My interview with a bullying survivor

Round belly, breasts full, I opened my legs and welcomed my children into my arms. Four children later, years of teaching, and becoming a Guardian as Litem I consider myself an intuitive, wise, nurturing, and loving woman. I can also become quite a “she-bear” when I see or hear of abuse or neglect of a child.

I interviewed a thirteen year old girl who was the victim of school bullying. Her pain cut to the core of my heart. I am angry for what she endured. And I will work to change her world. With her and for her.

“How did it feel to you?”

“I felt depressed. I felt like shit. I never wanted to go to school. I felt sick all the time.”

“Did you ever tell your teachers?”

“Yeah, they ignored me. Except the gym teacher. The kids didn’t pick on me in gym class, at least when she was looking.”

“What did you notice the kids doing to you?”

“They would laugh at me, snicker. If I answered a question in class later they would call me an “idiot’ or a “fucker, faggot, or retard. I stopped answering in class.” “Outside they would throw grass and leaves at me so I would go off by myself.”

“Who helped you?”

“My mom. But that was hard because I was so sad and I knew she was sad. You really don’t want to piss my mom off about her kids. Anyway, I go to a different school now. I am accepted for who I am and I love it there. I’m not sad anymore. I have really great friends who love me for who I am and I love them.”

 

 

As I was driving by this thirteen year old girls school one day in the winter I saw her curled up in a fetal position, tucked into a snow bank. I remember her teal blue snow suit. I am so angry!! Three teachers, huddled together laughing. Other kids playing and tossing snow around. There is this child. Alone. Probably cold. Frightened? I am certain.

I waited for recess to be over. Marching into the school I walked into the principals office and demanded one final meeting. “Of course, Mrs. Lamb.”  A time was set for that afternoon.

I am that thirteen year old girls mother. My daughter, Rebekah, has been bullied and hurt. Her spirit and heart diminished but not broken. Rebekah is a survivor! Rebekah is now thriving in a school that supports her amazing intellect, talents, heart, spirit, and love for humanity. I am so very proud of her and honored to be her mom.

 

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Peering in my attic

My secrets hidden. In boxes. Hidden in dark back corners of my attic. I am going in. Fully armored with a glass of wine and a good deep breath.

It is time for me to explore the secrets I have hidden long ago.  Memories so terrifying I buried them deep and piled other boxes on top of those memories so I would not have to look at them. There are the Halloween decorations. Spider webs that cover the front porch. Creepy spiders with lights that flash on and off. On top of those there are the Christmas boxes filled with nut crackers and pretty house hold decorations. A sight that is sure to bring a smile to everyone who visits our home.

And yet…

In the back corner there are boxes. Boxes that have held my secrets I have shared with no-one. And now I am having flash backs. My shrink tells me I am having flash backs because some where in my mind I have asked to remember. I am not so sure. The memories come is short bursts. Like lighting. They catch me and take my breath away.

The man/boy who took my body and not my mind. His sneering smile when I asked for more.

The attack on my body in a parking lot and the tattoo I so vividly remember on his hand.

The drugs I used to numb the pain that I wasn’t even aware of.

The longing, searching, and hoping to belong to someone and eventually whoring myself. And hating myself.

The loss of self.

The searching of me.

The attic is a scary place.

At least I opened the box.

#MondayBlogs Battered, beaten, and betrayed. Who wants me?

My work as a Guardian ad Litem offers me many opportunities to delve into the lives of children I am charged with by the court to “be their voice.” I am humbled and heart – broken by what I hear and see from the youngsters I meet. From day one when I get the phone call…”will you take this case?”, to preparing myself to meet the child placed in my care, I worry myself. I am equipped to do my job. I have the affidavit. All of the ugly history and events which have unfolded in this childs life before Social Services stepped in. I read, I study, I make phone calls. I usually meet “my” child in court. Often I wear a big chunky necklace because I know it is hard for the kiddo to look me in the eye. I give them a focal point somewhere near my face. I have done my home work. I know what his interests are, what he likes to do,what his favorite sports team is. I NEVER extend my hand in a hand shake….too formal. I give “my” kiddo my first name. I ask him if he knows what my job is to do for him. Slowly he looks at my neck lace. BINGO. I admit I know nothing about sports so if he could fill me in that would be great. I think he thinks I’m dumb….that is ok, I’ll take it for now. This is all about winning his trust. He asks me why I am there and why do I “give a damn.” I tell him honestly. I am here because I have four kids who I love more than any thing in the world and if any one ever hurt them I would hope that some one like myself would stand up for them, yell for them, be angry for them, let their voices be heard, and do what ever it took to make their lives be safe. He looks down and a tear slides down his cheek. He then looks up at me eye to eye. “I like you.”