Bullying has affected so many people throughout so many generations in so many ways. Bullies throw their words and their fists while people just stand and watch as the life and hope are beaten out of a human being.

I myself have been bullied countless times by countless people. It began with my father when I was four. He threatened me if I dared speak Spanish in his presence, for he did not like when I spoke in the language that is native to my mother. No one knew of the threats until I was about thirteen or fourteen, but by then not much could be done. I had already lost most of the language, and to this day am fighting to gain it back, as well as the confidence to speak it.

Over the years I was bullied by my uncle as well. He would sit on me and fart on me, ignoring me when I told him to stop. He ridiculed the things I liked. He asked me to do idiotic favors for his amusement such as "where this sweaty shirt for five bucks".

In kindergarten, a classmate used to tease me on how ugly I was. She told me I had ugly hair, an ugly nose, etcetera. She took a dodgeball and threw it at my building block creations. A lot of the kids, who looked up to her, ignored me and left me to be on my own. At that time it didn't matter too much to me; I didn't have much of a care for friends because my dog was my pride and closest friend.

In fourth grade the true bullying began.

"Ugly"

"Worthless"

"Useless"

"Nerd"

"Idiot"

Called by names of monsters and fairy tale creatures that the world despised.

"Witch"

"Ogre"

"Bloody Mary"

Held against a fence by my neck for saying "No I don't have a pencil."

Pointed at, laughed at, and afraid of the world around me.

I was made fun of for reading dialogue aloud in class with different tones, so I tried to read aloud as monotone as I could.

I was made fun of for my crooked teeth, so I tried to hide my smile.

I was made fun of for being knowledgeable, so I stopped answering questions.

I was made fun of for being poor, for being Catholic, for being Hispanic.

I felt like the world went against me simply because of who I was.

In sixth grade rumors swirled about with my name in the mix.

"She has a crush on ----," when in fact it wasn't so.

More teasing and name calling came along with the rumors that slowly drowned me. I anxiously awaited my sixth grade culmination hoping it would all be over, but I was terribly wrong.

Seventh grade. A new school. New kids, new area. I was afraid of how to prevent myself, afraid of talking to the wrong people or saying the wrong thing. It didn't take long for the bullies to claim their places in the hierarchy.

I would try to use a restroom and girls gathered in small groups would kick my door until it gave in.

"Witch"

My P.E clothes and my backpack were stolen and hidden multiple times while I tried to change in the restroom (the school didn't have actual changing rooms or lockers).

"Nerd"

Blown up condoms were thrown at me during P.E. So were all kinds of sports balls.

"Weak"

On one particular bus ride home a bully strangled me with a P.E. shirt and laughed as all her friends laughed along.

"Stupid"

I was laughed at when I shared the story of how I lost my little brother when he was born.

"Fugly"

It was when I finally came home crying that my mom realized something was wrong.

Before, in grade school, when I said I was bullied, no one did anything. Teachers only brought us into offices together and forced transparent apologies that only meant more pain for me later. I was afraid to tell anyone what bullies had done to me. Instead I sat through every word as it cracked my soul. I waited until I cracked and the pieces of me fell apart. I waited until I cut myself deeper trying to pick up the shattered pieces of myself.

Eight grade. I had friends. I didn't have many but I had friends and they were good people. A bully threw my friend's binder on the floor over and over. I told him to stop. He threw my binder. It was then when I was fed up. I was done. All the stress and all the anger, the sadness and hatred, flew through my mind and into my hands. I grabbed a pen and then his hand. I slammed his hand on my table and held it down hard. I raised the pen high and brought it down with swift, painful grace. He cried out as he watched the pen break skin and blood slowly creep out from the back of his hand.

"You b****!!! F***!!! You're f***ing crazy!!!"

I wasn't crazy. I was angry. I was broken. I was provoked.

Then it slowly faded.

In that school, after years of torment, after years of pain, only violence could bring the bullying to an end. It came down to spreading little rumors that were forgotten or revealing embarrassing information that soon after no one cared about. This happened for me, but it is not the true answer. In my eyes, bullying has no end. It carries on throughout our lives and follows us like zombies follow the scent of brains. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words leave gashes in our hearts and break our souls as if they are simply glass. Punches and kicks leave cuts and bruises but words repeated over the years make those cuts and bruises linger.

Though bullying is painful, though it is a monster that destroys people everywhere, is a monster that can be fought, a battle that can be won, and you are not the only soldier. Many soldiers fight in this war of Bully and Victim, and in this war we as victims can fight by sharing the pieces of us that have been broken by Them and acknowledge how even through the pain we all stand strong together.

This is my story, and it is only one of the many.