Sunday, 28 April 2013

“Where Do I Go From Here?”
This is my story of a game called “LIFE”. I wrote this not only for the children who became a subject of bullying but to the parents the most, on how to treat their children fairly.  My life is a not a fairy tale and it would never be. I want this story to teach parents how to be just to their children. When a child is bullied; it can either destroy him, or build him depending on the character or behavior of the child. I was lucky enough that I was able to stand firmly against all odds. It’s not easy to be bullied. I live with it my whole life and it breaks me so many times. And I have to fight back to show them I am not ruined. And this is how I fought and why.
Looking back in my early childhood years and mesmerizing the honest but painful memoirs I once have had, I felt I cannot get over the pain it cost me since the time I can remember.  A bullying from in and out of your own society has never been easy for anyone who came to be the victim of circumstances by choice. Though it become a habit of anyone to sometimes react to bullying with anger and range I found it out that I will not able to stop the crime in that way. It will only create another event that eventually could lead a new form of dilemma to its victims. I choose to be quite for sometime in a hope that issues would die a natural death. But humans, as we all know are skeptical of being preserved in times, and as our human nature urges us to make some moves, revenge is always an option. By doing so we made our point become pointless, an illusion, power grabbing or acceptance by force in the expense of our inner peace making our actions openly provocative and appalling. Bullying is a serious matter especially if it happens on the very early stage of life where the emotions is yet to be developed and healthy interactions to different kind of people is a must to help a child grow to be a whole, trustworthy, and with sound judgment.  Whether bully himself or a victim of bullying is a problem that needs actions to resolve the situation. I was a victim of bullying since I was in my first grade and I dealt with it with different approaches. The bullying that happens on my childhood could be a product or a by-product of an unhealthy relationship with my parents and siblings as I was bullied at home and at school and the effects of that bullying created a fragment of my personality in dealing with others. It makes me believe that I was created to be bullied forever and I am a subject of its curse in one way or another. It is hard to accept that whether we have been in the first five of the class or at the last ten on the list we can be a subject of bullying. I was once a happy kid, carefree, and very active until these incidents changes my life and the person whom I become. I was bullied inside my father’s home, in the school, and even in my work place when I become an adult, calling me names and laughing at my face. Some people think that I am just too naïve, insecure, overly reactive, and sensitively sensitive that I have to react violently if I heard humors being spread out about my family especially now, to my children. They think I am stubborn, delusional, self-centered, and arrogant. But they never thought why. What is there in my past that has an effect into my present? My childhood, the days when I was younger, the environment that I grew up, they didn’t give it a thought. It is not of their interest at all! Being bullied can changed a lot of someone’s personality. If you grew up in the situation where you cannot ask anyone for help, and seems no one else to turn to but yourself, you will do everything to protect yourself from anyone whom you thought you are not safe with. It makes you suspicious to almost everyone who came too close to you. You’ll learn not to trust to anyone but yourself. You will not believe anything until you have done it yourself. They said it’s a sickness; but I thought it’s a life’s game that you have to learn to play with.
My bullying started inside my parent’s home when my mother called me “Budlo” (Pouty) in a very annoying way and my two elder sisters started to call me the same. I hate to be called that name. I tried to ignore it so hard that I have to keep my mind and my body busy with other things around the house and my only escape is when I am at school. But the trouble didn’t stop there. At school, when I was about five years old and in my first grade, my classmates started to call me “Balbal” (vampire/witch) because of my hair that’s so thick, curly, and frizzy. They would dance around me, chanting.  And those names stocks; a nightmare has just begun. Hard to think that people whom you thought would be there to protect you are those same individuals who started it all. Not to mention that no one, I mean no one had ever listened to you when you ask why. I work hard to fight back. Trained my mind to tolerate harsh words and pretend it’s soft to listen to, or playing dead and dumb inside to keep my days upright. As I grow older, different obstacles emerged. The older I become, the deeper in gets. I’ve always been into trouble as I fought my way to be heard and to be recognized. I taught myself to play tricks with my bullies. I played along with their intimidations and see if I can manage to be in their world once in a while. But honestly, I like my own world. Where I can watch my detractors on their plot against me and considers anyone who treats me arrogantly as my sworn enemy. I lost my voice in the battle. I silently cried overnight but I don’t want anyone to see. I never had a chance in the last thirty-five years of my life to tell the world that I too, was a victim. It’s just there, in my heart, the unpleasant taste of torment I suffered day after day that only in my imagination I was able to give justice. My family never knows how badly I was hurt as I kept quiet and denied to myself that it’s happening and it’s real. It’s like a flow of electricity extracted from a Ray Gun pinching and constantly pointing to the softest part of my chest. If someone looked at it in their own perspective, it might appear different. And that’s my exact fear that holds me back from telling that it’s not all okay. After all, none from those I knew, friends and family, had tried to stop it from happening. In my adolescent years I started to fell rebellious, distrustful, and dishonest. I lied a lot and I fought a lot physically. At night when I hopped to bed, I am afraid to close my eyes. You know why? I don’t want to dream in my sleep because if I dreamed, it probably would be a nightmare. I often dreamed that I am flying. I saw the clouds so bright but every time I tried to go up I would get caught on a never ending iron screen that I have to go through. It’s frustrating and exhausting. I wonder a lot how others lived their lives. Maybe it’s just a dream for me, or maybe a wish to live their lives. They seemed to be always happy because they can have what they want and is free to speak and people will listen to them even if they cracked silly jokes, just as my two elder sisters. They are pretty in their teens, popular at school, and they are my parent’s favorite. It’s not jealousy. I don’t feel that way and I don’t blame my parents for loving them that much. I love them as well and I love my sisters. I just wanted to know how it feels when you are loved back, that’s all. But I just play a poker face when people are talking about it as if I haven’t heard anything. I became so secretive. I almost blinded somebody and I didn’t tell my parents about it until the boy and his father came to our house and told my parents what happened. My mother was so angry that she almost broke a bamboo stick on my back when I told her the reason why I did it. The boy who was three years my senior was putting a long stick in the carabao manure and he was sticking it to me and the rest I don’t want to explain. I hate when I was told to explain my choices of reasoning. Or why I did what I did. It’s something my tongue got tied to my throat that every word in my mind will not come out of my mouth. I feel it’s weird. It really is but even my own self cannot understand why I had become what I become. I was once a happy child who cares for nothing. But now I’m keeping so many secrets and mistrust in my heart that there is no room for resentment. There’s never a single day that I have not forced myself to think positive thoughts to change the way I look up things around me. I want to grow up with a heightened spirit. I want to show that I have something but nobody had ever noticed because nobody wants to care. My pen and a piece of paper had become my greatest supporter. Every time I felt alone, deceived, and ignored I will write something; be it a poem, a short story, or just a short notes whatever it is that will make me feel at ease after all those pressures and pains that I had been through. When I’m at school I will play with my classmates who were also from poor families like me. I will go to church on Sundays, and I will stay outside of my father’s home to take care of my Water Buffalos and my goats. I only have to be at home when it’s eating time or at bed time. My goats saved us from starvation when our place suffered from a long drought. Everyone in the family is helping. I helped too with whatever I can but still I always end up unappreciated, blamed, and persecuted. So I made a promise to myself that if God wills it; when I grow up and have a family of my own I will never let any of my children be bullied, feel ignored, and unloved. I would be doing everything to protect them even if it means I have to sacrifice my own interest. But first, I have to stand to my feet, take my life back, and eventually move to succeed.
Days and years had gone fast as my life’s battle continues. 


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