The scars are real; they still partly define me, highlighting my insecurities and self-doubt. Yet, when I think back on my darkest of dark ages, I can see that my childhood was not simply good vs. evil.
The ones who bullied me have scars of their own, perhaps still buried deep in their closets with self-loathing and abuse.
And just because I was frequently the target does not mean I was beyond reproach.
With great shame I recall hiding in the backseat, tying my shoes for an eternity, so no one would know I had arrived with the fat girl.