Mean Girl

©2014 fumigraphik
©2014 fumigraphik


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.

Mean Girl

Jolene was the sprout of every girl who had ever hurt my feelings, reincarnated as a preschooler.

Yet my daughter was inexplicably devoted.

Ever hopeful, she would greet her wee frien-emy warmly.

Jolene would shriek and hide under the table. She would ignore–then punish cruelly if my child played with anyone else.

When confronted, Jolene would blame her actions on her delicate emotional state. “I’m really missing my mom today,” she would say, copping a sad face. “That’s why I’m making bad choices.”

But she would look me in the eye in a way that tipped her tiny hand.