4 months after my first and worst suicide attempt, I was still on steroids, heart and nerve medication. I was also riddled with gnarly red scars in places a bikini couldn't cover. I was self-conscious, but I have a strong Mother who encouraged me. Literally. She, through her warmth and devotion, gave me courage.
That summer, at church camp near Joplin MO, my best friend, we'll call her Tiff, and I walked happily, Sun-In in hand to "color" our hair (what were we thinking??), to the girls-only pool. Once there, we organized our things in cubbies, stripped to our bikinis and stepped slowly into the pool; so we wouldn't damage our hair with the pool water (yet our adolescent minds thought Sun-In wasn't damaging :P ).
At some point, I stepped out of the pool to get some water - I tired easily and became dehydrated quickly with the heat/exhaustion. As I walked back to the shallow end to rejoin Tiff, a girl I'd never met before approached me, "What are those scars from?" she exclaimed with a near-squeal. "I'd rather not talk about it," I answered, darting my eyes left and right with nowhere to side-step unless I wanted to dive into the pool. Looking back, maybe I should have. "Oh, okay! But, what happened?" She must be a reporter now, or she missed her calling, because she was good at rewording a question to wheedle out info. "I'm not comfortable talking about it," I reword myself.
This went on for another relay, and I was near tears. I was ready to just collapse onto the concrete and assume the fetal position; she'd drawn a crowd and my BF was at the other end of the pool, facing the opposite direction. These girls were talking around me and about me as though I were a maimed lioness in a glass zoo enclosure. I felt sick, terrified and humiliated; I was so exposed in my dinky little two-piece black and white polka-dot bikini, but I felt naked and spread out for observation at a freak show.
Just as the first tears began to silently, and hotly run down my face and neck, dripping onto the cement even, two upperclassmen, one from church and the other from both church and school, flanked me, standing just in front of each of my shoulders -- I needed to pause here; it always has me weepy with gratitude --
As, "Deborah" and "Tammy" flanked me like Amazon sentinels (I'm short and they're model tall and thin :P ), they said in curt, clipped tones, "She. SAID. She. Doesn't. Want. To. Talk. About it."
Huh, and that was all it took to hesitantly disperse the crowd of little hoydens.
I've never been so humbled, so flabbergasted, or felt so loved by any of the other upperclassmen growing up before or after.
I'd ;like to say, that was a one-time incident. I can't. When we got back home, "Tiff" and I went to a public pool one day. More than any of the oblivious murmurs, the forward questions hurt, direct spitting of insults and heckling stung like daggers hurled at my heart, where I was still so tender.
A woman had the gall to tell me to cover up, because I was frightening her children. Other mothers stared and glared as though I were a monster.
I never wore a swimsuit again. To this day, I cover up with a long t-shirt that skims mid-thigh; so ALL of my scars are concealed.
It hurts still. My own Grandmother tells me to cover the scar across my heart, left lung and part of my arm. She says it makes people uncomfortable. She said this nearly a year ago to me for the last time. I haven't had contact with her since. I let her know why.
There are toxic people out there who are so pitiful, they can only gain strength and power and amusement by poisoning us. Every time we willingly engage in contact with these people, we willingly down a shot of poison.
Once my psychologist, Bobbi, put it in those terms, I felt empowered and armed to make my move and get away.
I hope this horrific experience helps some other little girl (I was 13 at the time). I hope this lets some little girl know she's not alone and has someone who would stand between her and the poisonous bullies of this world. <3
-Charity
That summer, at church camp near Joplin MO, my best friend, we'll call her Tiff, and I walked happily, Sun-In in hand to "color" our hair (what were we thinking??), to the girls-only pool. Once there, we organized our things in cubbies, stripped to our bikinis and stepped slowly into the pool; so we wouldn't damage our hair with the pool water (yet our adolescent minds thought Sun-In wasn't damaging :P ).
At some point, I stepped out of the pool to get some water - I tired easily and became dehydrated quickly with the heat/exhaustion. As I walked back to the shallow end to rejoin Tiff, a girl I'd never met before approached me, "What are those scars from?" she exclaimed with a near-squeal. "I'd rather not talk about it," I answered, darting my eyes left and right with nowhere to side-step unless I wanted to dive into the pool. Looking back, maybe I should have. "Oh, okay! But, what happened?" She must be a reporter now, or she missed her calling, because she was good at rewording a question to wheedle out info. "I'm not comfortable talking about it," I reword myself.
This went on for another relay, and I was near tears. I was ready to just collapse onto the concrete and assume the fetal position; she'd drawn a crowd and my BF was at the other end of the pool, facing the opposite direction. These girls were talking around me and about me as though I were a maimed lioness in a glass zoo enclosure. I felt sick, terrified and humiliated; I was so exposed in my dinky little two-piece black and white polka-dot bikini, but I felt naked and spread out for observation at a freak show.
Just as the first tears began to silently, and hotly run down my face and neck, dripping onto the cement even, two upperclassmen, one from church and the other from both church and school, flanked me, standing just in front of each of my shoulders -- I needed to pause here; it always has me weepy with gratitude --
As, "Deborah" and "Tammy" flanked me like Amazon sentinels (I'm short and they're model tall and thin :P ), they said in curt, clipped tones, "She. SAID. She. Doesn't. Want. To. Talk. About it."
Huh, and that was all it took to hesitantly disperse the crowd of little hoydens.
I've never been so humbled, so flabbergasted, or felt so loved by any of the other upperclassmen growing up before or after.
I'd ;like to say, that was a one-time incident. I can't. When we got back home, "Tiff" and I went to a public pool one day. More than any of the oblivious murmurs, the forward questions hurt, direct spitting of insults and heckling stung like daggers hurled at my heart, where I was still so tender.
A woman had the gall to tell me to cover up, because I was frightening her children. Other mothers stared and glared as though I were a monster.
I never wore a swimsuit again. To this day, I cover up with a long t-shirt that skims mid-thigh; so ALL of my scars are concealed.
It hurts still. My own Grandmother tells me to cover the scar across my heart, left lung and part of my arm. She says it makes people uncomfortable. She said this nearly a year ago to me for the last time. I haven't had contact with her since. I let her know why.
There are toxic people out there who are so pitiful, they can only gain strength and power and amusement by poisoning us. Every time we willingly engage in contact with these people, we willingly down a shot of poison.
Once my psychologist, Bobbi, put it in those terms, I felt empowered and armed to make my move and get away.
I hope this horrific experience helps some other little girl (I was 13 at the time). I hope this lets some little girl know she's not alone and has someone who would stand between her and the poisonous bullies of this world. <3
-Charity
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