Hannah R. Goodman's Blog

How did I become a (reluctant) romance writer?

This is the question I've been asking myself since I signed a contract with The Wild Rose Press in October of 2023.

In my reflection, I've discovered the following:

All of my YA books and short stories have had a romantic relationship as the focal point. Not only that, but I've also always included "steamy" stuff with the romantic relationships. (Ugh, I cringe at using that word, yet it is the correct one!).

On the other hand, all of my work has been character-driven, with the spotlight on the development and changes of the characters within the story rather than on—to be very blunt—sex or romance. Yet intimate relationships have always been a theme, but not always romantically intimate. Friendships, family, and romantic partners are all significant features in just about every piece of fiction I've written.

In addition to the above, I've always been a sucker for a good romantic movie, yet also cringe—at times—while watching some of them. I consider Say Anything (yes, GenX-er here) one of the most romantic movies in my lifetime. For a more contemporary set of movies, I loved all of the Kissing Booth movies with Joey King (which made both my daughters (ages 20 and 16) cringe!). Yet sometimes, these types of movies make me want to hide my eyes behind my hands. For example, while I watched Zac Efron and Nicole Kidman kissing and then having sex in their new rom-com, I covered my face like it was a scary movie! And back when the Twilight movies were a thing, I couldn't watch (or read) more than the first one. I guess it depends: Sometimes romance makes me gag, and other times it makes me swoon. 

Speaking of swoon-worthy romance, I admit I devoured Maybe Someday (Colleen Hoover), Shug (Jenny Han), and A Court of Thorn and Roses (Sarah J. Mass). Yet, I also find the following books equally if not more swoon-worthy: Call Me By Your Name (André Aciman), Normal People (Sally Rooney), Me Before You (Jojo Moyes), My Heartbeat (Garret Weyr), and Detransition, Baby (Torrey Peters). The former are all classic contemporary romance novels, whereas the latter are not, right?  

Here is where I am downright confused. What actually makes a book a "romance novel"? I know that certain phrases and words are common in romance novels. I know there are certain tropes too. But those hallmarks can't be what defines a romance novel. At least not to me.

When I write, I don't consider genre. Starting with my first book, My Sister's Wedding, I didn't even know what genre it was until I sent out my first query. The agent wrote back, calling it "contemporary young adult fiction," and later, another labeled it a "YA romance." I didn't think much of any of these labels at the time. 

Genre has never been something I could easily put my writing into. It's been something I found that when I have thought about it too much, it will reduce me to a paralyzed mess and render me unable to put even one finger on the keyboard. Even now, if I keep "romance writer" at the forefront of my mind while tapping away at the current manuscript I'm working on, I can't write. I stop cold. I have to go do something else until my brain clears.

The label I feel most comfortable with is reluctant romance writer. Or quirky romance writer? Or non-traditional romance writer? Or, as we say in the mental health bizz—romance writer not otherwise specified (only therapists and mental health folks will get that joke).

So, how did I become a (reluctant) romance writer?

I have no idea! 

 

From a very early age, attention from boys was critical to my survival. It was a primitive desire tethered to my self-worth. 

In my family, being Attractive, Social, and "having good marks," as my parents and grandparents called grades, were the most essential achievements one was expected to make. Although I nailed "Attractive" and "Social," I failed when it came to grades because mine ran the gamut of the first six letters of the alphabet.

As a younger sibling to an older sister who "made excellent marks," I constantly compared myself to her. There was a point early on in my childhood when I realized competing with her would always render me a loser, so I needed to try to be good at something else. The best anecdote to underscore this was the Car Game my dad would force us to play on long car rides. He would pose science and math questions to us (mind you, my sister is five years older than me, so this game was ridiculously unfair). I never won. Not once. In my young mind, I decided I wouldn't compete with someone I couldn't beat. So I had to lean very hard into my other desirable attributes: Attractive and Social. 

Was I conscious of my oh-so-valued traits while I was young? No. What drove my sociability was innate curiosity and conversation. My earliest memory of this is being under the age of four, walking up and down the Amtrak train cars, saying hello to people, and asking if I could join them for a chat and snack. My mother allowed this—Boomer generation parenting at its finest! She was half-paying attention to me, distracted by her beauty magazine and siping her Tab cola. As far as the Attractive thing, I never actually saw myself as pretty, but my mother and grandmother often told me I was "gorgeous," and my mother even took me to model at Lord & Taylor when I was seven. I hated it. I wanted to wear this "twirly" dress, but another girl snatched it from me, and her equally nasty mother got into it with my mother, who was not one for confrontation. So, that was the end of that. However, my mother's favorite activity every year was back-to-school clothes shopping, where I was the doll that she dressed up in "outfits." I always had to buy "outfits". Not until I was in college was I allowed to purchase pieces of clothing that weren't all supposed to "go together." To make matters worse, Mom liked things tighter and more cinched than I ever did.

Looking back now through the lens of a forty-eight-year-old therapist (and long-time consumer of therapy), I get it. Part of it was societal (see the Barbie movie). Another was that my mother and the Boomer Generation taught us that women get their worth through their beauty (attractive=thin and pretty) and how many men they can attract. As far back as second grade, I can recall competing against a girl named Rose for the heart of Mitch Z and thinking, with a mix of desperation and competition, he will be mine. Losing that battle wasn't an option. He did, in fact, become mine. In fact, he loved me so much that when another suitor, Guido (real name!), proclaimed his love for me at my birthday party that year, a brawl almost ensued. And what did my mother do about it? Not stop it, but beam with pride. Years later, at my bat mitzvah, two boys almost fought over who would dance with me first. And, again, what did my mother do about it? She did nothing but brag to her friends about what was happening and left my friends to break them apart. Not long after that, she chaperoned a school dance and later observed with great enthusiasm in the car ride home, "The boys were swarming around you all night!"  

She would tell everyone—my friends, other family members, and even boyfriends I would go on to have as a teenager—that "The boys always love Hannah." Receiving validation from boys that I was special, starting as far back as second grade, became, over the years, essential to my self-esteem. 

The messages I received from my mother convinced me that it was my looks that landed these fellows. So when I got Fat (and developed the first of two eating disorders) freshman year of high school, which was equivalent to Ugly, I panicked. What was my value? What was my worth? As I got Fat, I was also demoted in Social Status and swiftly kicked out of the Popular Crowd (and straight into the Theater Crowd, which, truthfully, were my people anyway.) 

However, during my freshman year, when I transformed into a Fat Girl, I learned an ironic truth—being Fat doesn't make someone unattractive; I received the same amount of attention from boys when I was Fat as I did when I was Thin. 

What a relief that my mother was dead wrong! It wasn't my looks (sadly, I was still equating beauty with thinness!) that made boys like me. (Notice that my self-worth was still proportional to how desirable boys found me). Despite being demoted in social status, I was the same open, curious, chatty person as in my popular middle school days. I fearlessly (and naively) talked to anyone, regardless of their social group. Throughout high school, I leaned less on my looks and social status (because I was Fat and not part of the Popular Crowd anymore, I thought I had none!) and more on being myself. 

It seemed to work.

What was problematic, though, was that despite this accidental social experiment in Fat versus Thin and its outcome that Fat was irrelevant to attracting boys, I managed to buy into Thin is Better and Fat is Horrible. I starved myself down to far below a weight that was normal for me, to a place that others noted as "so skinny!" and developed another eating disorder in the last two years of high school.

Also problematic was the bullying by an ex-boyfriend from freshman year. As an adult, I can only use the word "bullying" to describe the dark turn our relationship took after our breakup. It wasn't a word I used back then. Similar to the bra-snapping and schoolyard chasing I experienced in elementary school, my mother described his behavior as a way of showing me he liked me. She referred to it as "boys will be boys" behavior.  

Gross.  

“Derrick” (name changed) harassed and taunted me throughout high school, even when we became so-called friends again. Even when that evolved into (sort of) trying to date again. 

For the first year or so after we officially broke up, despite periods of coming over to my house to hook up, he would scream bitch, slut, or whore at me in the hallways and in the lunchroom, he would shove me into lockers or push someone else into me so I would fall. He and his friends would prank call me (though it's only a prank if you don't know who the person is) and say equally horrible things. 

If I was dating someone and he saw me out socially at the local hangouts, he'd be sure to verbally harass me and shit-talk whomever I was with. But these other guys were good dudes who thought Derrick was a total clown and handled it by not engaging in the bullshit.

Derrick also tried to talk shit about me to my friends, saying how much he hated me and that I was this really terrible person. Mind you, the only transgression I made in our so-called relationship was to go off to camp the summer before freshman year and return Fat. I have no idea why I was the focus of his aggression. I speculate that his abusive and unstable childhood had something to do with it. But I will never know for sure. 

In general, being Fat was not hard on my social or romantic life in high school. Yet, my internal world and sense of worth suffered to the degree that if it happened today, I would have gone to (several) Intensive Outpatient programs. Instead, I tethered together my own Mental Health Recovery program that is detailed in my teenage diaries. I started by seeing a nutritionist who introduced me to what would later be called Intuitive Eating and Body Positivity. Neither phrase was used by this amazing woman named Barbara. Instead, she said things like "trust yourself and your process'' and taught me how to eat based on hunger and fullness cues rather than whether or not Derrick pranked-called me or was nice to me that day. This type of therapy went on for over a year, but my parents stopped supporting it when it didn't get me Thin again. That's when Mom brought me to Nutrisystem, and Dad bought me workout equipment at home. I did both, but neither brought me to Thin Enough. 

So by the end of sophomore year, I tossed aside all of the approaches the adults suggested and went with Starving Myself and eating only nonfat foods (remember Susan Powter?). This continued for about six months, and I finally reached Thin Enough, which was too thin. My parents ordered me to start eating again, but I had forgotten how. I remembered my work with Barbara, and somewhere deep inside, I knew that was the route I should take. Still, I remembered how it didn't get me to Thin Enough. Now, I was terrified of being Fat again. One night, I had a massive panic attack while making a can of vegetables (which had become my every dinner). As I writhed in the symptoms of panic—tingling in the face, numbness of the hands, shallow breathing, and heart palpitations I swore out loud that I would start to eat normally again. The only thing I knew about Eating Normally (and this is hilarious to me now) is that I should eat about 2000 calories a day to maintain my weight (I was an expert in calorie counting by this point), so because I was terrified of Fat, I decided to minus 500 and go with that. I told myself I had to eat at least that much. 

The internal battle of Not Thin Enough evolved into an anxiety disorder marked by frequent panic attacks, which, at a certain point, rendered me agoraphobic. I refused to go to school for almost two months. But this was October/November of my senior year. The same terror that led me to decide to start eating again led me to return to school so I could apply to college, get the hell out of my house, and start my life.  

The benefit of this anxiety disorder was that it drove me to find ways to survive. I told my parents to find me a therapist and psychiatrist, and they listened. I managed to pull myself together enough to apply to college, and I did, in fact, get the hell out of my parents' house.

The internal battle of Thin is Good and Fat is Bad continued to be a struggle for me over the next decade or so. But ultimately, I always subscribed to the motto that Fat and Alive is better than Thin and Dead.

Disclaimer: This is a several-part piece that talks about my most painful experiences in my childhood and teens years with bullying. In order to (emotionally) feel safe sharing these stories, some names have been changed as well as minor details. As a woman in my late forties, who has battled (for decades)—as many women do— with myself over whether or not I have the right or deserve to speak my personal truth and perspective on events that happened to me, I’ve decided to not allow that inner battle or my fears to stop me. Who knows if anyone will read this. Who knows if anyone who reads this will be someone from my past who participated, witnessed or knew about these events. And, who knows if anyone will care. I do know that someone out there will relate. That my story will connect with someone. So here are my true stories of bullying and the effects they had on me.

Part 1: Picked-On

The first time I was bullied was in second grade by my (supposed) best friend’s older sister, I’ll call her “Andy”. Andy caught us playing “doctor” in my friend's room, and then threatened to “tell on” us if we didn’t do certain things. One time Andy wanted me to wear a certain skirt “or else”, and another time when I declined a sleepover invite, she said I better come over (my friend was sad) “or else”. Although these things were benign, it was scary to have someone hold something over me, something which I wasn’t even sure would land me in trouble. (Our definition of doctor was a consensual flashing of private parts to each other!). In my recollection of this, I do remember that my older sister found out about the blackmail behavior Andy was doing, and basically told this bully-bitch she better watch out or else! My sister was a year older than Andy and had a team of junior high friends willing to have her (and my) back. I’d like to think this is what stopped Andy, but really it was that my family wound up moving away at the end of that school year. But this was the first of what would be many significant moments where I learned about bullying.

This is what bullied looks like. Me, age 7. 1982.The second time I was bullied was in 4th grade. Ironically, as the new kid (yet again) in 3rd grade, no one bothered me for the entire year, so much so that I just about forgot that ever important-lesson of the year before—that some people can be really shitty. Then 4th grade rolled up, and the Pizza Hut outfit happened, and my life went right to shit again.

  

Here’s how it went down: Sheryl, my mother, insisted on dressing me, and we all know that as kids get closer to puberty and the tween years, that shit doesn’t fly. Kids will resist, but if you have a persistent mother who really thought of you as a living doll at times, you will lose and I did. 

Thus, as 4th grade began, Sheryl schlepped me to Filene's one weekend for some back-to-school shopping and bought me what would quickly be dubbed as The Pizza Hut dress due to its— you guessed it— white and red checkered pattern. Not cute. Oh, but Sheryl thought it was, and insisted—despite my wrinkled nose at the outfit— that I looked adorable. Though I wanted an Esprit tee-shirt and pair of acid washed jeans, those were vetoed quickly. My mother ascribed to the “you have to buy outfits or ‘“ensems” (as in ensembles) as she referred to them.

 

The next day when I picked out my clothes (she also bought me another outfit that, although I resembled a bee due to its black and yellow colors, was far more stylish and frankly less weird). I did not select Pizza Hut but instead chose Bee and she said, nope. “I didn’t spend 500 dollars on clothes for you to not wear that adorable matching shirt and skirt.” Guilt was a prevalent motivator with Sheryl. So I begrudgingly put on the ensemble and—the piece de resistance—she had also purchased matching red shoes that I had to wear as well.

The next day would be the first and last time that I would ever wear the monstrosity. I walked into the classroom to immediate shouts of “Pizza Hut!” led by the scrappiest, smallest girl in the class who also happened to be the scariest. She had a ratty mullet and beady eyes. We’ll call her Andy Andrews (yes, she shared the same first name as my first bully!). She followed her chant with “I’m going to kick your ass you stupid bitch.”  Yep, this school was a lot tougher than my previous one. She continued to taunt me all day and at recess. The only reason why she didn’t follow through with her threat was because it rained, and we had to stay inside where I sat, alone, doodling on a piece of paper, my friends all terrified of the Pizza Hut cooties I now possessed. Andy Andrews whispered how she was going to punch me in the tits and other uncomfortable places (I mean is there a comfortable place to get punched?). 

 

“Tomorrow, Goodman. I’m gonna kick your ass. I’m not kidding, either.”

And indeed she was not.

The  next day, I’m standing in the center of the chalked-in-lines for hopscotch when Andy decides to run up to me and pummel my chest, dead center between my barely-budding boobs. She does it over and over as I stand, like a weeble wobble who wobbles and wobbles and just won’t fall down. I can’t find my voice at first, the breath punched out of my lungs.

 

Then I do.

“Someone get a teacher,” I lamely squawk.

No one did.

But the recess bell wrang, the crowd dispersed, and Andy walked away like we had just finished a game of kickball.

Maybe it was my lack of falling down? Maybe it was because I didn’t snitch on her? Whatever it was, Andy Andrews never bothered me again.

Me with my beloved cabbage patch kid, 4th grade. 1984

Unfortunately, others did. 4th grade was just getting started and so was the bullying.

Not long after Andy Andrews punched me in the tits, another girl Traci S, befriended me. One time, we had an-almost sleepover at her house, where her mother confessed that they had a snake infestation in their basement but hadn’t seen one in a few days “so they’re probably gone”. I suddenly became too sick to spend the night (I had and have a crazy snake phobia). That Monday, at recess of course, she spread a rumor that reached me faster than Andy Andrew’s punches to my tits:

“Hannah humped a pillow at our sleepover.”

The most ironic part of this rumor included this confession from Tracy:

“Well, no, I didn’t see her do it, but she told me she did.”

I barely understood what “humping” meant!

Then others came forward: Jess D claimed I “humped” a shampoo bottle during a sleepover at her house. (There was never a sleepover, and also how does one “hump” a shampoo bottle?). 

It rose to a fevered pitch at recess one day where I clutched my cabbage patch kid named Diane Alise while standing in the middle of the crowd, numb and silent this time, as they pummeled me not in the tits but worse, right into my self-worth.

However, by the grace of I-have-no-idea-what, a popular and powerful girl named Denise P stepped right into the center of that mess and yelled at all of the kids that they had to stop. “Enough is enough,” she said. “Leave Hannah alone!”

And poof! With that, they stopped, and it was never mentioned again.

But damage done. So. Much. Damage. Done. 

The next moment of bullying was by one of my supposed best childhood friends who I’ll call “Heather”. Looking back, I see all the microaggressions she hurled. anti-Semitic is the word we would use today. She told me I had a “big Jewish nose” and she and one of her friends would come to my softball games and sing, “Hey, Jew” to me. Not all the time. Not loudly. But enough so I heard it. The culmination of her bullying me is a fuzzy memory. I’m not sure how it started, but we were at my house in my room, and she was brushing my hair. The next thing I knew she was taking handfuls of Vaseline and putting it in my hair. I don’t know why. I vaguely remember her saying, stay still. This is going to look good.

It did not.

By the time my mom came home from work, I looked like a greaser from the 1950s. I was in tears, screaming that I never wanted to go back to school.

I was home for a week. My mom tried everything to get it out. Vinegar. Dish soap. The only thing we could do was wait, and then I had to cut a lot of it off. For the first time in my life, I had short hair, and it horrified me to think I might look like a boy.

Then I went back to school.

You would think that I would be met with a flurry of more bullying. But no. The reign of terror was over, and it would remain so for another two years.

PART 2: From Picked-on to Popular to Picked-on (Again) to Invisible to... High School Reunions

Be sure to start with Part 1

“Popular”

The precursor to my rise to popularity began at the start of middle school, where all of the elementary schools in town merged starting at 5th grade. It all started when one of the most popular boys (Matt B) in school had a crush on me. I found out from a message delivered by one of the most popular girls, Christie P. Christie went to the same elementary school as Matt, and they were such good friends that she wanted to broker the blooming relationship between us. So, she convinced Matt to ask me on a “date” to see Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I got a cheek-kiss as the credits rolled, and with that, we were an item.

Now that Matt B liked me and my elementary school past was forgotten, I felt my past was in the rearview mirror and I could relax. When that relationship faded and 6th grade began, good ole Christie P. reappeared to tell me that another one of her old, elementary school friends (and former boyfriend!) Pat S had a crush on me. All of these crushes baffled me. I wasn’t blonde or beautiful (these were the only criteria I understood for popularity). Whatever! I went with it. 

The face of popular! Me, fall of 6th grade. 1986.

This time, probably because Pat S. and I lasted several months, a lifetime in middle school quite frankly, Christie P. didn’t take it too kindly, and by month two began to harass me with prank phone calls, disguising her voice and accusing me of being a “slut” and “a bitch” and stealing someone’s boyfriend. 

Similar to my very first encounter with a bully, Christie P.’s tyranny against me ended when my older sister intervened. One night after about a month of horrible prank phone calls, my sister grabbed the phone from me and screamed, “Leave my sister alone or I will kick your ass!” 

Christie P enlisted her own older sister to get involved, but my sister annihilated her too:

“If you or your little shit of a sister so much as even look at Hannah the wrong way, I will destroy you.”

That was the end of Christie P.’s bullying. The next day in school, many people cheered me on for defeating The Queen Bee. I had no idea that Christie P’s  reign of terror wasn’t aimed only at me. From the woodwork of the 6th grade hall of Cluster One came countless people thanking me for overthrowing the Evil Queen. Turns out, Christie P. had been mean to people for years, and by getting her to back down from me, people looked at me a little differently.

  

Within days of Christie backing off of me, a new target was chosen. This girl was minding her own business, sitting in Reading class during free-reading time, thumbing through a Judy Blume novel when Christie began to whisper to the girls around her—and I overheard it— “Stacy stuffs her bra”. My ears burned for Stacy; after all, just two years prior I was the victim of an embarrassing rumor.

 

This whispering evolved once the bell rang for the lunch period. Now Christie had enlisted a few of her hangers-on into chanting “Stuffy” as they trailed behind her. 

I wanted to scream at Christie. I wanted to be as confident and scary as my sister. But I simply wasn’t.

 

So I did the only thing I knew how to do. At lunch that day, I went right over to where Stacy sat alone with her book, her eyes steadfast on the pages, and I said, “Hey, I don’t believe you stuff your bra.” It wasn’t eloquent or really the point, but it was all I had in the moment. She looked up at me, and gave me a wry smile, “I don’t. These are real.” We both laughed and that solidified our friendship.

  

Not long after that day at lunch, Christie started in again whispering, “Stuffy” to Stacy again during Reading class. This time, another girl Michelle, who had previously in the year gone to battle with Christie for making fun of her coke-bottle specs, threw her pencil down. Our teacher was typically asleep during silent reading time, so he didn’t notice. Everyone’s head snapped up from their books collectively. I gripped my own paperback, my heart thudding in my chest with the possibility of an actual fight in the classroom, and flashbacks of my encounter in fourth grade with Andy Andrews.

 

We all watched Michelle walk over to Christie, lean down to her, and whisper, rather loudly, “Shut the fuck up, Christie. You’re just jealous that Stacy has tits and you don’t!”

 

As Michelle walked back she shot both me and Stacy a very cheshire cat grin, and we both smiled back at her.

And in that moment, we became a powerful trio. By the end of 6th grade I had two best friends, who were just like me, accidentally popular. The remaining years of middle school were the three of us, joined by both nerds and cheerleader-types. I felt protected by my friends—for the first time in my life—and the threat of being bullied melted away.

 

When Stacy, Michelle, and I were together, we were unstoppable. We called ourselves the Wonder Triplets (like the Saturday morning cartoons) and led the way for the rest of middle school, hosting sleepovers and parties (mainly at my house) that were quite epic.

And the rest of middle school was not only bully-free, but I became something I never had been and would never be again—cool. 

My diary entries from those years are filled with stories of boys, parties, and friends. Though I sometimes felt overwhelmed and exhausted (and sometimes would hide in my closet and cry by myself, but more on that later) by the constantness of what “popular” entailed (boys, parties, friends), I pushed through because without that, I would be the Pizza Hut girl Who Humped Pillows with Vaseline in her Hair. 

And no one wants to be her.

Me at the height of “cool” (ha!). 8th grade, Sept 1988

Read Part 3: Back to Picked-On

Disclaimer: This is a several-part piece that talks about my most painful experiences in my childhood and teens years with bullying. In order to (emotionally) feel safe sharing these stories, some names have been changed as well as minor details. As a woman in my late forties, who has battled (for decades)—as many women do—with myself over whether or not I have the right or deserve to speak my personal truth and perspective on events that happened to me, I’ve decided to not allow that inner battle or my fears to stop me. Who knows if anyone will read this. Who knows if anyone who reads this will be someone from my past who participated, witnessed or knew about these events. And, who knows if anyone will care. I do know that someone out there will relate. That my story will connect with someone. So here are my true stories of bullying and the effects they had on me.

Be sure to start with Part 1

“Popular”

The precursor to my rise to popularity began at the start of middle school, where all of the elementary schools in town merged starting at 5th grade. It all started when one of the most popular boys (Matt B) in school had a crush on me. I found out from a message delivered by one of the most popular girls, Christie P. Christie went to the same elementary school as Matt, and they were such good friends that she wanted to broker the blooming relationship between us. So, she convinced Matt to ask me on a “date” to see Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I got a cheek-kiss as the credits rolled, and with that, we were an item.

Now that Matt B liked me and my elementary school past was forgotten, I felt my past was in the rearview mirror and I could relax. When that relationship faded and 6th grade began, good ole Christie P. reappeared to tell me that another one of her old, elementary school friends (and former boyfriend!) Pat S had a crush on me. All of these crushes baffled me. I wasn’t blonde or beautiful (these were the only criteria I understood for popularity). Whatever! I went with it. 

The face of popular! Me, fall of 6th grade. 1986.

This time, probably because Pat S. and I lasted several months, a lifetime in middle school quite frankly, Christie P. didn’t take it too kindly, and by month two began to harass me with prank phone calls, disguising her voice and accusing me of being a “slut” and “a bitch” and stealing someone’s boyfriend. 

Similar to my very first encounter with a bully, Christie P.’s tyranny against me ended when my older sister intervened. One night after about a month of horrible prank phone calls, my sister grabbed the phone from me and screamed, “Leave my sister alone or I will kick your ass!” 

Christie P enlisted her own older sister to get involved, but my sister annihilated her too:

“If you or your little shit of a sister so much as even look at Hannah the wrong way, I will destroy you.”

That was the end of Christie P.’s bullying. The next day in school, many people cheered me on for defeating The Queen Bee. I had no idea that Christie P’s  reign of terror wasn’t aimed only at me. From the woodwork of the 6th grade hall of Cluster One came countless people thanking me for overthrowing the Evil Queen. Turns out, Christie P. had been mean to people for years, and by getting her to back down from me, people looked at me a little differently.

  

Within days of Christie backing off of me, a new target was chosen. This girl was minding her own business, sitting in Reading class during free-reading time, thumbing through a Judy Blume novel when Christie began to whisper to the girls around her—and I overheard it— “Stacy stuffs her bra”. My ears burned for Stacy; after all, just two years prior I was the victim of an embarrassing rumor.

 

This whispering evolved once the bell rang for the lunch period. Now Christie had enlisted a few of her hangers-on into chanting “Stuffy” as they trailed behind her. 

I wanted to scream at Christie. I wanted to be as confident and scary as my sister. But I simply wasn’t.

 

So I did the only thing I knew how to do. At lunch that day, I went right over to where Stacy sat alone with her book, her eyes steadfast on the pages, and I said, “Hey, I don’t believe you stuff your bra.” It wasn’t eloquent or really the point, but it was all I had in the moment. She looked up at me, and gave me a wry smile, “I don’t. These are real.” We both laughed and that solidified our friendship.

  

Not long after that day at lunch, Christie started in again whispering, “Stuffy” to Stacy again during Reading class. This time, another girl Michelle, who had previously in the year gone to battle with Christie for making fun of her coke-bottle specs, threw her pencil down. Our teacher was typically asleep during silent reading time, so he didn’t notice. Everyone’s head snapped up from their books collectively. I gripped my own paperback, my heart thudding in my chest with the possibility of an actual fight in the classroom, and flashbacks of my encounter in fourth grade with Andy Andrews.

 

We all watched Michelle walk over to Christie, lean down to her, and whisper, rather loudly, “Shut the fuck up, Christie. You’re just jealous that Stacy has tits and you don’t!”

 

As Michelle walked back she shot both me and Stacy a very cheshire cat grin, and we both smiled back at her.

And in that moment, we became a powerful trio. By the end of 6th grade I had two best friends, who were just like me, accidentally popular. The remaining years of middle school were the three of us, joined by both nerds and cheerleader-types. I felt protected by my friends—for the first time in my life—and the threat of being bullied melted away.

 

When Stacy, Michelle, and I were together, we were unstoppable. We called ourselves the Wonder Triplets (like the Saturday morning cartoons) and led the way for the rest of middle school, hosting sleepovers and parties (mainly at my house) that were quite epic.

And the rest of middle school was not only bully-free, but I became something I never had been and would never be again—cool. 

My diary entries from those years are filled with stories of boys, parties, and friends. Though I sometimes felt overwhelmed and exhausted (and sometimes would hide in my closet and cry by myself, but more on that later) by the constantness of what “popular” entailed (boys, parties, friends), I pushed through because without that, I would be the Pizza Hut girl Who Humped Pillows with Vaseline in her Hair. 

And no one wants to be her.

Me at the height of “cool” (ha!). 8th grade, Sept 1988

Read Part 3: Back to Picked-On

Disclaimer: This is a several-part piece that talks about my most painful experiences in my childhood and teens years with bullying. In order to (emotionally) feel safe sharing these stories, some names have been changed as well as minor details. As a woman in my late forties, who has battled (for decades)—as many women do—with myself over whether or not I have the right or deserve to speak my personal truth and perspective on events that happened to me, I’ve decided to not allow that inner battle or my fears to stop me. Who knows if anyone will read this. Who knows if anyone who reads this will be someone from my past who participated, witnessed or knew about these events. And, who knows if anyone will care. I do know that someone out there will relate. That my story will connect with someone. So here are my true stories of bullying and the effects they had on me.

Disclaimer: This is a several-part piece that talks about my most painful experiences in my childhood and teens years with bullying. In order to (emotionally) feel safe sharing these stories, some names have been changed as well as minor details. As a woman in my late forties, who has battled (for decades)—as many women do— with myself over whether or not I have the right or deserve to speak my personal truth and perspective on events that happened to me, I’ve decided to not allow that inner battle or my fears to stop me. Who knows if anyone will read this. Who knows if anyone who reads this will be someone from my past who participated, witnessed or knew about these events. And, who knows if anyone will care. I do know that someone out there will relate. That my story will connect with someone. So here are my true stories of bullying and the effects they had on me.

Part 1: Picked-On

The first time I was bullied was in second grade by my (supposed) best friend’s older sister, I’ll call her “Andy”. Andy caught us playing “doctor” in my friend's room, and then threatened to “tell on” us if we didn’t do certain things. One time Andy wanted me to wear a certain skirt “or else”, and another time when I declined a sleepover invite, she said I better come over (my friend was sad) “or else”. Although these things were benign, it was scary to have someone hold something over me, something which I wasn’t even sure would land me in trouble. (Our definition of doctor was a consensual flashing of private parts to each other!). In my recollection of this, I do remember that my older sister found out about the blackmail behavior Andy was doing, and basically told this bully-bitch she better watch out or else! My sister was a year older than Andy and had a team of junior high friends willing to have her (and my) back. I’d like to think this is what stopped Andy, but really it was that my family wound up moving away at the end of that school year. But this was the first of what would be many significant moments where I learned about bullying.

This is what bullied looks like. Me, age 7. 1982.The second time I was bullied was in 4th grade. Ironically, as the new kid (yet again) in 3rd grade, no one bothered me for the entire year, so much so that I just about forgot that ever important-lesson of the year before—that some people can be really shitty. Then 4th grade rolled up, and the Pizza Hut outfit happened, and my life went right to shit again.

  

Here’s how it went down: Sheryl, my mother, insisted on dressing me, and we all know that as kids get closer to puberty and the tween years, that shit doesn’t fly. Kids will resist, but if you have a persistent mother who really thought of you as a living doll at times, you will lose and I did. 

Thus, as 4th grade began, Sheryl schlepped me to Filene's one weekend for some back-to-school shopping and bought me what would quickly be dubbed as The Pizza Hut dress due to its— you guessed it— white and red checkered pattern. Not cute. Oh, but Sheryl thought it was, and insisted—despite my wrinkled nose at the outfit— that I looked adorable. Though I wanted an Esprit tee-shirt and pair of acid washed jeans, those were vetoed quickly. My mother ascribed to the “you have to buy outfits or ‘“ensems” (as in ensembles) as she referred to them.

 

The next day when I picked out my clothes (she also bought me another outfit that, although I resembled a bee due to its black and yellow colors, was far more stylish and frankly less weird). I did not select Pizza Hut but instead chose Bee and she said, nope. “I didn’t spend 500 dollars on clothes for you to not wear that adorable matching shirt and skirt.” Guilt was a prevalent motivator with Sheryl. So I begrudgingly put on the ensemble and—the piece de resistance—she had also purchased matching red shoes that I had to wear as well.

The next day would be the first and last time that I would ever wear the monstrosity. I walked into the classroom to immediate shouts of “Pizza Hut!” led by the scrappiest, smallest girl in the class who also happened to be the scariest. She had a ratty mullet and beady eyes. We’ll call her Andy Andrews (yes, she shared the same first name as my first bully!). She followed her chant with “I’m going to kick your ass you stupid bitch.”  Yep, this school was a lot tougher than my previous one. She continued to taunt me all day and at recess. The only reason why she didn’t follow through with her threat was because it rained, and we had to stay inside where I sat, alone, doodling on a piece of paper, my friends all terrified of the Pizza Hut cooties I now possessed. Andy Andrews whispered how she was going to punch me in the tits and other uncomfortable places (I mean is there a comfortable place to get punched?). 

 

“Tomorrow, Goodman. I’m gonna kick your ass. I’m not kidding, either.”

And indeed she was not.

The  next day, I’m standing in the center of the chalked-in-lines for hopscotch when Andy decides to run up to me and pummel my chest, dead center between my barely-budding boobs. She does it over and over as I stand, like a weeble wobble who wobbles and wobbles and just won’t fall down. I can’t find my voice at first, the breath punched out of my lungs.

 

Then I do.

“Someone get a teacher,” I lamely squawk.

No one did.

But the recess bell wrang, the crowd dispersed, and Andy walked away like we had just finished a game of kickball.

Maybe it was my lack of falling down? Maybe it was because I didn’t snitch on her? Whatever it was, Andy Andrews never bothered me again.

Me with my beloved cabbage patch kid, 4th grade. 1984

Unfortunately, others did. 4th grade was just getting started and so was the bullying.

Not long after Andy Andrews punched me in the tits, another girl Traci S, befriended me. One time, we had an-almost sleepover at her house, where her mother confessed that they had a snake infestation in their basement but hadn’t seen one in a few days “so they’re probably gone”. I suddenly became too sick to spend the night (I had and have a crazy snake phobia). That Monday, at recess of course, she spread a rumor that reached me faster than Andy Andrew’s punches to my tits:

“Hannah humped a pillow at our sleepover.”

The most ironic part of this rumor included this confession from Tracy:

“Well, no, I didn’t see her do it, but she told me she did.”

I barely understood what “humping” meant!

Then others came forward: Jess D claimed I “humped” a shampoo bottle during a sleepover at her house. (There was never a sleepover, and also how does one “hump” a shampoo bottle?). 

It rose to a fevered pitch at recess one day where I clutched my cabbage patch kid named Diane Alise while standing in the middle of the crowd, numb and silent this time, as they pummeled me not in the tits but worse, right into my self-worth.

However, by the grace of I-have-no-idea-what, a popular and powerful girl named Denise P stepped right into the center of that mess and yelled at all of the kids that they had to stop. “Enough is enough,” she said. “Leave Hannah alone!”

And poof! With that, they stopped, and it was never mentioned again.

But damage done. So. Much. Damage. Done. 

The next moment of bullying was by one of my supposed best childhood friends who I’ll call “Heather”. Looking back, I see all the microaggressions she hurled. anti-Semitic is the word we would use today. She told me I had a “big Jewish nose” and she and one of her friends would come to my softball games and sing, “Hey, Jew” to me. Not all the time. Not loudly. But enough so I heard it. The culmination of her bullying me is a fuzzy memory. I’m not sure how it started, but we were at my house in my room, and she was brushing my hair. The next thing I knew she was taking handfuls of Vaseline and putting it in my hair. I don’t know why. I vaguely remember her saying, stay still. This is going to look good.

It did not.

By the time my mom came home from work, I looked like a greaser from the 1950s. I was in tears, screaming that I never wanted to go back to school.

I was home for a week. My mom tried everything to get it out. Vinegar. Dish soap. The only thing we could do was wait, and then I had to cut a lot of it off. For the first time in my life, I had short hair, and it horrified me to think I might look like a boy.

Then I went back to school.

You would think that I would be met with a flurry of more bullying. But no. The reign of terror was over, and it would remain so for another two years.

PART 2: From Picked-on to Popular to Picked-on (Again) to Invisible to... High School Reunions

Back to Picked-on

As with every ascent to the top, comes the crash to the bottom. While I never again became Pizza Hut Girl Who Humps Pillows With Vaseline in Her Head, I actually became something far worse—Fat.

Remember how I mentioned going into my closet and crying? Well, that became a coping mechanism on the regular by the end of 8th grade. By that point I was seriously dating the baddest bad boy in our class, Derrick S. We were very on brand with my middle school self—the most anti-popular power couple in the grade. He was brooding, an artist and a skater. He got into trouble often and even teachers took me aside and said this boy would be my downfall (I was a “good girl” with good grades). This relationship was exciting and sexy and scary and sad, all at once. We got together in April of the school year (though had been flirting and talking for months before) and by the summer, we had exchanged “I love yous” and I was contemplating going past second base with him.

 

Meantime, my other triplets had exceeded the bases with their respective serious boyfriends and I was starting to feel a strain between us. Simply put, in my mind, they were getting ahead of me and I wasn’t sure I wanted to catch up.

 

I coped by hiding in my closet and not only crying but binge eating, something I watched my parents do when they were stressed, and it was always followed by restrictive diets. This was normal in my house. But for me, when I started to do it, I felt terrible shame and that shame made me hide it from everyone, in my closet.

Derrick and I had to part ways for a portion of the summer while I went off to summer camp. It was a romantic goodbye of staying up all night at my house and making out, discussing our love and intensity of our feelings. Even while gone, our letters were lengthy professions of feelings: “I love you times infinity” he wrote and followed that with “I miss you so much. It’s hard to explain my feelings. I just can’t wait for you to come home.”

But other things were happening, which I would later discover when I came home…10 pounds heavier than when I left. Mind you, ten pounds that were likely related to growing and puberty more than anything else. After all, I was barely 14.

 

When I returned, everything was different. As we approached starting high school, Derrick pressured me to go beyond my limited second base (which I didn’t do), and my friends had started drinking and hanging out with upperclassmen. I was ill equipped for dealing with these changes. 

Then—BAM!

Within the first three weeks of high school, I lost my entire friend group (including Michelle and Stacy), Derrick (boyfriend of six months at that point, which is a lifetime at fourteen), the class presidential election, and my status as the most Popular Girl in my grade. Oh, and here was the worst crime of them all: gaining more weight.

 

Derrick even cited that as one of the many reasons he felt we should break up. As in, “You got fat…and you won’t fuck me, so I had to fuck someone else.” Ok, I might have conflated two conversations in that last part, but these were the reasons he gave for why he dumped me.

 

People who once came out of the halls of sixth grade, Cluster 1, to congratulate me on overthrowing The Witch Christie P now were taunting me. There was Jimmy L, who regularly yelled down the hallway, “Hey Hannah why don’t you lose some weight?” 

Ironically, said Jimmy, 3 years later, on New Years Eve 1992, would be kind enough to pick me and my date up that evening on a deserted road by the beach because I had gotten my car (actually my dad’s brand new Toyota Cressida, remember those?) stuck in the sand. Life is weird in a small town, Enemies and Antagonists can become friends so quickly. Especially if the reason they are your antagonist was because you were Fat and now you are Thin.

Side note that isn’t really an aside: Derrick was the type of boyfriend who stole a The Smiths cassette and ten dollars from me and put both in a card as my fourteenth birthday gift. He thought it was funny when I opened it and was confused, recognizing the scratches on the cassette and even the folded up ten dollar bill. He was also the kind of boyfriend who randomly punched one of those two best friends, who would eventually abandon me for unknown reasons, in the foot because it was sticking out as he walked by her. Was this an eventual factor in the rupture of our friendship? When she and I reunited around our ten year reunion, this story never came up. She, in fact, apologized to me for “not being a good friend”, so who knows!

By week four of high school, Michelle and Stacy still hated me, and the entire popular group had iced me out. To this day, the only crimes I am aware of that I did commit were getting Fat, not Hooking Up with guys, and not Drinking. Auditioning for the school play definitely didn’t help either. Though the move would prove to be a smart one ultimately, as I went on to star in many of the school plays for the rest of high school.

So back to week four of high school: Derrick asked me to “go back out with him” as the kids said in those days, and due to the winner of the class election forfeiting the title (“it was just a joke,” This Person said), I became class president. Though there was a third—recall former bully Christie P?— running as president who had come in last.

By the way, that person who forfeited was (drum roll) Derrick, who was still my boyfriend at the time he ran against me.

Take a breath and stay with me:

By week five, I was in direct conflict with all of the student council about the class float for homecoming because I had taken the advice of our class advisor to make it a Halloween/Ghost Busters theme, but no one else agreed with it. Yet, no one else had any ideas, and we were running out of time (we haven’t processed this one yet at any of the reunions, so stay tuned for that one). Then, Derrick dumped me (again). This time was public, in the hallway, via his best friend who smelled of rotting chicken soup and had flaming red hair that was in that skater hair style of hanging in an awful curtain that hid most of his face. When walked his head was held in such a way he looked like Quasimodo.By the way, the day of the dumping also happened to be our official six month anniversary (thank you to all of my diaries for the accuracy of this memory).

Said best friend, who I would later be referred to as Kevin McManiac (his name was Kevin McSomethingOrOther), approached me in the freshmen hallway on the Monday of week five. He stopped just inches from my locker and announced: “Derrick says you’re dumped.” Then threw a watch I had gifted Derrick just a few weeks before for his birthday. “And here’s your gay watch.” Then he walked away, wafting rotted chicken smell in his wake. Remember, this is the early nineties (a period in history when microaggressions were at their finest, and when gay was a substitute for lame.) 

 

And this was only September.

Decades later, at our twenty year high school reunion when I retold this election story to a large group of former classmates, many of whom were the Popular Kids Who Iced Me Out and the rest were, as we now refer to ourselves, The Revenge of The Nerds crew. PKWIMO didn’t recalled it. However, TROTN crew did recall it with great empathy (no surprise!).

By the way, Bad Boyfriend Derrick, never showed up at any of these reunions. However, he sent me a weird and kind of flirty DM on Facebook in 2012 and acted as if we were old pals. 

We were not, and we will never be. 

The epitome of not cool. 9th grade. April 1990

By October of freshman year, I was completely iced out of The Popular Group that I had been so intertwined with for four years, which is a lifetime—roughly a fourth of my life so far!

The only people who talked to me at this point were the upperclassmen from theater and the private school kids who never knew me from my—so-called—skinny, popular years. 

 

By November, I was in tech week for the production of Born Yesterday, my first high school theater performance. The only freshmen in the cast, I was a manicurist with the simple line of “Yes, sir!” while pretending to file senior Tony H.’s nails. Tony H. was a sweetheart but, man, could he belt out his character Harry Brock’s sexist lines to “dumb blond Billie” played by Tony’s actual girlfriend. Fun fact: They would go on to get married and have two kids. 

Anyway, while on stage during tech week, unbeknownst to me, the lighting guy, a junior named Nate, had a crush on me and would later tell me he had intentionally shined the spotlight directly on me during my one and only scene. By mid-week, he commissioned his “friend”, a girl named Amy, who was the stage manager to tell me that he wanted to take me on a date. Though the hairs on the back of my neck prickled from the similarity that this echoed of the love triangles of yesteryear a la Christie P./ Matt B./ Pat S., I ignored the creepy foreshadowing. 

I shouldn’t have.

It turned into a bigger mess than my middle school drama ever could have been!

Nate and I went out on some dates, which initially impressed me (and my mother!). Most memorable was the dinner at a local pub in Newport followed by a performance of Othello at Newport Play House. The performance was unremarkable in my memory but what does stand out is that when Nate came to the house to retrieve me for this date. My mother invited him inside only to tell him about her performance as a tap dancing sailor in The Newport Play House’s 1974 production of Anything Goes. “I was eight months pregnant with Hannie!” She told him, using the awful nickname my family insisted suited me (it does not!).  Mom then proceeded to stand up right in front of where Nate sat awkwardly on our couch, which was overly stuffed with too many decorative pillows, and demonstrate how she could still Shuffle Off to Buffalo.

And he still asked me out again after that.

 

But alas, I was still hung up on ole Derrick. Yeah, remember him? I was still clinging to hope via his post-break up, vulgar, prank phone calls that were nightly at this point. “Whore! Slut! Bitch” he would yell when I would finally pick up the phone. The many benefits of having my own phone line—easily accessible to asshole ex-boyfriends. 

Anyway, Nate was sweet, but I was still in love with my captor, so-to-speak or, as we say in my biz, “abuser”. Not only that, Nate seemed so old, so adult as a junior to my 9th grade self. So when he drove me out to Purgatory Chasm to give me what would become the best mixtape I ever received (Depeche Mode’s Somebody?! The Cure’s Boys Don’t Cry!?) and asked me to be his girlfriend, I had to end it.

The very next day Amy (now the hair on the back of my neck really stood up!) accosted me in school at my locker. “What kind of slut are you? Did you know you gave him his first kiss? Then, you dump him?” She snarled, her cheeks inflamed with red splotches. She screamed at me that I deserved to be punched in the face and that she would gladly be the one to do it.

 

Though she did not punch me in the face, she spent the rest of the week giving me nasty letters about my slutty ways. She called me a “tease” as I passed her in the hallway.  Meanwhile, Nate simply ignored me. The show was over by this point, so we didn’t have to see each other any more.

 

In an abrupt turn of events Nate started to hang out with another girl who was in his grade, and they started to date. Amy, in my memory, vanished. I don’t know how her harassment of me ended. But before Christmas break, it was over.

My theater career took off after this and sophomore year, Nate and I played husband and wife in our production of 12th Night.

And, I went on to briefly date his younger brother my junior year!

At this point, overt bullying basically ended, but what happened next, in some ways, was a lot worse.

Read Part 4: Invisible

Disclaimer: This is a several-part piece that talks about my most painful experiences in my childhood and teens years with bullying. In order to (emotionally) feel safe sharing these stories, some names have been changed as well as minor details. As a woman in my late forties, who has battled (for decades)—as many women do—with myself over whether or not I have the right or deserve to speak my personal truth and perspective on events that happened to me, I’ve decided to not allow that inner battle or my fears to stop me. Who knows if anyone will read this. Who knows if anyone who reads this will be someone from my past who participated, witnessed or knew about these events. And, who knows if anyone will care. I do know that someone out there will relate. That my story will connect with someone. So here are my true stories of bullying and the effects they had on me.

Invisible (sort of)

Eventually, all harassment stopped…sort of. You could say that it narrowed down to one person and even at that, it was specific incidents. Here is where I try to tell the story of my non-boyfriend boyfriend, yes, you know who I mean: Derrick.

I became invisible to my old friends from the second half of freshman year through the last part of senior year. But to my new friends and my theater friends, I was part of the crowd, and sometimes a leader in the crowd and sometimes a follower.

On the outside, I appeared to be a Theater Geek or A Smart Kid, with friends and activities. But inside, my eating disorder went from Binge Eating Disorder to Anorexia slowly over the course of the end of Sophomore to Senior years. While this was doing its insidious dance inside of me, outside I was trying so hard to be normal. I dated. I went out with friends. I drank once in a while. I smoked pot a few times (for someone with what would later be diagnosed as Generalized Anxiety Disorder, this was never fun).

I understand now what function my EDs had in my life—control and power. Derrick’s harassment peaked just as my weight peaked—by the end of freshman year I was 35 pounds heavier, and in a final act, Derrick showed up at my house in the late spring, professing his feelings again and apologizing for the prank calls and harassment in the hallways. We had a passionate kiss, and I thought we would get back together.

We did not.

Like all previous tormentors, he disappeared. He called me a year later, like we were friends, to tell me he had a long term girlfriend who was in college. And then we didn’t speak again until Junior year, when I showed up the first day of school 20 pounds lighter, full of confidence, in a mini skirt and tight tank top. This was the summer my restriction of food—praised as “healthy eating”—started to give me a sense of power. The less I ate, the more weight I dropped, the more people praised me. 

And it brought Derrick back into my life.

Out of the blue, within the first week of Junior year he had a friend call me, not to pull a prank, but to say, “Hey, you’re looking really hot this year.” Reinforcing that before, I was not. But nevermind that. Then Derrick got on the phone and reiterated my “hotness” and from there Derrick was a changed guy. He was sweet and thoughtful. He offered to show me how to drive a stick shift, he would come over and let me beat him at Super Mario Brothers, and in the late winter, he showed up at my house with roses on Valentines Day. We talked almost every night. 

Though he had a girlfriend (another one who lived far away), and I had a few boys on rotation (nothing serious and nothing sexual), Derrick and I were always talking and hanging out.

 

My tormentor was now my friend.

Me, invisible but “hot”. Fall of Junior Year. 1991

But then, as all things that go up (just like my rise to popularity), they must come down. And this one was really bad.

Eventually, the question of the status of “what are you guys” came up amongst our friends. It was June of Junior year, and we had managed to stay “friends” the entire time.

 

And he brought it up to me, the night before my 17th birthday. He had dumped his long time girlfriend months prior. Sitting in my pink and teal bedroom on my bed, listening to Bob Marley (as we did when we were boyfriend and girlfriend all those years before), he told me it had been a long time since he kissed anyone. And he just gave me a long and dreamy look with his blue eyes. We kissed for the first time in two and a half years. He made a promise that night to take me out on a proper date for my birthday, and he told me that when he was with his ex-girlfriend, all he did was think about me and that’s why he broke up with her. 

And the next night when he never came to get me for that date he promised, I was hurt but refused to let him know. Two days later, he showed up at my door, apologizing and telling me it was important that I let him in, he needed to tell me something.

We went omy backyard and sat across from each other on the glider, his hat covering half of his face and the cool late spring air giving me goosebumps.

 

I waited.

 

Finally he looked up and declared, “I really like you. I’ve never stopped. I see us in the future together, like going to college together. I want to be with you. And I’m sorry I’m a prick sometimes. It’s just me.” 

 

My heart thundered. I forgot about how hurt and angry I was. Adding to the intensity of the moment, was both of us knowing I would be leaving for the entire summer in just two days. He promised me he would write, and I promised I’d call him when I was home.

Neither happened. 

Instead, days after coming home from my summer away, he showed up at my house as if months hadn’t gone by without talking to each other. We went right to the basement to play Super Mario Brothers, except within moments, we were making out on the couch. Just as his hand went up my shirt, the phone rang. I pulled away from him to answer it, and he whispered, “Don’t.”  But I did. It was someone for my mom and before I could hang up, Derrick was gone.

We didn’t speak to each other that first week of senior year.

Then, the second week, Friday night, I’m home early from being out with friends. Halfway to asleep, my phone rang and I let the answering machine pick it up.

“Hey, Hannah. Pick up. It’s me. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

My eyes were open by the end of his mini speech. The phone rang again. I let it go to the machine again.

“I really need to talk to you. Please, if you can hear this. Pick up.”

So I rolled over and grabbed the phone. “What do you want?”

What he wanted was to come get me and take me back to his house. “We have to talk,” he said. “About us. I need to tell you something.”

I let him come get me, I let him drive me back to his house (which, in all these years I’d never been to), and I let him tell me how much he wanted to be with me (again). I let him apologize for his shitty and inconsistent behavior (again).

He told me he knew why I didn't trust him. I told him he needed to help me learn to trust him. He said, “Let's go out tomorrow.”

 

What I didn’t let him do was touch me. Not once. He made yet another promise to take me out on a proper date. We got in his bed. We fell asleep.

In the morning, I woke up first, and looked at him. Noticing for the first time, how much he had changed since the beginning of high school. Bloated beer belly from drinking too much. Puffy face and eyes from smoking weed all the time. As my eyes traced his long eyelashes and the stubble on his chin, I thought, I want to go home and go for a run. I don’t want to be here.

He woke up shortly after, and we were awkward. Me saying, “Can you drive me home.” Him, bleary-eyed: “Sure.” 

The sun beamed through the shades of his room. 

He drove me home, promised to call me about our “date” that night as I shut the car door.

He did call. At the end of the day when my friends and I were deciding what to do for the night. All he said was, “Come to my house. Bring your friends.” He sounded very high.

Here’s what my diary says about that evening:

God. It was a nightmare. We went to Derrick’s house. They all got drunk. I felt sick. I didn't even drink. I got bitchy when Kevin started hitting on me, and Derrick paid too much attention to this other girl. Derrick was drunk and stupid and said rude shit to me again. I left at 11 without saying goodbye. 

That Monday at school he ignored me. I felt a surge of anger so strong that day, images of belting him in the face flashed before me. Instead, as soon as I got home from school, I called him:

ME: Hey—

HIM: Hey—

ME: I wanna know what’s up.

HIM: Nothing, I’m just watching that stupid show Swan’s Crossing. (It was a teeny-bop after school show we would sometimes watch together.)

ME: Ok, well I need to know. Are we going to happen?

Silence.

ME: Cause I need to know if we are going to really be together, like as a couple. I need to know now and if you can’t tell me, this is it. For real.

HIM: Yeah, I don’t know…

ME: Ok, then it’s over. Done.

HIM: Uh, ok.

ME: Bye.

And like every previous tormentor/bully, it ended with the most wimpery of wimpers ... although, not entirely because Derrick went on to attend the same college I went to and he tried, yet again, to get things going. But I met someone at school who would go on to be my boyfriend and later my husband.

Though I tolerated a lot of bullshit from my final tormentor, that last conversation with him was where I took back my power and vowed to never give it over to anyone else again.

And I haven't.

  

Read the Epilogue

Disclaimer: This is a several-part piece that talks about my most painful experiences in my childhood and teens years with bullying. In order to (emotionally) feel safe sharing these stories, some names have been changed as well as minor details. As a woman in my late forties, who has battled (for decades)—as many women do—with myself over whether or not I have the right or deserve to speak my personal truth and perspective on events that happened to me, I’ve decided to not allow that inner battle or my fears to stop me. Who knows if anyone will read this. Who knows if anyone who reads this will be someone from my past who participated, witnessed or knew about these events. And, who knows if anyone will care. I do know that someone out there will relate. That my story will connect with someone. So here are my true stories of bullying and the effects they had on me.

Invisible (sort of)

Eventually, all harassment stopped…sort of. You could say that it narrowed down to one person and even at that, it was specific incidents. Here is where I try to tell the story of my non-boyfriend boyfriend, yes, you know who I mean: Derrick.

I became invisible to my old friends from the second half of freshman year through the last part of senior year. But to my new friends and my theater friends, I was part of the crowd, and sometimes a leader in the crowd and sometimes a follower.

On the outside, I appeared to be a Theater Geek or A Smart Kid, with friends and activities. But inside, my eating disorder went from Binge Eating Disorder to Anorexia slowly over the course of the end of Sophomore to Senior years. While this was doing its insidious dance inside of me, outside I was trying so hard to be normal. I dated. I went out with friends. I drank once in a while. I smoked pot a few times (for someone with what would later be diagnosed as Generalized Anxiety Disorder, this was never fun).

I understand now what function my EDs had in my life—control and power. Derrick’s harassment peaked just as my weight peaked—by the end of freshman year I was 35 pounds heavier, and in a final act, Derrick showed up at my house in the late spring, professing his feelings again and apologizing for the prank calls and harassment in the hallways. We had a passionate kiss, and I thought we would get back together.

We did not.

Like all previous tormentors, he disappeared. He called me a year later, like we were friends, to tell me he had a long term girlfriend who was in college. And then we didn’t speak again until Junior year, when I showed up the first day of school 20 pounds lighter, full of confidence, in a mini skirt and tight tank top. This was the summer my restriction of food—praised as “healthy eating”—started to give me a sense of power. The less I ate, the more weight I dropped, the more people praised me. 

And it brought Derrick back into my life.

Out of the blue, within the first week of Junior year he had a friend call me, not to pull a prank, but to say, “Hey, you’re looking really hot this year.” Reinforcing that before, I was not. But nevermind that. Then Derrick got on the phone and reiterated my “hotness” and from there Derrick was a changed guy. He was sweet and thoughtful. He offered to show me how to drive a stick shift, he would come over and let me beat him at Super Mario Brothers, and in the late winter, he showed up at my house with roses on Valentines Day. We talked almost every night. 

Though he had a girlfriend (another one who lived far away), and I had a few boys on rotation (nothing serious and nothing sexual), Derrick and I were always talking and hanging out.

 

My tormentor was now my friend.

Me, invisible but “hot”. Fall of Junior Year. 1991

But then, as all things that go up (just like my rise to popularity), they must come down. And this one was really bad.

Eventually, the question of the status of “what are you guys” came up amongst our friends. It was June of Junior year, and we had managed to stay “friends” the entire time.

 

And he brought it up to me, the night before my 17th birthday. He had dumped his long time girlfriend months prior. Sitting in my pink and teal bedroom on my bed, listening to Bob Marley (as we did when we were boyfriend and girlfriend all those years before), he told me it had been a long time since he kissed anyone. And he just gave me a long and dreamy look with his blue eyes. We kissed for the first time in two and a half years. He made a promise that night to take me out on a proper date for my birthday, and he told me that when he was with his ex-girlfriend, all he did was think about me and that’s why he broke up with her. 

And the next night when he never came to get me for that date he promised, I was hurt but refused to let him know. Two days later, he showed up at my door, apologizing and telling me it was important that I let him in, he needed to tell me something.

We went omy backyard and sat across from each other on the glider, his hat covering half of his face and the cool late spring air giving me goosebumps.

 

I waited.

 

Finally he looked up and declared, “I really like you. I’ve never stopped. I see us in the future together, like going to college together. I want to be with you. And I’m sorry I’m a prick sometimes. It’s just me.” 

 

My heart thundered. I forgot about how hurt and angry I was. Adding to the intensity of the moment, was both of us knowing I would be leaving for the entire summer in just two days. He promised me he would write, and I promised I’d call him when I was home.

Neither happened. 

Instead, days after coming home from my summer away, he showed up at my house as if months hadn’t gone by without talking to each other. We went right to the basement to play Super Mario Brothers, except within moments, we were making out on the couch. Just as his hand went up my shirt, the phone rang. I pulled away from him to answer it, and he whispered, “Don’t.”  But I did. It was someone for my mom and before I could hang up, Derrick was gone.

We didn’t speak to each other that first week of senior year.

Then, the second week, Friday night, I’m home early from being out with friends. Halfway to asleep, my phone rang and I let the answering machine pick it up.

“Hey, Hannah. Pick up. It’s me. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

My eyes were open by the end of his mini speech. The phone rang again. I let it go to the machine again.

“I really need to talk to you. Please, if you can hear this. Pick up.”

So I rolled over and grabbed the phone. “What do you want?”

What he wanted was to come get me and take me back to his house. “We have to talk,” he said. “About us. I need to tell you something.”

I let him come get me, I let him drive me back to his house (which, in all these years I’d never been to), and I let him tell me how much he wanted to be with me (again). I let him apologize for his shitty and inconsistent behavior (again).

He told me he knew why I didn't trust him. I told him he needed to help me learn to trust him. He said, “Let's go out tomorrow.”

 

What I didn’t let him do was touch me. Not once. He made yet another promise to take me out on a proper date. We got in his bed. We fell asleep.

In the morning, I woke up first, and looked at him. Noticing for the first time, how much he had changed since the beginning of high school. Bloated beer belly from drinking too much. Puffy face and eyes from smoking weed all the time. As my eyes traced his long eyelashes and the stubble on his chin, I thought, I want to go home and go for a run. I don’t want to be here.

He woke up shortly after, and we were awkward. Me saying, “Can you drive me home.” Him, bleary-eyed: “Sure.” 

The sun beamed through the shades of his room. 

He drove me home, promised to call me about our “date” that night as I shut the car door.

He did call. At the end of the day when my friends and I were deciding what to do for the night. All he said was, “Come to my house. Bring your friends.” He sounded very high.

Here’s what my diary says about that evening:

God. It was a nightmare. We went to Derrick’s house. They all got drunk. I felt sick. I didn't even drink. I got bitchy when Kevin started hitting on me, and Derrick paid too much attention to this other girl. Derrick was drunk and stupid and said rude shit to me again. I left at 11 without saying goodbye. 

That Monday at school he ignored me. I felt a surge of anger so strong that day, images of belting him in the face flashed before me. Instead, as soon as I got home from school, I called him:

ME: Hey—

HIM: Hey—

ME: I wanna know what’s up.

HIM: Nothing, I’m just watching that stupid show Swan’s Crossing. (It was a teeny-bop after school show we would sometimes watch together.)

ME: Ok, well I need to know. Are we going to happen?

Silence.

ME: Cause I need to know if we are going to really be together, like as a couple. I need to know now and if you can’t tell me, this is it. For real.

HIM: Yeah, I don’t know…

ME: Ok, then it’s over. Done.

HIM: Uh, ok.

ME: Bye.

And like every previous tormentor/bully, it ended with the most wimpery of wimpers ... although, not entirely because Derrick went on to attend the same college I went to and he tried, yet again, to get things going. But I met someone at school who would go on to be my boyfriend and later my husband.

Though I tolerated a lot of bullshit from my final tormentor, that last conversation with him was where I took back my power and vowed to never give it over to anyone else again.

And I haven't.

  

Read the Epilogue

Disclaimer: This is a several-part piece that talks about my most painful experiences in my childhood and teens years with bullying. In order to (emotionally) feel safe sharing these stories, some names have been changed as well as minor details. As a woman in my late forties, who has battled (for decades)—as many women do—with myself over whether or not I have the right or deserve to speak my personal truth and perspective on events that happened to me, I’ve decided to not allow that inner battle or my fears to stop me. Who knows if anyone will read this. Who knows if anyone who reads this will be someone from my past who participated, witnessed or knew about these events. And, who knows if anyone will care. I do know that someone out there will relate. That my story will connect with someone. So here are my true stories of bullying and the effects they had on me.