One of my mom’s favorite things to scream at me was, “You don’t have #$%$$ing to like me, but you will @#$@#ing respect me.” (To which I always wanted to reply, “Respect is earned, bitch.” But of course I never did, because my mamma didn’t raise no fool.)
When asked to actually talk about bullying, I get physically ill. It’s strange. I’m a fat chick that talks out about size acceptance all the time. I’ve worked with victims of domestic violence in the past and advocate whenever I can. But when it comes down to talking about childhood bullying my stomach cramps and I just want to curl up in a little ball. I’m forty years old, but it seems that certain childhood traumas never go away.