Every year Halloween and Guy Falks are a nightmare. Because I have a startle reflex, due to CP, and every bang reminds me of being bullied at school. When you tell people you went to an independent school most imagine luxury. I recall being deeply afraid. Scared of failure, rejection and not fitting in. But for a year I was terrified of being made to jump! That’s right, every day at the same hour. I knew it was coming.
Bullying can take many forms, and during my time in college, it morphed into a more insidious, yet equally damaging, type of harassment. While the physical aggression I had experienced in the past was absent, a different kind of cruelty emerged—subtle, malicious, and deeply unsettling. To this day, I find myself haunted by flashbacks and anxiety attacks that stem from those experiences.
One of the most distressing tactics employed by my roommate involved repeatedly running into the closed door of our dorm. The door would crash open with a force that startled me, triggering an involuntary spasm and a reflexive shout of fear. I’ve since learned that this reaction is linked to my condition, which exacerbated my already heightened sense of dread. The terror I felt intensified each evening as I anticipated the door slamming at the same time. This predictability only heightened my anxiety, making the experience of bracing myself for the inevitable all the more torturous.
The verbal abuse I faced added another layer to this torment. Despite my attempts to ignore the taunts, being called names like "spaz" day after day shattered my sense of self. The old adage "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me" fails to capture the profound pain inflicted by relentless name-calling. In the unspoken hierarchy of our school, I was considered 'poor'—one of the few students wearing the standard-issue uniforms, often dismissed as 'bottom feeders.' This stigma compounded the emotional damage inflicted by my peers.
Through my work with police services over the years, I have come to understand the nature of the abuse I endured. What I experienced qualifies as a hate crime, specifically disability hate. The severity of this abuse, its connection to my condition, and the lasting impact it has had on my life categorize it as a violent attack. This type of bullying is not merely about my identity or physical appearance; it is rooted in the perpetrator's desire to derive pleasure from my suffering.
As someone with cerebral palsy, I experience a startle reflex that causes involuntary convulsions in response to unexpected stimuli. This means that when startled by a loud noise, my body reacts without my conscious control. For instance, if I’m deeply engrossed in writing or reading and suddenly hear a noise, the resulting jerks can be quite pronounced. Just last week, I shouted when a workman unexpectedly entered our bedroom. Even though I had heard him approaching, the anticipation only heightened my shock. My husband has learned to announce his presence with loud coughs to mitigate the chances of startling me, a practice that highlights the continuous impact of my experiences.
Over time, the anxiety I felt became as torturous as the door slamming. The cruel laughter of my peers still echoes in my mind, and the physical response to that laughter—dread, humiliation, and shame—lingers long after the bullying ceased. Writing about these memories now brings an unsettling rush of emotions; my heart races, and my palms grow sweaty as I recall the invisible scars left behind.
It’s essential to shed light on the hidden nature of bullying, especially the subtle forms that can leave lasting emotional damage. By sharing my experience, I hope to foster a greater understanding of the complexities of bullying and its profound effects on mental health and well-being. No one should have to endure the pain of ridicule and harassment, and it's vital for all of us to work toward creating a more inclusive and compassionate environment for everyone.
