I think nothing so disturbs me as as when a person claims that being bullied as a child makes a person stronger. As if, more than likely, to justify their actions as a bully, they try and defend words and actions that often times irreparably damage someone at the ages of most susceptible vulnerability.
Some of us do survive, and perhaps eventually thrive. However, it is not because of the wounds inflicted upon us during childhood, it is in spite of those wounds.
And no matter how far we have come, there is always a doubt which lingers in our psyche. Indecision is a way of life. Second guessing? Hell we third, fourth and fifth guess almost every decision. And even when one is arrived at — we anguish if it was indeed correct.
Why?
Because, no matter how much our rational brain tells us what happened all those years ago was not our fault — we do not believe. There is a persistent thought that it was something we did that made us the targets — the victims.
Thirty eight years removed from childhood. Five years of military experience. An advanced degree.
And still, at certain times, I feel the anguish. I feel the pain as the scars are tugged at, as some revived emotion tears at that which has been healed or perhaps merely repressed. It is at those times when the frightened, lonely boy, who’s best friend was a large Great Dane/Labrador Retrieve mix wishes he again had her massive neck to wrap his arms about. To know the safety and security of her protection and unconditional love.
We may heal — to a point. Yet, the fact is, the many scars that cover those multiple wounds are forever present. At some points we are stronger. At others, not so much. The most difficult part is we never really know when a long closed scar will open back up, or what will cause it to do so.
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