Bullied But Not Buried
I was bullied as a child. I grew up in the tiny town of Carthage, Illinois, and went to a small school where everyone knew your business. I was the fat, shy kid with a mole on my face, so it was pretty much a given I’d be bullied. I had “chocolate” (or, as I became older, “shit”) on my face, I was fat as a boat.
Other than a few friends, I pretty much kept to myself and tried hard not to be noticed. The fact that I was also being bullied at home, by an alcoholic, abusive, policeman father, didn’t help matters. (Neither did my narcissistic mother, but that’s a story for another day.)