Bullying: Bruised and Battered

Hey guys, Happy New Year! We're starting off 2012 celebrating four years of Another Drop in the Ocean (which was really three if you consider the year-long hiatus I took)! Thanks to my readers, however few and far in between, for staying with me and reading my rants and raves about various issues. Admittedly this post is a few days late of my anniversary, but I struggled with topics and you just can't force this stuff out. So here's my latest, inspired by the movie "Cyberbully".

Bullying has been an age-old pastime for children, teens, and even adults. But times have changed, the ante has been upped. The bullying of past decades starkly pales in comparison to the bullying of today. Older generations can recall schoolyard scuffles with a laugh and a shake of the head. Younger generations recall them with pain, trauma, and at times, lifelong impacts on their self-worth. Perhaps this is why so many people don’t take it seriously. Far removed from the reality and severity of the case, many parents, school administrations, and even law-makers tsk tsk the wounded and sweep the problem under the rug. And that is when it becomes deadly.

Back in the day, playground banter was better described as superficial childish name-calling. The classics are ones we’ve all heard: if you wore glasses, you were named four-eyes, if you were fat, they called you various derivatives of tubby, fatty, piggy, etc. If you wore braces you were metal mouth, acne: pizza face, and so on. These were names that would sometimes send kids home crying, only to face their antagonists again the next day. Now I won’t pretend that such names weren’t hurtful or somehow damaging to a child’s confidence, but most usually overcame the experiences and moved on to successful lives.

Nowadays, bullying has reached new levels of brutality that blaze through the barriers of harassment and teeter on the edges of assault. What was once simple teasing, usually on the basis of appearance has escalated to deeply damaging slurs, character defamation and public humiliation. In the golden days, bullying was usually an unfortunate chance encounter by the monkey bars or crossing the wrong street when walking home from school. Now they’ve turned into hunts, with bullies banking on growing intimidation; they scout the school grounds like packs of wolves for weaker prey, and the slaughter is horrific to watch.

My own experiences with bullying were extensive, to say the least. Resigned to wear glasses, in elementary school, I endured the superficial name calling, nothing that left a very deep impact. It wasn’t until I reached Jr. High that the bullying started. I was always heavy but gained much weight as I got older, and my peers took notice. Names like lardo, Free Willy, and fat ass were not in short supply from my classmates, but I was usually able to brush it off.

High school was where it became unbearable. I was heavier than ever, wore glasses, and hardly put any effort or thought into my appearance; I never wore make-up or styled my hair and my clothes were a fashion disaster. Bullying me was like shooting fish in a barrel, and it attracted new patrons all the time. Accustomed to my typical bullies who were in my classes, I was suddenly being attacked by people I’d never met, which caught me off guard. People I didn’t know would trip me in the hallways, one spit gum in my hair as I was walking by, and one day, for no reason at all, while walking down the hallway, a boy passed me and slammed me into the concrete wall before walking on, laughing with his friends. The people I knew were much worse. I endured name-calling and trash talking in class, usually as other students sat by and laughed as my tormentor rattled off painful insults. One episode sent me running out of the class crying. Another pushed me to the brink, and I rose from my desk, approached the student and slapped him across the face. He took a pen and attempted to stab me in the throat, but couldn’t break the skin.

But this was just one level of bullying. Many students began to go out of their way to make my life hell. Students who took issue with me, though for what reason I never knew, started a regimen of harassment. Figuring out my schedule, some would get hall passes, walk by my class, stand in the hallway out of the teacher’s view, and mouth insults and threats to me. At times, during passing periods they followed me to my next class, tormenting me for the three minute trip. Once I reached my room, they would stand outside the door, talk trash, and peek into the class to watch my reactions and laugh at me. I wasn’t safe after school either. There were times when I had to walk home, which left me wide open for attack. One day, two girls made it a point to follow me home to bully me. Never mind the fact that they lived in the opposite direction, they stayed five steps behind me for the twenty minute walk, calling me names like whore, fat ass, slut, bitch, dyke, and fag. When I reached my street, two cars pulled up and multiple students filed out. At first confused by their presence, I realized somehow word had spread that I was being harassed and some anticipated that a fight would ensue. They wanted front row seats. I entered my house and stole glances outside my bedroom window. The girls stood at the foot of my driveway, yelling obscenities and slurs at my house, threatening me before finally disappearing. Even the faculty had their moments. During one class, I tripped and fell back on the floor. The teacher, standing on the far side of the room, blurted out “wow, I felt that all the way over here!” and the class erupted in laughter. Another teacher who also had her assumptions about my sexuality overheard a piece of a conversation about me chasing down a girl and she remarked in front of my classmates “so you’re chasing girls?” with a smirk.

I asked my mother to allow me to be home-schooled in order to get away from the daily torture, but given that I was in the midst of my depression and was becoming increasingly isolated from society, my mother was concerned that if I were home-schooled, I would never leave the house. She refused, and the hell continued, though it ultimately contributed to lasting damage to my self-esteem, and to my suicide attempt my sophomore year.

Today, risks of suicide have increased, creating a new trend called Bullycide, breeding electronically. The internet brings with it not only a new tool for bullies, but the anonymity of false names, faceless interaction, and little to no personal responsibility for your words. Text messages, stalking, degradation, insulting web pages, embarrassing photos, and impersonation are all new ways that bullies have begun to attack their victims. The harassment has reached a new level, where bullies and their minions go above and beyond name-calling and taunting and have actually told their victims that they should kill themselves; the victims obliged. Ryan Halligan told a “friend” he was going to kill himself, and the friend responded “it’s about time”. Another bully told Phoebe Prince she should hang herself. So she did. Ashlynn Conner was only ten years old when she hanged herself in her closet due to excessive bullying.

Sadly, bullying doesn’t stop after high school, as it seems more and more people are failing to grow up. The perpetrators continue on into adulthood intimidating, insulting, lying, back-stabbing, creating drama, and laughing at the pain of their victims, as if someone were filming a sequel to Mean Girls starring the Plastics: All Grown Up. Sitting in my Master’s Program class, I couldn’t believe the insulting and degrading comments I would hear from my cohort about other peers, bullies who were twenty years older than me, but acting like they were sixteen.

Now I’m not going to sit here with my pipe-cleaner halo and pretend I’ve been the innocent by-stander all these years. I have fought fire with fire; I’ve bullied those who bullied me. I remember in high school I was in the girls’ room with my friends and a rival came in. She called me fat ass. Noting her up-turned nose that from the proper angle resembled that of a pig’s snout, I retorted “who are you calling fat, Miss Piggy?” My friends and I laughed and began pressing our noses up with our fingers, snorting at her. A look of pain flashed across her face and she quickly exited the bathroom. My heart sank when I realized I’d lowered myself to her level and hurt her. But even today, I’ve made my comments about people and joined in on the laughter when comments were made by others, even when I knew I shouldn’t have been laughing. It’s a work in progress and I’m always trying to improve myself by taking the high road. Sometimes I fail, but try again the next day.

I hate to sound cliché and regurgitate the heavily spewed dicta regarding the breeding of bullies, but it all rings true. Most bullies suffer from an inferiority complex, they are insecure with low self-esteem, so they put others down not to raise themselves up, but simply to bring their victims down to their level; “if I feel lousy, why should you be so happy?” Misery loves company, yes? Other times they don’t even know they make people feel bad. Again, though I wouldn’t consider myself a bully, there have been times when I’ve unintentionally made people feel dumb while trying to showcase my own intelligence. Now I’m no Einstein, but I’m certainly no Gomer Pyle either. Thanks to all the bullying I endured, I draw most of my self-esteem from the one thing that I succeeded in: academics. But in trying to prove my worth, at times I’ve embarrassed others, moments I still look back on and cringe: “why must I always be right?” And yes, many bullies become such because they’ve been bullied themselves. My usual tormentors came from seemingly perfect families, but I later found their mothers were alcoholics, or their fathers were abusive. People like that just need empathy, love, and forgiveness. Chances are they don’t have many friends anyways; chances are they’ve been hurt by many more bullies. So don’t add insult to injury by becoming another one in their lives. Take the high road, you’ll feel better in the end.

If you're being bullied or see that someone else is, speak up! Visit:
http://www.stopbullying.gov/

If Ignorance was Truly Bliss

There is not a day that goes by that we don't log onto the world wide web and stumble across a news story of some ill-fated characters who are being mistreated, terrorized, and even killed in today's society. Click onto Huffington Post's or any news site and you will be thrust into a whirlwind of horrific and heart-breaking stories: home foreclosures and unemployed America, pedophile priests and abusive parents, dying soldiers and civilians in war torn countries and freak mass shootings by 'extremists'. The perverse focus of modern day media on negativity has left many of us tainted with cynicism and a misanthropic outlook on the world and the many people in it. Is it any wonder we're losing heart in what seems to be a world destined for ruin? How can we shut out the dramatized reality every computer, TV, and newspaper spews out? Perhaps we could just chuck the media sources out the window, return to a simpler life; perhaps we should become Amish.

Years ago a study found that the Amish communities, in their simplistic and isolated society, were statistically significantly happier than the rest of us. Several psychologists and sociologists offered up their reasoning and rationales for the cause of this marked increase of bliss; a lack of conspicuous consumerism or possibly the ease of a less complicated and hurried lifestyle. But the most compelling evidence I had heard was that of absence of social media outlets. Having little to no access to the circus that is the nightly news, many of the more traditional Amish have successfully disconnected themselves from the outside world. Without stories of neighborhood shootings and robberies to strike fear into their hearts, without images of natural disasters and wars worlds away and all the victims that go hand in hand with such tragedies, without all the weight of the violence and hatred in the world bearing down on their shoulders, why shouldn't they be happier? They are, in essence, the ostrich with their heads in the sand.

There was a time when I, in seething protest of the foul manipulation of events and biased reporting, refused to watch the news. Refusing to partake in the brewing storm of scare tactics, refusing to allow two pixelated representations of emotionally disconnected human beings into my living room, I invested my attention elsewhere (usually in reruns of The Golden Girls, and who can be sad when the room is aglow with four saucy female senior citizens?). On the internet, I avoided the home pages of various servers who had the habit of posting headlines and streaming ticker tapes. And I found myself slightly more at peace in this brief hiatus. Without terrifying stories of muggings and rapes, I no longer tiptoed apprehensively through the shadows of my front yard at night. Without the disproportionate coverage of minority crimes, I no longer double-checked the minorities walking by on the sidewalk (yeah, being Mexican I was still checking the Mexicans). Without the countless tears of families and friends crying on camera over a fallen loved one, I was no longer feeling the bog of someone else’s devastation on my heart. Unfortunately, this peace was nothing more than a selfish escape from the real world, and while the Amish are happier, they and people like them are failing our society.

Too often we simply concern ourselves with our immediate environment, the people in our everyday lives, our family, our friends, and rarely give consideration to the others beyond our own little bubbles. The news media is our only window connecting us to the events and tragedies that befall our states, countries, continents, and our globe. Without these outlets, we would have never known of the Haiti earthquake or the Pakistani flooding. We would have never known of the decades-long Israeli-Palestinian conflict or that horrific crime against humanity, the Flotilla raid. We would have never known of the tragic shooting that took place in Arizona last week. And without this information, we never could have sent the millions of dollars in aid to natural disaster victims. We never could have lashed out in anger at the Israelis, consequently forcing them to ease off their blockade restrictions and allow the Palestinians some food. We never could have been inspired by the handful of heroic stories as good Samaritans rushed to the scene of the shooting to help whomever they could, in spite of being shot when trying to stop the gunman.

Despite the pain, frustration, and sadness that washes over us when these haunting images flash across the screen, it is human nature to empathize with the plight of our fellow man. It is our obligation to care for one another and help in any way we can. To reach beyond our boundaries, to force open our eyes to conquer our self-induced ignorance is our responsibility as global citizens. Excuse the forthcoming sap that will no doubt cue a Michael Jackson song somewhere, but we are one world, there can’t be divisions and isolation. People need help, and for those of us who are in countries far better off than the majority of the earth, where our worst days could be a utopia for a starving child in a third world nation, we must provide whatever assistance possible. But how can we know who needs help without the media? We cannot allow their blighted stories to destroy our well-being and our sense of security, but neither can we shut them off when the events they’re sharing can be made no more tragic than if we were standing there ourselves.

In my absence from the news media, I still continued to do my part the best I could. I ran a cancer fund for a few years, I donated my time to underprivileged children and juvenile delinquents, and even donated my money to endangered chimps in Tanzania (yeah they need money too, bananas don’t grow on trees, ya know…wait, they do? Crap…well played Miss Goodall, well played). But it wasn’t until I joined the ranks of that queen woman on YouTube that I felt I was a part of an initiative with a global impact, and being a part of that movement required me to dip back into the ongoing world events such as war, terrorism, and human suffering. Then, and only then, could we begin to fight it.

Turning your back on the world and averting your eyes from the pain of others may give you a sense of peace and happiness the rest of us are not afforded, but in the end, it is our consciences that will be cleared when we reach for our wallets, sacrifice some time from our schedules, or simply send out prayers and love to those across the state lines, across the oceans. So enjoy your bliss, Amish dudes, go till your soil and drive your wagons and try to forget us, but don’t forget, when tragedy struck you, we were there.

Sometimes You Gotta Lose Till You Win

Hello to those who may have missed me! Though you can't see, my head is hanging in shame over my month long absence, as I was priding myself on a steady production of monthly blogs. However, recently life for me has been a speeding freight train carrying me away to some glorious horizon I never imagined I'd be chasing. In exchange, it has brought my expressive process to a screeching halt. I am an emotional writer, words flow through tears or flaring anger; happiness is my kryptonite, but I've been feeling the bog of creative constipation and racking my brain for some inspiration. Upon reviewing my previous posts, I've noted the repetitive theme of negativity, whether it be trashing misguided and delusional celebrities, misgivings of world issues, or wagging a scolding finger at royalty. I found this to be reflective not only of my point of view in this world but of my overall personal mood and frustrations, and since things have seemingly fallen into place for me, it appears it's time for a more cheery topic. Though I'm typically not given to outright self-disclosure on this blog, following my preceding post, it seems to be the trend of the moment, and I'm going with it.

Driving home the other day, I had some awesome tunes on the radio, my window down, the sun shining on my face (in case you hadn't noticed, it's blazing in Cali this November), and yes, I'll admit it, I was doing the hand windsurfer thing out of the car when the speed was right. Calmed, joyful from a good moment at work, and relaxed, a wave of peace washed over me and it was at this moment I realized, "I'm going to be okay."

Life for me has been unsure up until this point. The victim of child abuse (emotional, physical, and sexual), the survivor of rape at a very young age, the broken product of a destructive divorce and torn home, and a frequent target for bullying as I grew, I found myself in the clutches of a crippling depression that nearly killed me, twice. The darkness that enveloped me blinded me to any fragment of hope one might find in an eternal night, and I went to bed praying for death in my sleep. In the morning I woke, dismayed to find my wish unfulfilled, but pined for the coming night that would bring a new opportunity to try again. I dragged myself through each day, never expecting much from life, never anticipating surviving this long, just an empty shell wandering aimlessly through, trying to get to the end of this journey as quickly and quietly as possible.

Diagnosed when I was nine, the following ten years of depression yielded fruitless series of anti-depressant cocktails, unwanted therapy sessions (forced upon me by my parents), and frequent run-ins with razor blades and broken glass. After one early suicide attempt and a later meet and greet with the remnant pills in my medicine cabinet, I found myself wringing my hands on a psychiatrist's couch rattling off my symptoms and failed prescriptions. One more. One final slip of paper, written upon it some fancy names shielding the countless chemicals beneath them: Zoloft and Wellbutrin, and a recommendation to see a psychologist. Frequent headaches, dizziness, and nausea pushed me to take myself off the pills after just nine months, but coupled with therapy, it was just enough, and after a year and a half, I was finally balanced.

The road back was shaky and unsure, after spending nearly 12 years wanting to die, how could I learn how to live? Learn to smile, laugh, and love? It may be strange, dear reader, to try and understand how a smile could be a novel concept, but the first time I noticed myself doing it without obvious cause, it truly startled me. To laugh everyday was unknown, to plan for a future, unthinkable. But I went to college and took my first steps on whatever path I fell on. Is it any wonder my spinning wheel of fortune landed on Psychology? However, despite personal experience, I wasn't convinced this was my role. Plagued with doubts, I wondered what if I invested so much time and graduated to find I was a terrible psychologist? After graduation I found myself working with severely emotionally disturbed foster kids. A difficult job that had it's gratifying moments, but it more or less left me exhausted and on a downward spiral back to depression.

I returned to school to get my Master's Degree in Marriage and Family Therapy. With this newfound pursuit came new concerns: what if I'm not happy treating couples and families? What if I don't find a job in this tanking economy after graduation? How will I pay my student loans? What if I have to take some crappy cashier's job after all my hard work? Where am I going and will I get there? Depression and hopelessness began to set in again and it was all I could do to claw my way up from the bottom of that familiar pit.

Nearing the end of my program, I began my search for a Practicum site, a pre-graduation internship. Carrying my own personal preferences for specific populations, in my heart I knew I'd be lucky to get any site, given California's non-existent budget and non-profits closing left and right. But, following the helpful tip of a classmate, I landed in a place ironically called Hope. The population? Autistic children. Feeling apprehensive because I had never worked with autism before, I was welcomed with open arms by the staff, and almost immediately hit with wave after wave of positive feedback and praise. "A natural," they said. I'd never been a natural at anything. Loving my work, loving the kids, loving my co-workers, being good at what I do, and feeling a pull to continue working with autism. What more could I ask for? Oh yeah, I was offered a part-time job as an aide, and there's talk of a full-time job as a therapist after I finish school this March (Update: I am now employed as a therapist).

What truly was 17 years of despair, frustration, anxiety, and apprehension seemed completely resolved after a month and a half of discovering Hope. Now still bearing some of that residual pessimism, I've not deluded myself into believing this momentary perfection is forever. Things happen, life happens, and my plans may be derailed. But for the time being, I will bask in the glory of it, because I really do think this is my time to shine, in spite of the current state of the outside world. This is my little sliver of sunshine that finally found it's way to my heart. And I deserve it, don't I? It's my turn for happiness.

The day after my happy drive, I serendipitously stumbled across this fantastic song by Sugarland. Now I don't normally plug anything, products or celebs or their work (except my Renee), but what I love about Sugarland is that in the midst of their bubbly kick ass rock out songs, they plant these little seeds of heart-wrenching truths that apply to us all. Little Miss is that song of their album, The Incredible Machine: "Little Miss you'll go far/Little Miss hide your scars/Little Miss who you are is so much more than you like to talk about". The chorus is hymned with repeating I'm Okay's and It'll be alright again's, soothing us into lullabies of reassurance. The song closes with the optimistic "Little Miss brand new start/Little Miss do your part/Little Miss big ole heart beats wide open, she's ready now for love". Yes, yes she is.

*Photograph above was provided by my friend Helen M., though I never actually asked her permission, I'm sure she won't mind :)

Depression and Graduating in a Recession

The state of the economy is a forlorn one, and it's only expected to sink lower before we manage to kick hard enough to breach the surface of this pounding flood. We're falling and, being the very heart of the international circulatory system, we're pulling the rest of the world down with us. Businesses are closing, Space For Lease signs and empty lots in shopping centers have become as commonplace as food courts and directory maps. Houses are foreclosing, people are moving back in with their parents, parents are moving in with their kids. According to the US Bureau of Labor Statistics, unemployment is at an average of 9.5%, but they don't figure in the people that are no longer receiving unemployment benefits, and job openings that would have received tens of applicants 3 years ago are now getting several hundred, in some cases over 1,000. In the midst of this crisis, rates of depression and suicidality have significantly increased, and with obviously good reason.

In addition to the sea of people out of work, a steady stream of job seekers are flowing in and the levees can barely hold. This is my generation, most fresh out of college, with expectations set impossibly high and promises burned into our minds that never allowed for a recession. Many of us recall those echoing voices of parents and mentors lamenting the benefits of college degrees: the doors that will open, the opportunities laid out before you, and "oh the places you'll go" as Dr. Seuss so eloquently wrote. But such is not our reality. We left the gates of our educational institutions and met a great brick wall. Only a select few make it through, over, or around.

I graduated in 2008 and found a job almost immediately. It wasn't a great paying job, but it was what I was groomed to expect with a Bachelor's Degree in Psychology, so I hadn't been aware of the sinking economy. By the time I left my job in early 2009, I began to feel the crunch. Sensing my opportunity, as many have by now, I decided to continue my education and obtain my Master's Degree. A few classes from graduating, I hear nothing but stories of people who can't find jobs once that nifty little piece of paper is in their hands, and I wonder where I will be. It's almost as if we are walking off our commencement stage and into a ravine. With student loans building up and no guarantee of a job or economic improvement looming in the future, I am petrified of what will come, and depressed by the options left.

Though employment is slim, there are jobs out there to be had, if one strikes HR the right way. But what has become a painful reality for the recently graduated is that ultimately, we are expected to take jobs below our education, our abilities, and more importantly, our desires. A far stretch from our parents' generation of taking "any job that pays the bills" and heavily-laden with a sense of entitlement, we long for mental stimulation worthy of that required in a university classroom, we want for that instant gratification of the hard work we invested at school, and we seek a job that makes us feel happy, useful, fulfilled. Nothing quite knocks you down to reality like not only applying for but fighting and praying to get a job that pays minimum wage with a Master's Degree nestled in your filing cabinet back home.

Does this make us spoiled? A bit, of course. Sometimes, you just have to do what you have to do, the bills need to be paid, the kids need to be fed, whatever your obligations may be. Sometimes you have to suck it up and play whatever crappy hand you're dealt. But are we necessarily to blame for our expectations? For a generation that was pounded with nothing but mind-numbing aphorisms attesting to the benefits of higher education and for children constantly prodded to follow their hearts and dreams, what did our predecessors think we would become when we were suddenly told "your degree is worthless", and "sorry, you dreamed too big". Spoiled, they call us. Though we were raised to want for more, a spoiled child sits back and expects the world to be handed to them, whereas a college student knows well enough their degree comes with blood, sweat, and many tears, so much that less than half the people who enter college finish. After four years of poring over books and ripping your hair out over exams, is it unrealistic to want for the luxury of a comfortable pleasant job?

What now seems like wasted time and wasted efforts throws one's ego down the pipes. It's a difficult blow, especially when the guy at Starbucks with little more than a GED is pulling in $15 an hour, and you were pulling in $11, and only because you went to college (otherwise it was $9). What we're now faced with is a lowly reality that can quickly pull you down, and you only fall farther because you were set up so high to begin with. After four hard years you thought you'd found the golden ticket, only to realize it was just a piece of stained foil. And it hurts. And it's terrifying.

However, perhaps the benefit that lies here in this recession, if we survive it, is that we will come out stronger on the other end. We will know what it is like to toil and struggle in the work force, to beat ourselves senseless with double shifts and multiple jobs. We will quickly learn the importance of a strong work ethic so to not lose that precious job, and we will find relentless determination in our long bouts of pavement pounding. We will learn patience, and we will learn personal strength. Granted, we have not yet reached the devastation of the epic Great Depression, but for a generation that had so much handed to it, this recession is still a tragic blow to the routine of the easy lives we once knew. We may find ourselves struggling with depression, with senses of failure, with letdowns and delayed dreams. But all we can hope for is that someday our investments will pay off sometime in the future, that the little slip of university paper will gain some value, and that we may not have sunk so low that we cannot be revived. Until then, it may be back to retail, fast food, babysitting, name tags and pimple faced supervisors, but manage a smile with the knowledge that you're working.