This is the story of a little girl with big, bright eyes and a genuine smile. I once caught her in the girls’ washroom, sitting on an overturned bucket inside a cubicle.

Her uniform clung to her knees as she wept silently for hours, trying not to be heard. But as the last school bell rang, she jumped up and wiped away her tears. In her eyes, there wasn’t just happiness to be going home; there was a relief.

That little girl brings tears to my eyes even today because that little girl was me.

For all these years, I kept a secret confined to the deepest part of my soul. I was bullied. So, why am I speaking up now? Because I can finally accept that this happened to me. Because, though I may never be able to move away from it, I can hopefully move on.

Because I realized that it is the victim’s silence that fuels the perpetrator.

It first started when I was five years old. I was left-handed and that provoked my teachers enough to beat me up. I remember being terrified to use my own hand, trying hard to pretend that I was ambidextrous and that memory still has the power to send chills down my spine. I was damaged at that age despite my mother’s constant support.

I tried so desperately to believe her when she told me that I was perfect just the way I was. But the trauma could not be erased.

Fast forward to three years later. On my first day in a new school, when I was walking towards my classroom, I saw a few books and a lot of stationery strewn across the corridor. In a corner, a lunch box lay open with the food inside it emptied.

With horror in my eyes, I instantly realized that these things belonged to me. As I quickly knelt to pick it all up, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment, I heard laughter.

There were two things I learned that day. One, I was the perfect target. Two, this would keep happening.

Over the course of the next few months, I retreated further and further into my shell. The bullies found innovative ways to make me feel worthless.

My nicknames started with ‘ugly’, ‘dark’ and ‘transgender’, gradually progressing to ’Ms. 20,000 kilograms’ and ‘Ms. Elephant’.

Nearly every single night, my tear soaked pillow reminded me of my misery. I would spend hours in the dark staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep for the fear of choking in my own nightmares. I contemplated suicide repeatedly but the worst part was that I never understood what I did to deserve such hatred.

At the age of nine, I could not understand that this was not my fault.

Just when I felt like I had reached my threshold, with the name-calling and the destruction of my belongings, the abuse turned physical. Once, I was invited to play with the ‘popular’ kids during recess. That day, I fell in the sand and scraped my knees. I brushed it off as clumsiness when my worried mother asked me how it happened.

The next day, I fell again and this time, bled from my elbows. A dangerous pattern started, where I got bruised repeatedly, multiple times per week. But I didn’t care because all those nights, my pillow remained dry. That had to mean I was happy, right?

A little blood couldn’t stop me from happiness, could it?

But this euphoria was short-lived. Because, one day, it dawned on me that I wasn’t falling. I was being pushed. It happened again, and this time, I heard the children laughing as I lay face front on the sand. They were laughing all those other times too, but in my blind hope, I hadn’t heard them.

I realized that in my eagerness to feel accepted, I had let myself be used.

As the weeks advanced, they would find new ways to torment me. Inquisitive eyes measured my developing chest and lewd comments were passed to my face. Bets were placed on the colour of my underwear and my skirt was pulled up to decide the winner. Though I was very young, the humiliation I faced was unimaginable. However, I never once let them see my tears.

But one day, when my classmate put his hand up my skirt, I just mentally collapsed.

I fell into severe depression and blamed myself for everything that happened to me. I struggled with insomnia, suffered from poor eating habits and withdrew from everyone.

This was when I turned to writing for solace because I was unable to express my emotions. I would weave stories of friendship, love, and companionship, but mostly, my stories centred the one thing I craved the most: acceptance.

Still, despite all the self-hatred I possessed, I managed to survive and because I did, somewhere along the way, a miracle happened. I call this miracle ‘self-realization’.

I finally understood that for others to accept me, I had to accept myself first.

I needed to come out of my shell and conquer my insecurities. Thus began my transformation and my healing process.

But trust me when I say that it was possibly the hardest thing I have ever done until today. I took to writing seriously, focused on my academics and started making friends. I pushed myself to test my limits, and not only won a lot of accolades but also tremendous popularity.

I finally wasn’t just accepted but was looked up to.

It gave me a sense of achievement, but more than that, it made me gain my own perspective. Had I succumbed to that pressure back then, I wouldn’t be here today. There is always light at the end of the tunnel. I can finally see that light now and my euphoria today is only intensified by my bitter experiences yesterday.

I know now that happiness needs to come from within.

I know now that nobody has the power to decide for me except for myself. I know now that I am not worthless, that I am not weak and that I am not incapable. But when I was a child, I didn’t.

I’m choosing my battles, conquering my fears and taking steps one at a time. But some scars last forever, and I am okay with that. Bullying can cause lasting damage. I still have extreme trust issues, I still can’t express my feelings and I still struggle to sleep peacefully at night.

I may be damaged, but I will never be broken.

A lot of people see my success. But I see the years of pain it took to get to where I am today.

Given a choice, I would have preferred to have my childhood instead of it being ripped away from me through the years of bullying.

When people say my maturity spans beyond my age, their compliment causes me pain. Because that wasn’t a choice I got to make. But I survived and if I can, then you can too.

To those of you who can relate, know that you have nothing to be ashamed of. You have no reason to hide. Loving yourself is the primary solution. But seek betterment only because you want to. I battled with a severe inferiority complex, which hailed from foolish comparisons but now I know that there is no such thing as 'inferior' or 'superior'. It is just you.

And you are perfect exactly the way you are.

To those who have hurt others in the past…verbally, emotionally, physically or sexually…I have only one question for you. How does it make your life better? Try walking in your victim’s shoes and you will see how damaging it is to suffer for no fault of your own.

Your happiness should come from another person's smile, not tears. Your sense of power should come from protection, not destruction. Your popularity should come from respect, not fear.

But mostly, a solution to your insecurities should come from within yourself and not from feeding off of someone's sense of inferiority.

Lastly, to every parents and teacher must realize that behind every happy child, there is you. Please pay attention to early signs of your child’s distress or aggression. Silence speaks louder than words. Counsel your child to find out if he is bullying or is being bullied.

Most importantly, do not discriminate.

Be it two children in your house or forty children in your classroom; demonstrate equality. Let them all know that they are unique and that there is nothing wrong with being different.

My mother, who was, is and will always be my support system, is the reason I am standing proudly today.

Love and guidance can do wonders. Be that person who changes someone's life. It wasn’t easy for me to relive those memories that I suppressed for so many years.

But I hope that something good comes out of it.

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