Regret Me Not

Everybody has a memory of the most humiliating time they have ever had, even though they often ignore those experiences. In either case, who in their right mind would choose to recall the embarrassment they endured? My most humiliating day had turned my high school experience into a terrifying experience at one time. When I think back in nostalgic memories, and feel it was yet another weird experience that could have occurred to anybody. It was also very impactful in my life and learning experience that keeps popping back to my life, giving me some chills every time I recall it.

I was indeed the shyest and most emotionally insecure guy in secondary school for several years, back when I was only a freshman. As a result, I was always a victim of abuse or being maltreated by malicious individuals. If you've ever been bullied in school, you understand how vicious and vindictive teens can be. I used to believe that the tales I learned from reading and other students were simply exaggerations. I had no idea how true those tales were before I had personal contact with them. One day, I wanted to reform myself and stick up for myself, but something went wrong, and I was the school's laughing stock for the entire year.

It was a warm and sunny summer in Canada, as predicted. All were looking forward to beach days and tanning in the heat. High schoolers had a reason to leave their sexiest and shortest stylish apparel. Wearing clothes was still a contest in secondary school. You'd imagine the girls were competing for a catwalk display. I went to a relatively expensive private high school, and as a result, the laws were very liberal to those who had the right rewards. You'd assume the playing field was even, but it was a better manifestation of the super-rich and have-nots. I got in on a grant, which placed me squarely in the crosshairs because I was among the have-nots. This was enough to justify teasing and backhanded remarks as I marched down the stairwells each day.

In a school where everybody competed for popularity, I will want to remain as inoffensive and concealable as possible. Every day, I hated attending school and seemed like a sheep being taken to the abattoir. It was not that I never thought I deserved to be at such a prestigious institution because I realized I had worked hard and cleverly to get there, and I was sure I deserved to be there, but high school students with wealthy parents can be cruel and malicious. My parents and I were not particularly close, so I lacked a confidante to vent my frustrations. My shy and distant demeanor rendered it almost difficult for me to make friends. I had a few research groups or lab mates who I might say hi to in class, so I was useless when making new friends. The only one that might be considered my buddy is my neighbor, my companion in middle school but lost the title when we started high school. I figured she couldn't continue to be seen by the school's outcast, but I made little attempt to keep our relationship going. I was aware that I was lonely and that I had no recourse to my grievances and troubles.

I got used to hiding in the dark and ignoring threats and snide remarks regarding my family's financial and social status, or lack thereof. Nevertheless, following an argument with a boy I adored, I snapped one dreadful afternoon. Since I didn't have any peers share my secondary school memories with me, I kept a small journal in which I wrote my reflections. I'll never know how this diary ended up in possession of my tormentors. My persecutors read out my entries concerning my attraction to this boy before the entire university. I have always been an imaginative guy, so I expressed my thoughts in a descriptive and vibrant explanation. Remembering that I was an adolescent, and this was just for my eyes, I was unrestrained. I was utterly embarrassed. I recall my classmates' laughter and jeers when I was stripped naked. I dashed to the restroom, tears streaming down my face, and decided to disappear before lunchtime.

To my absolute humiliation, the so-called crush that I had spoken of pursued me. My dream lover chuckled in my presence and could not wait to inform me sarcastically how he liked being the subject of my wishes. He went on to suggest he wanted girls who appeared more like seductresses and not bloated, untidy girls! This was strike after strike, and to my surprise, there was also a gathering that noticed his remarks. It was terrible, to put it mildly, then I could not hold my face high by lunch hour since this news had circulated to the entire campus. I was hurried to the nursing center to seek a sick leave-out slip. The nurse stared at me with sympathy in her face, and a massive burst of crying started because I realized even the nurses had learned about my troubles. I eventually received my slip and walked out of school, heading home to languish in my distress. I did not want interaction with others, so I ignored my sibling's and parents' knocks and talks after locking myself in my bed. I declined calls from my neighbor, the only close friend I had a friend. No one will quell me but myself. Having to dwell in self-pity for far too much, and with my dignity at stake, I resolved to alter my look the next day. I tried to convince everyone a single occurrence does not throw me down.

I searched my older sister's wardrobe, taking advantage of her more trendy clothing and cosmetics, and set about giving myself a facelift. I added the makeup to the highest possible standard and with little prior knowledge. I wear the tightest skirt I could get away with, a fishnet bra, a navy cardigan, and some shoes my mother had brought me. I couldn't move in the 3-inch heels without tripping, but I persisted. Everybody was away for the weekend when I was about to leave for classes, and I didn't want to be slightly late. As soon as I stepped into the classroom, my head turned, and my mouth dropped to the floor. They were raising their heads at me and covering their faces with their palms. I emotionally gave myself a sense of courage, smiled, and raised my head higher. I knew I had succeeded in catching someone off guard.

My bullies heard me and chuckled giddily while laughing at my appearance. This prompted the learners in the hall to break out laughing while I remained there, dumbfounded by their response. My so-called lover came up to me with a sarcastic grin on his lips. He inquired whether I was playing batman's sister in a movie and broke out laughing with his buddies. I was pretty ashamed and had no idea what was happening on. My elementary school classmate and friend saw me and were taken aback by my presence. She appeared to be recovering and followed me into the ladies restrooms. She inquired as to what had happened to me. I was taken aback by her query when she indicated the mirrors and ordered me to look at my appearance, and what I saw astounded me. My impression was more comparable to the manifestation of the scarecrow. I had used the incorrect hue of eye shadow and makeup, and I felt like a hamster as a result. The false eyes were arranged incorrectly, and the makeup appeared to be something like a joker's grin. As my tears flew, I felt disgusted at the extent of shame I had inflicted myself to yet again. I have not even been at school for 24 hours, and I was still the subject of the school gossip. Furthermore, people took pictures and posted them on social media.

Once I had finished weeping, my friend gave me damp tissues and assisted me in cleaning up the mess. She consoled me and asked why I hadn't sought her assistance, and all I could do was weep again at my folly and futile ego. I earned a nickname and was regarded as the joker's sister or goldfish for the remainder of my freshmen year. I hoped I could switch colleges and was able to attend a public school. My parents eventually listened to my repeated appeals, and I transferred to the school in my junior year. I have gone through months of counseling and mediation to discuss my experience as a survivor of harassment.

I resented recalling my junior year for a while, but I discovered it was a pretty funny and educational experience as an older teenager. I realized I was not the only one who had low self-esteem issues, and I can now talk of it shamelessly. Such an experience has taught me when to swallow my pride and seek assistance. Perhaps if I had spoken to my parents or disclosed it to a school social worker, I could have avoided the humiliation. Maybe I would have a mentor if I had approached my friend and reinforced our friendly relationship. I am no longer preoccupied with what-if scenarios. Instead, I appreciate the endearing encounter that trained me that seeking help is not a sign of failure. I discovered that searching for a cheap option does not address the underlying problem. The fissures will still appear, perhaps not instantaneously but sooner than later.