The Saints Of Mibba
That Wasn't Me.
I don't really know what it is about me that makes me a target.
Honestly, I don't. Maybe it's that I was always a quiet kid and never stood up for myself or my opinions. Maybe it's my dress sense, because I never wear anything even remotely decorated—just solid colored T-Shirts and polos, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. Perhaps it’s just that I’m not interesting enough.
I guess I’ll never know why they made that website.
Around November 2006, right after I’d turned twelve, life was going very well for me. I’d pulled myself out of my first serious bout of depression back in April and May, and gotten myself a whole new set of friends. I was a lot happier as a result. Sixth grade academically was very easy for me.
There was a group of boys that were in a few of my classes—English and Social Studies, although a few of them were in Gym and Math. They were your typical rowdy teenage hooligans who shoved each other around, copied off others to pass the class, and threw teachers the finger when their backs were turned. The social upper class girls adored them, and the guys wanted to be them. Being a shy nerd along with all the kids I hung out with, we were already afraid of them.
They made my life a living hell.
I started hearing them talk about me. At first I didn’t understand what they meant. It just seemed like one of the weird things they did to annoy people.
“Hey, Rachel, I read your Xanga.”
I didn’t get it at all. I didn’t have an Xanga. I wasn’t into community blogging then. So I’d always snap back halfheartedly, “I don’t have an Xanga,” or just “Shut up.” I figured they were lying.
I didn’t know it was real.
Every day it got worse. I began to dread English and Social Studies, the two periods I rarely went through without being insulted. There were rumors about me being a slut, about me asking random guys out—even ridiculous ones, like that I was a guy myself. Especially when it got to the point where I couldn’t walk past any ‘populars’ without a jeer. I steadily became more and more depressed and isolated. My parents didn’t know and my friends couldn’t do anything.
I never spoke outright to my tormentors about it. Understand this about me; I am not a brave person. Social situations of any kind, even some with my best friends, are extremely intimidating. So I kept my head down and turned the other cheek.
Eventually one of them forced the address from the four around April. She gave it to me and as soon as I got home, I typed it into the computer and hit enter.
What I saw nearly killed me.
Countless entries, posted nearly every day, by someone claiming to be me. And everything they’d said about the blog was right: It made me out as this complete whore and a wannabe popular.
The comments were the worst. At least ten different people had come on there and bashed me, screaming about how much they hated me. It was so easy to get lost in it, to believe them, that I was worth nothing. I very nearly wanted to die. Every few sentences I read I literally smashed my fist down on the desk, lay my head down and dry-sobbed.
“Rachel is a fucking pig.”
“It makes me want to slap that bitch.”
“Her nails look like shit.”
“She seriously wears a wig.”
“Go fuck a donkey.”
“I can’t stand to even look at you.”
I created my own account, which started a flame war between us that lasted until July and took a lot of bravery on my part. To this day I know it was one of the four, but I’m not sure exactly which one.
If there was any benefit from the experience, I learned to stand up for myself. It’s okay not to be okay and not to be perfect; whatever crap people give you doesn’t matter. I still have things thrown at me and gum in my locker, but now it doesn’t bother me anymore. I kept on living. Months later, when I heard My Chemical Romance for the first time, their lyrics summed it up perfectly:
“I’m coming back from the dead
And I’ll take you home with me
I’m taking back the life you stole.”
Honestly, I don't. Maybe it's that I was always a quiet kid and never stood up for myself or my opinions. Maybe it's my dress sense, because I never wear anything even remotely decorated—just solid colored T-Shirts and polos, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. Perhaps it’s just that I’m not interesting enough.
I guess I’ll never know why they made that website.
Around November 2006, right after I’d turned twelve, life was going very well for me. I’d pulled myself out of my first serious bout of depression back in April and May, and gotten myself a whole new set of friends. I was a lot happier as a result. Sixth grade academically was very easy for me.
There was a group of boys that were in a few of my classes—English and Social Studies, although a few of them were in Gym and Math. They were your typical rowdy teenage hooligans who shoved each other around, copied off others to pass the class, and threw teachers the finger when their backs were turned. The social upper class girls adored them, and the guys wanted to be them. Being a shy nerd along with all the kids I hung out with, we were already afraid of them.
They made my life a living hell.
I started hearing them talk about me. At first I didn’t understand what they meant. It just seemed like one of the weird things they did to annoy people.
“Hey, Rachel, I read your Xanga.”
I didn’t get it at all. I didn’t have an Xanga. I wasn’t into community blogging then. So I’d always snap back halfheartedly, “I don’t have an Xanga,” or just “Shut up.” I figured they were lying.
I didn’t know it was real.
Every day it got worse. I began to dread English and Social Studies, the two periods I rarely went through without being insulted. There were rumors about me being a slut, about me asking random guys out—even ridiculous ones, like that I was a guy myself. Especially when it got to the point where I couldn’t walk past any ‘populars’ without a jeer. I steadily became more and more depressed and isolated. My parents didn’t know and my friends couldn’t do anything.
I never spoke outright to my tormentors about it. Understand this about me; I am not a brave person. Social situations of any kind, even some with my best friends, are extremely intimidating. So I kept my head down and turned the other cheek.
Eventually one of them forced the address from the four around April. She gave it to me and as soon as I got home, I typed it into the computer and hit enter.
What I saw nearly killed me.
Countless entries, posted nearly every day, by someone claiming to be me. And everything they’d said about the blog was right: It made me out as this complete whore and a wannabe popular.
The comments were the worst. At least ten different people had come on there and bashed me, screaming about how much they hated me. It was so easy to get lost in it, to believe them, that I was worth nothing. I very nearly wanted to die. Every few sentences I read I literally smashed my fist down on the desk, lay my head down and dry-sobbed.
“Rachel is a fucking pig.”
“It makes me want to slap that bitch.”
“Her nails look like shit.”
“She seriously wears a wig.”
“Go fuck a donkey.”
“I can’t stand to even look at you.”
I created my own account, which started a flame war between us that lasted until July and took a lot of bravery on my part. To this day I know it was one of the four, but I’m not sure exactly which one.
If there was any benefit from the experience, I learned to stand up for myself. It’s okay not to be okay and not to be perfect; whatever crap people give you doesn’t matter. I still have things thrown at me and gum in my locker, but now it doesn’t bother me anymore. I kept on living. Months later, when I heard My Chemical Romance for the first time, their lyrics summed it up perfectly:
“I’m coming back from the dead
And I’ll take you home with me
I’m taking back the life you stole.”
♠ ♠ ♠
by Icy Blues.