the catalyst. My turning point came in the form of a random woman in a random convenience store. She kept stealing glances at me, making me extremely conscious of my appearance. Just when I could no longer bear the scrutiny and was about to bolt, she walked over to me and said in broken English, “You're very pretty.” I stared at her, dumbfounded. What was this strange woman saying? My face was bare; my hair, which I consider my best physical feature, was tied in a bun. She looked over me once again, then said in a decisive tone, “Yes, very beautiful.” She waited a few seconds for me to make a reaction, during which I barely managed to gather my wits and mumbled a faint thank you. Then she left, leaving me extremely confused among aisles of snacks and scattered thoughts. I believe in miracles, I am forced to believe in them since that incident. Now whether the miracle came to me or I made it happen was another question. I have reasons to think that the whole thing was a figment of my imagination. My brain could have simply conjured this up to pull myself out of the pathetic state I was in. I do not remember a thing about the woman; her face, her clothes, her voice, nothing. Just the words. If you are thinking I suddenly discovered my hidden beauty, got a wardrobe upgrade and showed the world what a catch I was, then I apologize for being the cause of disappointment, but no such thing happened. I did not feel particularly beautiful after that encounter, but it did eventually bring clarity to my thoughts. For one, there was no great change in my appearance that could have suddenly sparked such hatred among my peers. Sure, my body was changing thanks to puberty, but my face was essentially the same as it was before I was bullied. Thinking hard, I traced back to the inception of my suffering: a certain comment from a mean classmate who was always jealous of me for some unfathomable reason. Historically speaking, being the subject of envy has never worked out in my favor. At that time, the consequences of a single snide remark were two whole years of self-hate and being treated like an outcast. It took me months to come to terms with the fact that the harassment had nothing to do with the way I looked. More than a year later, I finally learned to fight back and recovered my lost self-confidence. I did nothing to change my appearance. This experience has greatly shaped the way I feel about beauty as an adult. In my 22 years of existence I have been fortunate enough to live in three different countries and meet countless beautiful people, as well as a few ugly ones. Before you jump the gun, let me clarify that beauty, or the lack of it, does not simply refer to the so-called golden ratio or the symmetry of a person's face. At least not in my dictionary. To me, the most beautiful person in the world would be empathetic. Confident, yet not arrogant. Bold, yet not disrespectful. Physically, well, there is no single way to be beautiful. There is no denying the fact that the first thing you see in a person is his/her face. It is out there for the world to see, and it is convenient to judge thanks to the many beauty standards society has imposed upon us. The problem arises when we take the easy way and try to figure out a person's character based on his/her looks. Stop. Because this is where you should stop. Not only are you putting unfair expectations on that person, but you are also making a fool out of yourself. I now listen to the people worthy of my love and admiration to evaluate my beauty. Most importantly, I listen to myself. Do I think I am beautiful? Physically, I consider myself just normal, and I love it. But truly? I am on my way there, though I still have a long way to go.

A person is born naturally good. Or rather, a person is born good but is meant to be both good and bad in order to be complete. I was a timid child. They called me quiet, chubby, but smart and kind. I only knew how to be happy, by reading, watching TV, drawing. But there were unavoidable times that my quiet little space was invaded by bullies who had nothing better to do. And there was no one, no one strong enough or caring or with authority enough that stopped them. I cried silently. I forgave. My best friend whom I had only met in high school had no idea what I experienced. But it was okay. I wasn't hurt, I got used to it, and I could still smile and be myself. I just distance myself from those kinds of people. I mean, I wasn't the only one who was bullied. But, the funny thing was that, I didn't try hard to defend myself. But whenever I saw others being bullied, I would always help them and comfort them. Maybe I wanted to give to others the help and security I didn't receive. I don't know. It just happened involuntarily. I was a child, a teen, and I moved on impulse. And my default mode, apparently, was sacrificial of my own time and comfort. They say, there will be no enslaver if no one allows themselves to be enslaved. And I am guilty of being willing to be enslaved of little things, small things that for others were just pieces of paper, money, ballpoint pens, carrying their bags, doing their assignments and letting them copy from my test answer. And I just smiled through it all. I was deaf to the words of those who really cared, as they kept telling me that I acted like a doormat and other people were abusing me. To me, that was how I show my generosity. But, this habit, this foolish belief, extended from my friendships to my romantic relationships later on. Feeling trapped in a whirlwind of emotions of another person can take its toll, and even the kindest, most foolish would someday wake up and say they've had enough. That's what I had experienced in a three-year relationship. And it left such a deep scar on me that I grew scared of love even sensing a tiny bit of sadness and anger within myself could recoil and paralyze me again. And like a bad seed, the jealousy, the malice, the negativity I firsthand experienced in him grew roots inside me. It was a nightmare, and I swore I learned my lesson. But, I wasn't quite healed yet. A few years later, I met a man whom I deemed was different from him, although no one is truly perfect. During our relationship I discovered stoicism. But I won't elaborate on that here as what I'm about to tell is far more important. I've read Siddhartha, a novel by Hermann Hesse, by chance. I was looking for Demian as it was referred to in a series of music videos by a favorite band, but sadly, the online bookshop didn't have a copy of it, but had Siddhartha and Steppenwolf instead so I bought those two. It must've been fate, because I could relate to the protagonist's journey. Siddhartha was good when the story began, but in search of enlightenment he left what he was accustomed to, by joining the ascetics and gave up things of the world. But down the road, he concluded that he could not fully be enlightened that way, even shunning the way of Buddha himself, and went to a city where he met a woman whom he regarded as his teacher. It was there that he learned about love, about business, and eventually, succumbed to lust and greed. When his actions caused him to be sick both inside and outside, he wandered away from the city in a state of confusion. Later he met a boatman and through old age, calmed and gained wisdom, finally proving that each one of us had to experience evil and hardships in order to be whole. In my recent years, although I am a complete nobody, I have experienced hardships and conflict, and even found someone that awakened the other side of me--a darker me that was skeptical of the good in myself and others. I have delved deep into knowing myself through that darkness though--recognizing my anger, depression, frustration, anxiety, etc. as valid emotions. I became more aware of why happiness in me isn't constant, for inner and outer reasons. Like in the novel Siddhartha, I guess I had to experience all this so that I could look back and not commit the same mistakes again. Even if I have grown far from the kind and innocent kid I was when I was younger, and despite all my wishes and attempts of returning to that state, I couldn't just erase the events that happened and affected me emotionally and spiritually. I just had to be my own hero and press on. So here I am, still struggling, yes, but I'm accepting the fact that this is all happening for a reason, and that there are still good days ahead.

Over the past year, I have survived- fully functional- without the aid of the modern-day ‘iPhone'. I have made friends, engaged in healthy social interaction, and largely missed out on absolutely nothing in my life because of this quote-unquote detriment. I have still been able to participate in nearly every aspect of my life, from school to my social life in a fairly normal way. The only part that I have missed, in my opinion, is the normalcy of being a teenager in this fine, unholy mess of the present day. The world has evolved, as everyone who reads this is surely aware, in a way that has sewn phones into the fabric of our lives in a deep, irreparable way. We suffer without them- Or at least we think we do. From the moment we wake up to the moment we lay our heads on our pillows, they are in our hands and influencing us, movement-to-movement. They wake us up for work and school every morning and ceaselessly pester us throughout the day- “Wanna go out for lunch?” a message may read. “There's a party this weekend! You should come!” another may offer. ‘Three new likes on your post.' ‘Four new comments on your post.' When you see the situation laid out in front of you this way, it may seem like nothing more than an unhealthy obsession we humans have created for ourselves, and that it is- for some people. We cannot neglect the fact that, through technology, we have infinitely eased some of our daily life hassles. We have additionally greatly improved the safety of our world in many ways, too. Without phones, you would not be able to quickly message your parent and ask who's picking you up from school. You would not be able to quickly check your bank account so as not to spend more money than you have. You would not be able to shoot your boss a message, letting her know you're too sick to come in this morning. I've made my case in support of phones, but I have yet to acknowledge their dangers. Not having a phone, and therefore experiencing these minor inconveniences, was one-hundred-percent a result of my own choices. I had repeatedly made mistakes- And when I was given grace, I made the same mistakes again. I will not use a phone incorrectly moving forward. I couldn't, knowing the damage it can, and has, caused. I am not willing to ruin my own life- To burn before I've even gotten off the ground. I will not engage in online interaction with people I don't know. Stranger Danger is a phrase we have been teaching our children for years- But the only real danger is when that stranger is behind a screen. The term ‘stranger' even extends to include people you've met in real life before, but don't really know. I will not send messages or images that are in any way considered inappropriate or could be held against me in the event the person I once felt comfortable and trusting in decides to turn against me. I never felt like this was a real thing that could happen to me, but I am now very aware that it's not such an uncommon thing to experience. I will not send secretive and malicious messages that are worthy of hiding. The phone is meant for communication, sure, but only the positive and polite kind. I must be honest with what I say through the phone, and be careful of the way the things I say may come across. I will not interact with the dangerous- Frankly even deadly- world of social media. Snapchat, Instagram, and Facebook are a breeding ground for hate speech, cyberbullying, and life-ruining miscommunications. I am, quite possibly, the most aware of the dangers of technology due to the massive impacts it has had on my life. As a member of the first generation to be unable to remember a time without the internet, we have had these phones in our hands and in our lives since we were born. I personally have come to be alright without having a phone- Grateful, even- Until fairly recently. I desire the functional, organizational tool that is a cell phone. As someone who now has a job, a bank account, and very well may be using the, admittedly sketchy, Indianapolis public transit every day to get to and from school, having a phone displays obvious benefits. The only way I can properly use these aforementioned benefits is when I am very cautious not to abuse them. I would like to be able to reach my parents when I arrive at school in the morning. I would like to be able to get messages from my manager when she needs me to work extra days one week. I would like to be able to check my account balance before I buy those Chick-Fil-A fries at lunch and dip into the negative. I would like to be able to talk to and call Lindsey and Kaikeyi and the rest of them when I am not physically with them, especially Kristi who lives far away. I would like to take beautiful pictures of my art, makeup, and cosplays, and friends when people ask to see them. I would like to use a phone as a business tool to further the reach of my commissions. And finally, I would like your trust, even on days when it's hard. I would like nothing more.

The air around her smelled of ink, paper, and pencil lead. She scribbled her thoughts down but not even then could she even begin to fully understand. The people around her understood so why didn't she. It was like they had created a contract that contained an unsaid rule that everyone around her must never say anything and allow her to destroy the light inside on her own so they wouldn't leave evidence of their crime against her. It didn't take long for the light to almost completely diminish itself entirely. So while the world around her was filled with color, she herself slowly became as gray as the sky before a storm. Though sound was rare in her color drained mind, it still managed to be made by sinking into her invisible world of song. They never heard it fore it was there somewhere deep in her soul, somewhere where the light hadn't yet been extinguished. That little light was the only thing left in her. The only thing that kept her from completely disappearing. The light kept her from giving up on herself and gave her the slightest bit of hope that one day things would get better. Two years later, you can now find that same girl with a smile on her face and a friend or two by her side. It took some time but that little light soon became a flame that regained its strength creating a fire. A fire that she hopes to share with those who have let their light burn too low so they too can become the star they are meant to be. You don't have to be lonely like that little girl was. You don't have to be lonely like I was.

It started with just misplacing things. At first it was common forgettable things like my writing materials, so I just concluded that maybe I'd been more careless than usual recently. I'd leave my water bottle in class and come back to meet it empty - but that could be excused as my own miscalculation, or I'd think maybe it fell and someone had helped me pick it up. But when I'd keep money in my bag and come back and not meet it there, it became obvious that I was getting stolen from. And no, stealing wasn't a common occurrence at all in our school. I'd see girls leave valuables out carelessly and come back to meet them untouched, so I knew that for whatever reason, I was being targeted. It was the day I lost a significant amount of money I couldn't do without that I finally reported to our class mistress. I really don't know what I was expecting - maybe I thought she'd somehow magically discover who stole it and make them pay me back, but instead she punished the whole class and made them all contribute to pay me. Maybe if there was actually anyone in the class then that liked me, that was when they started to hate me. I could understand their pain, and I had tried to talk our teacher out of it as much as I could, but there was really nothing else I could do. But my classmates didn't care. If their hostility towards me had been in any way veiled before, it was very obvious now. Snide remarks were thrown my way, and more than once a foot was stuck out to trip me (I never fell though - possibly the only advantage of only looking at the ground while I walked). My first and only violent encounter with bullies in my class happened a few days later. Class was going on in the labs, so I just stayed in the classroom instead. A few other girls were skipping in class too, but this was a normal thing do, so I just ignored them as usual and started drawing something in the big notebook I had for drawing in. After a while though, one of the girls just came up to me and kicked me. Out of nowhere, and for no reason. She kicked my leg, and it hurt, so I said, "don't do that". Then she repeated exactly what I said in a mocking voice, and then said, "Oh, so you can talk?" Which isn't really surprisingly because I rarely did talk. By this time her friends were also surrounding me, and one of them kicked me too. I don't remember exactly what I was trying to do, but I kind of grabbed the girl's leg and grief to hold it away from me. She just kicked it off, then a third girl slapped me and grabbed my book. It went flying towards the front of the class, and at that point I just put my head down on my desk and started to cry. They left me alone then. I stayed still where I was, crying and ignoring their laughter, till our classmates started returning and I raised my tear-stained face to ask a random girl to get my book for me. She did. I don't remember who the girl was, but I will forever be thankful for her. I still don't know what actually hurt me more, the two kicks (they actually left bruises on my legs that I had to lie to my parents about) or my drawing book. I loved drawing so much then, and my book was damaged in the fall. The stick of cardboard holding the pages together had come almost all the way off, and I'd look like a fool if I carried it around. Plus it held bad memories for me. This was the time I basically just lost interest in drawing at all. The next term took a while in coming, because of some complications the school management was dealing with, and during that extra holiday season, I was diagnosed with depression (no surprise there). Anyways, I don't know whether I thought that depression would make me more acceptable in my classmates' eyes, or if I thought it would make them pity me and stop making my life harder. Or maybe I just thought it was a cool thing and was seeking attention, but I felt the need to make sure the class knew that I had depression. So I did a stupid thing - I told the one girl that couldn't keep a secret to save her life. Her name was Sandra or so, and she was a notorious gossip. If course, within days, everyone had heard about it. That's how my final year of school officially became the worst year of my life. Instead of the pity or love I expected, I became even more of an outcast then I already was. People would refer to be as things like "hey! Depressed girl" and so on. They found it funny to write the most horrible things on my desk, and whenever I raised my hand to answer a question in class you'd always hear a random person shout, "Don't pick her, she's depressed!" and then people would laugh. I just stopped raising my hand. I'm 16 now, and thankfully done with school. Someday, when I'm in a good place in life, mentally and financially, I hope to start one of my own. A school where the no bullying policy actually means something, where mental health education is compulsory, and where students are happy and free to be themselves.

Let's have a chat, shall we? We all hear the anti-bullying organizations saying how much they will crack down on bullying, how schools are putting a zero tolerance policy in place, and how teachers will be more direct in dealing with bullies. Do these tactics even work? Is bully even the right word? It makes it sound so trivial. When you hear the word “bully”, the image you conjure up in your brain is one of a tall middle schooler shaking you down for lunch money. Not of someone who harasses you day in and day out for every little thing you do. Someone who makes your academic life a living nightmare solely depending on what you are interested in and/or what you look like. Overweight? Look forward to people calling you fatty for years simply because the one person who did it has more friends than you. Like to draw? If you are seated next to anyone who has the slightest amount of hate for you, be prepared to block any so-called “accidental” pencil markings heading your way. Band? Maybe you can try to lessen the blows a bit by not trying out for marching. Combine all that and you're a walking, talking bulls-eye. At this moment, I have been out of high school for 6 years. While high school was indeed hell, the worst experiences I've had with “bullies” happened in middle school. May sound like a cliché, but gym class really can end up as a perfect opportunity for a “bully” to act. What is not cliché is while most of the class is running around barefoot on the court under the ever so vigilant gym teacher who is sitting in the corner with their nose in their phone, the “bullies” make their way to the locker room where they pour a cup of their own piss onto your tennis shoes. You find out at the end of class in the locker room along with everyone else and the only two people who are laughing at you. Despite being found out, they claim they did not do it so you go home with your shoes in a plastic bag like nothing ever happened. But as you know, one child out of a whole class walking out of the gym and onto the bus with their shoes in a bag is not a cause for any concern by a teacher. Let's fast forward a bit; my family moves to another state in my last year of middle school. I, of course, I am ecstatic at the idea of leaving my old middle school life behind and start fresh. So what happens? Singled out by a girl with a posse due to my weight issues and when I reach my limit, I make it physical and push her. Once again, this happened during a gym class. While there was a teacher present, the only thing they did was tell us to stop and to get back to our activities. After that class, the girl decided to tell everyone that, instead of a push, I touched her breasts. It spread like wildfire and for the next few weeks, nearly every girl I passed in the hall crossed her arms over her chest and/or called me a lesbian. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a lesbian, but the fact is that I was being called something I was not and accused of something I did not do. When classes were over in this school, students walked to their next class in lines; teachers standing guard by their doors. Absolute negligence is the only reason something like this could have gone without action. It did go one step further with my mother arriving at the school and having a conversation with the guidance counselor about it, but the other girl was never brought in for the conversation. I don't recall much after that since my family moved back to our home state. From then on it was mainly being called fat; being asked out as a joke, and having multiple drawings messed with or destroyed for my four years of high school. Where am I going with all of this? Zero tolerance policies only work when the school has hired staff who actually care about the students, their mental well-being, and who continue to do so. During my time in the two middle schools and one high school I have attended, not a single teacher had interfered in a considerable way in any instances involving “bullies”. I get it, working with dozens of children for most of your days gets exhausting and annoying. But you have a duty to perform, not only as an educational provider, but as a caregiver. This sort of harassment cannot be completely avoided. But when it does happen and you notice it, or a child comes to you for help, the correct response is not simply “Knock it off and get back to your seat.” Telling that to students does not mean nothing will ever happen again after that or that something else between them is not going on. Harassment needs to be stopped at the source, which is informing the parents and having them take the action necessary to correct their child's behavior. Now not every parent is going to do this since every now and then you have those that believe their child can do no wrong, but the ones who do will make a greater impact in the nature of harassment and ending the instances nearly as soon as they arise.

School isn't one of the easiest places to be yourself. When most people get to school they become a different person from whom they actually are. Not even because they want to, but because they feel they'll get judged or bullied if they don't fit in. I helped my friend overcome bullying. From 3rd-6th grade my best friend and I did everything together, from birthday parties to library visits. She was fun to be around and different, I thought; others didn't. My best friend was about 5'9 and dark skin with short hair. She didn't wear designer clothes, so people wouldn't give her a chance. My most judgmental friend disliked my best friend for no exact reason. She didn't even attempt to get to know my best friend. My judgmental friend chose to pick on my best friend about her height and said inappropriate things about how she dresses; others followed. While at my best friend's house one day, I knew something was wrong. She finally told me that at times she feels so down and insecure to where she hates who she is. When I heard that, I said everything I could to let her know how amazing she was, not only as friend but a person. I felt awful, even if she never spoke up for herself, I should've. That whole night, it was on my mind, I knew there was something I had to do. I either had to pick sides, or do something to make my judgmental friend know my best friend, just as I. That's when I got my idea. The next day I brought my idea to the principal and counselor's attention. They were all for it. When it was time for lunch I made my announcement for a “Lunchtime Mix-Up.” Students had to sit with someone they didn't know or didn't usually sit with. It was mandatory and anyone who didn't participate had to eat last. I hoped the two would end up at a table together; they actually did, and I joined them as mediator. By the end of lunch they talked out their problems without yelling or arguing. They didn't become the closest of friends but my judgmental friend stopped bullying my best friend. My principal was really proud that I decided to do this. I never let her know why I did it but I'm happy it turned out well. I was really happy because I did not want to have to choose sides. Who knows how that would've turned out? It also makes me think, who else could've been getting hurt or bullied and no one knew or paid attention? Not only did I fix the situation myself but I started something that benefited others. Not everyone wanted to participate and that was fine; they missed out. Since it was such a success, we decided to make every Monday's lunchtime a “Mix-Up Monday.” It was a free, brilliant and safe resolution. There's not one thing in this world that becomes perfect over night, so yeah it had some adjusting to get use to. Once everyone got use to it, it was more than fun. It was a life lesson. You're never gonna be exactly like someone else, but that does make you better either. Nor does it make you less valuable, you're just as amazing as anyone else.

When I picked up the book 13 reasons why at a book store many years ago I had no clue it would change my life. I didn't know that I was fixing to read my story written by a stranger. A noticeable difference is that I am 31 and still alive. I lived Hannah's life but I made it. When I was 15 years old a friend called me one Friday night. She was intoxicated at a party with all males. She wasn't comfortable and asked if I could walk across the street to where the party was and stay with her. I thought nothing of it and told my parents I was sleeping over with the neighbor (just not the neighbor they thought). I cared for my friend and got her to bed with no issues. I locked her in the room and made sure none of the males present went near the room. We had all been friends for years with the exception of an older guy there. He was very attractive, rich and popular. As the early morning hours approached the friends all started to pass out. I was given my own room and soon found myself fast asleep. I woke up to the guy I didn't know asking if he could crash in there with me because the rest of the beds were taken. I remember hearing the door lock and even telling him that was a fire safety issue. I wasn't nervous because I was in a house full of people I had known for several years. I must have fallen back to sleep quickly but that wouldn't last. I was awoken to him on top of me, forcing himself inside me. I was a virgin and scared truly to make a noise. I think I may have whimpered but that only made it worse. I don't know how long it lasted. I remember he left the room and didn't come back in. I was scared to leave the room. When morning came I practically ran home. I can remember my friends calling me the next 2 days asking what had happened because the male was saying things about me that were not nice. I realized later that he immediately started saying things about my character so people would believe him when he said he never touched me. I had no intentions of telling anyone but made sure no one would believe me if I did. Something I didn't realize was that he was already 18 which made what he did statutory rape. I can remember that first day back at school how all my friends shunned me. People I had known since elementary school treated me like I did something wrong. I never told my parents. I quit cheerleading and the school newspaper. I didn't talk about it with my childhood best friends. They knew something was wrong but I shut down anytime I was asked. Things moved on and I finished the year barely passing after having been an straight a student. I thought for sure the next year would be better as junior but I was shocked the first day of school to find that my attacker had been held from graduation and would be back at the school for another year. Not only was he back at school but would be in some of my classes. I told myself that I could handle this by just pretending he didn't exist but he seemed that he needed to make my life hard. He would say things under his breath when I talked, he would loudly make comments about my reputation and would try to turn my few peers in the class against me. After a few weeks of this abuse I started taking sleeping medicine to get past the nightmares. One day he seemed particularly nasty towards me and called me to his table during lunch. He had some of his female friends call me some names and tell me how he would never have touched me. I took enough sleeping pills that night to never face him again. People wondered how I got the pills. I asked an older neighbor friend to get them for me. That moment of survival changed my life. I still didn't speak out of the attacker mostly out of fear. I felt like I was having a heart attack when I saw in the local paper that he been arrested with trying to pick up a 14 year old girl in a sting when he was 30. My first thought was he may have hurt other girls. I was so scared to tell and that may have left him able to harm others. I have dealt with the ptsd of the attack for years. Sometimes are better than others. Everyday I am glad that I didn't die when I wanted to so bad. I I am so happy that I got to meet a great man who understands my cold days. I am so thankful I got to be a mommy. When I hear people say that Hannah Baker from 13 reasons wanted attention I want to scream that she is real. She is me. I never asked for his bullying. I never asked for the whispers. I never wanted the sympathy. I just wanted to make the choice of my first time being with someone I loved not a stranger who prayed on virgins.