Scars

"I'm fine."

I've used this sentence so much that it no longer means anything to me. I've talked before about how I don't show any emotion, but lately I've been thinking about why and I think I may know now.

When I was a kid, from the first day of kindergarten all the way until high school graduation, I was bullied something awful by a group. The ringleader was a girl who lived just a few houses down from me. I didn't get one single day of freedom. This girl would get anyone she could under her thumb to torture me. She would follow me home, saying things that, to this day, stick in my head. Things about how I wasn't good enough. How I was ugly, stupid, and fat. She manipulated my best friend into believing that she was the good guy and I was the bad.

I remember one day very, very clearly. It was recess time, and my small, but loyal, group of friends had gone off to get something while I sat on the grass. This girl and her band of followers came over to me, stood around me, and wouldn't let me get up while they taunted, hit, and kicked me.

That is the last time I cried outside my house. The look of pure satisfaction on her face when she saw my pain was enough to make me hard. Still, when I feel like crying, I tell myself, "tough as nails; cold as stone."

That day left me with a rather unfortunate scar. Along with Bipolar Disorder, I have severe anxiety. Working jobs that are mostly dealing with the public, like retail, are incredibly difficult, if not impossible for me. Worse yet, crowds. If I can't get out of a crowd, I have a panic attack.

This was difficult to talk about and I don't really know how to end it...