How I Survived 13 Years of Bullying and Abuse | Survival Strategy by Natsu
The Beginning of the Nightmare: Kindergarten
Trauma does not always have a grand opening. For me, it started with something as mundane as motion sickness. I was in kindergarten, sitting on a school bus during a field trip, when the nausea overcame me. I threw up. In the cruel, unfiltered world of children, that single moment defined me. From that day on, I was labeled "dirty" and "smelly."
Children are far more calculating than adults give them credit for. They knew exactly when the teachers weren't looking. The pinching, the whispers, and the isolation were surgical. By the time I graduated from kindergarten, I had already learned that the world was a hostile place where being "weak" was a social death sentence.
Escalation in Elementary School
I entered elementary school hoping for a fresh start, but my quiet demeanor made me an easy target once again. The bullying evolved from verbal insults to physical and psychological torment. My pencils were used to stab me; my notebooks were ripped to shreds. I would find my indoor shoes missing, hidden away somewhere I couldn't find them.
The most agonizing part, however, was the betrayal by authority figures. When I finally summoned the courage to tell a teacher, their response was a cold blade to the heart: "It's your fault that you're being bullied." Even at home, there was no sanctuary. When I turned to my mother, her response was delusional and "off-target." She told me, "They only bully you because you’re so cute." It was a dismissal of my pain that left me feeling utterly invisible.
At that time, there was only one classmate who occasionally reached out to help me. We weren’t exactly friends—we didn't spend our days together—but they were the kind of person who would quietly step in whenever they witnessed the severity of the bullying I endured.
One day, an incident occurred while I was walking home with this classmate. I accidentally fell into a deep, muddy drainage ditch, leaving my clothes soaked and filthy. Since their house was nearby, their parents kindly lent me a change of clothes so I could get home. However, when my mother returned and I explained what had happened, her reaction defied all logic. Instead of gratitude, she flew into a towering rage. I was still small, so the details are blurred, but I remember her hurling a barrage of venomous complaints at the classmate’s parents, either in person or over the phone.
Following that outburst, the one person who had been my ally vanished from my life. I had lost the only shield I had left. The sense of isolation and defeat that washed over me in that moment is a feeling I can still recall vividly today. It wasn't just loneliness; it was the crushing realization that even kindness would be punished in my world.
I grew to hate the world. To this day, the foundation of my trust in others remains fractured.
The Breaking Point: Junior High School
When it was time for junior high, we moved to a different town. I was determined. I told myself, "This time, I will fit in. This time, I will do it right." But the atmosphere began to shift again. That familiar, suffocating "air" of being the outcast started to swirl around me.
I asked myself, "Is the problem me?" I searched for an answer in the dark, but none came. However, my survival instincts—honed by years of misery—kicked in. I knew that if I didn't do something drastic, the cycle would escalate into something life-threatening. I felt it in my bones.
The Transformation at 14
One day, I decided to die to my old self. I showed up to school dressed as the quintessential "delinquent" (yankee) of that era in Japan. I changed my hair, my clothes, my stance. I became a different person overnight.
The result was anticlimactic: the bullying stopped instantly.
At 14, I had a cynical realization: human beings are shallow creatures who judge almost entirely by outward appearance. But I couldn't stop at just the look. To maintain the shield, I dove into the abyss. Alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, theft—I did it all.
Did I feel guilty? Yes. I knew what I was doing was "wrong" by society's standards. But compared to the 13 years of relentless bullying and the domestic abuse I suffered at the hands of my mother since birth, this guilt was nothing. For the first time, I felt like I was holding the reins of my own life. I felt like I had finally been "born." The "bad" person I had become was the only version of me that was allowed to survive.
A Message to the Silent Sufferers
In every country, there are stories of those who take their own lives or turn to violence because of bullying. To those currently in that darkness: before you give up, before you let the world break you, listen to those who have walked through the fire.
But a word of caution—be careful who you trust. Even among those with shared trauma, there are individuals looking for "revenge on strangers" to fill their own void.
Why $3.80 Matters
For a decade, my Google AdSense account remained frozen at exactly $3.80. To a casual observer, this figure is a badge of failure—a dormant project that never took flight. But for me, that $3.80 was the weight of my own silence. It represented the years when the trauma of my past, the echoes of the bullying, and the sheer exhaustion of surviving in Los Angeles finally paralyzed me. I wasn’t just "not blogging"; I was struggling to find a reason to speak in a world that had so often told me to vanish.
Why return now? Why fight to turn that $3.80 into a living? Because I realized that as long as I remain silent, the "bullies" of my past—the teachers who blamed me, the classmates who isolated me, and the toxic family dynamics that stifled me—continue to win. By reclaiming my voice through this platform, I am performing my final act of liberation.
Decades of living in Los Angeles have taught me that there is no inherent "goodness" that will simply fall into your lap. The world is often indifferent. However, the moment you take the initiative to carve out your own path—when you decide to save yourself—is the moment the universe finally begins to offer its hand.
Every cent earned moving forward is a testament to the fact that I am no longer that child in the muddy ditch, nor the 14-year-old hiding behind a delinquent's mask. I am a survivor with 25 years of LA grit, and I have a perspective that needs to be heard. If my story can prevent even one person from feeling the crushing isolation I felt when my only ally was driven away by my mother’s rage, then every word written here has served its purpose. My journey from $3.80 to independence is not just a financial goal; it is proof that your life belongs to you. Not your bullies, not your parents. Just you.
About me : https://www.3to100rebuild.com/p/about-me.html
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