B.Løvetann

In May 1992, a friend and neighbor of mine died suddenly. I remember that period as very strange. When I think back on it, it feels as though I was living inside a bubble—as if I were watching myself from the outside. In a small community, an event like that affects everyone.

In April 1993, my little sister was born. She arrived a month early and was very small, weighing only 1,500 grams (3.3 lbs). To me, it was exciting and special to become a big sister, even though she was so fragile.

But only a few months later, everything changed once again.

We moved to a new town. A new house. A new «dad.» A new bedroom. And a new school filled with unfamiliar faces.

The only thing that hadn’t changed was my mother.

She continued living exactly as she always had. Her relationship with her new, «wonderful» boyfriend was turbulent and unpredictable.

We still wet the bed. My mother was never awake in the mornings. She never helped us with homework, never changed our bedsheets, and she never came to our first day of school or attended parent-teacher meetings.

School was something we had to manage on our own.

On my very first day, I learned how quickly children notice differences.

«I feel sorry for you. You’re children of divorce.»

But for me, that was far from the biggest problem.

A checklist for creating the perfect target for bullying:

• Make sure the child doesn’t get to shower after wetting the bed during the night.
• Make sure the child never brushes their teeth.
• Let their hair grow wild in every direction.
• Dress them in clothes that are too big, too small, or simply a little odd.

There were only six students in my class—and believe it or not, it was the biggest class in the entire school.

That probably tells you just how small the school was.

To make matters worse, there were only three girls in my class, and I was the last one to arrive.

It quickly became natural for the other two to leave me out.

Between the smell, my hair, my clothes, and a mother who simply wasn’t there, I became an easy target. It was easy for them to label me as the strange one.

The one who didn’t fit in.

I felt marked before I had even been given a chance.

One memory has stayed with me.

We would be walking together in the schoolyard when one of the girls would suddenly say,

«Lilli, come here. I need to tell you something.»

The two of them would walk off together, whispering, glancing back at me, and laughing.

Sometimes they even pointed.

I stood there knowing they were talking about me, but I never knew what they were actually saying.

Only the laughter.

The looks.

And the feeling of being left out.

I remember that feeling so well.

The feeling of being different.

The feeling of never being good enough.

The feeling of never truly belonging.

My self-esteem slowly disappeared.

Eventually, I was left feeling small, insignificant, and inadequate in every possible way.

Things weren’t any better at home.

If anything, they were worse.

My mother pinched me, pulled my ears, hit me, and pulled my hair. Her new boyfriend looked down on us stepchildren, and he never tried to hide it.

With everything happening at home on top of the bullying at school, I began thinking that all I wanted was to die.

I clearly remember the only tantrum I ever had as a child.

I was about to take a shower. I had just been to the bathroom.

And suddenly, something inside me snapped.

I became furious.

I cried uncontrollably with anger and frustration. I yanked hard on the toilet’s flush cord and probably hit both the toilet and the walls.

My whole body felt like it was boiling over.

My mother came to the bathroom door and asked what was wrong.

She asked me to open the door.

But I refused.

I couldn’t explain what was happening inside me because I didn’t understand it myself.

Today, as an adult, I realize it was everything that had built up inside me.

The loneliness.

The bullying.

The feeling of never being good enough.

It was my body saying enough in the only way it knew how.

In 1995, my little brother was born.

That same year, the bullying at school finally came to an end.

I began to understand that things like showering, brushing my teeth, and taking care of my hair actually mattered. I realized that doing those simple things—even if only most of the time—helped me blend in a little more.

Life slowly started to look different.

But it didn’t last long.

The following year, my mother moved out, and we returned to the only safe place we had ever known.

The house next to my grandmother and grandfather.

To be continued…