I Was Bullied as a Kid. I Wish the Ending was Different

Not every story ends the way you want it to.

boy crying from being bullied blue tone

Hi there! I hope you’re having a great Friday.

Starting this week I will post favorite “Flashback Friday” articles. These are stories I originally posted on Medium (often years ago) that I like, that resonate with me, or I’m particularly proud of.

While future posts for other series will slip behind a paywall starting in February, Flashback Friday will always remain free.

And, once again, thanks for taking the time to read my work. It means the world to me.

-Greyson

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Just ignore them.

Don’t let them see your weakness.

Be the bigger person.

They’ll stop if you don’t respond.

If you just don’t listen.

If you’re just not human.

I tried to fill my backpack and leave school as quickly as possible. To put as much distance between myself and torment. Because I didn’t want them to see me cry.

If they saw me cry, it would only make things worse.

It would mean I listened. That I didn’t ignore them. That I was human.

I hated my name.

Growing up I wanted to change it. I wanted to go by a nickname or something else. Why would my parents name me something unique?

There were no other Greysons when I was a kid. There weren’t any in books or TV shows or movies. It was different.

There was nothing worse than being different in school. Different meant weird. Weird meant you’d get made fun of. Picked on. Bullied.

The cool kids, the kids that shared names and weren’t different, called me Gayson. In the early 90s, being called gay was about the worst thing you could be called. It was worse than ass or dick or bitch or anything else. It meant you were different. Weird.

“Hey, Gayson,” one kid would say.

The other kids would laugh.

“Gayson. Gayson. Gayson.” They would chant. I’d try to smile and laugh. To cover up the tears that were coming. But they would eventually come.

“Oh, are you crying, Gayson? Hi, Mrs. Ferguson,” another would say and act like he was making a phone call. “Your son is crying. Did you know you have a gay son?”

“Gayson. Gayson. Gayson.”

It was a lot to handle as an eight-year-old.

I talked to teachers. They said not to listen to them. To ignore them. They didn’t help and often it made things worse. So I stopped bringing it up.

Some days I’d try to stick up for myself. I tried pushing one kid, but I wasn’t very strong. He laughed harder. One day I threw safety scissors at one of my tormenters. It didn’t come close to touching him. My aim wasn’t good. But he said he was going to tell the teacher. His bully friend said he would as well.

I was terrified I’d get suspended from school. I thought it would go on my permanent record. That it would ruin my life before I even became a teenager. They said they wouldn’t tell if I wouldn’t cry the remainder of the day as they bullied away.

I held it in.

What was there for me to do? Considerations for suicide came but they didn’t linger. I grew up in a religious household. I asked my mom what happened to people who killed themselves.

“It’s a sin without forgiveness.” I was told. Every sin could be forgiven. Except for that one. Hard to ask for forgiveness if you’re dead. I didn’t want to end up in hell. Although could it be all that worse than days at school?

The names continued for years.

Some days I made it through without breaking. Other days I wore down and the tears came.

“Don’t be a bitch, Gayson,” a girl said to me one day as I tried to walk away and hide the effects. We were alone in a hallway. I’d left class to use the bathroom. To get away from it all. The girl was one of the popular girls at the time. I’m not sure what made her popular. Maybe all it took was being mean.She cackled at her comment.

“Stop it, you leave him alone,” a voice came. It was somehow both quiet and loud. Gentle but stern. It held unwavering strength. The popular girl scoffed and rolled her eyes but said nothing and left.

Behind me, Emma, by far the smallest girl in class, stood. Short and skinny with brownish-red hair and freckles, I’d known her since kindergarten. She reminded me of Piglet from Winnie-the-Pooh. It was more than her height. She often had a nervous and bashful, ear-to-ear grin.

She was friendly but often quiet. Although maybe she said the same about me. Despite having two sisters, I didn’t know how to talk to girls.

“Are you okay?” she asked. I nodded, but the tears hadn’t yet stopped. That would take a few more deep breaths. A few more minutes of not talking.

She touched my arm, then told me to sit. There was a little nook, where builders must have run out of lockers, and yet the brick wall stretched a few more feet. I sat, staccato breathing slowly smoothing itself out.

Emma returned and sat next to me. She gave me a paper cup of water. I drank it all and thanked her.

“I’m sorry they’re mean to you.” She said.

I forced a fake smile while I lied and said it was okay.

“No, it’s not. Why don’t you stand up for yourself?”

“I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. It usually makes it worse.”

“Well, the next time they bully you, or the next time you need to cry, I’m here. I’ll always be here.” She patted my arm again. “I have to go back to class.”

Things got better after that. After Emma told the bully off and sat there with me. Piglet always had a way of being tough when necessary. Of standing up for someone when they needed standing up for.

It wasn’t instantaneous. Some days I avoided the names. Other names I didn’t. But on those days, I’d look to her in class. So petite but so strong. It gave me comfort knowing she was in the room. It helped me get by. Eventually, it helped me move on. And, like I’d been told countless times before, once I mastered not responding, the bullying and name-calling slowly stopped.

Originally I set out to write this story with a different ending. I wanted to focus on getting over being bullied. And that, even to this day, whenever I run into some of those guys, who are now married with multiple children, they still call me Gayson. They use it as a term of endearment. It’s not how I see it.

I was going to focus on that.

But I’m not.

Emma did something for me that nobody else had. She changed my life. She might have saved it. Because, no matter what religion or parents say, everyone has their breaking point.

I haven’t talked to her since high school, so I wanted to look her up. To thank her, as an adult, for what she did.

She died six years ago by suicide.

I wish I could have a happy ending for this. That was the original intent. I wish I could say I wasn’t crying like I was when Emma asked if I was okay or that my hands weren’t shaking as I typed this. I wish I had told her as an adult how much what she did meant to me as a kid.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This story wasn’t supposed to end this way.

But that’s not how life works sometimes. Much like this article, we don’t always get the ending we want.

All we can do is live our best lives and try to leave a positive impact, for as long as we have. Emma might no longer be here, but her impact will forever remain with me.