Becoming the Abuser
My experience with childhood psychological manipulation
Are you still friends with me? I wrote on a scrap of paper. Below, I wrote the words Yes and No. I folded the note and wrote Sarah’s name on the outside.
When our third-grade teacher turned toward the chalkboard, I nudged the boy next to me, reaching out with the note and motioning toward the girl with chestnut-colored hair seated in the front row. I watched the note progress up the aisle, my heart thumping in my throat, fearing both the consequences should I be caught passing notes and the possibility that the girl who I considered to be my best friend might circle No.
The teacher turned toward the class. I snapped back to my task, trying to will my eyes away from Sarah and toward the work on my desk.
A moment later, the scrap of paper dropped down in front of me.
Maybe, she had written in.
I felt sick. This was even worse than No, leaving me on the hook to wonder what I would have to do to make her like me again.
Sarah was capricious in a way that I had never been able to predict or comprehend. One day, we would be catching grasshoppers and braiding each other’s hair at recess; the next, she wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence. We had sleepovers together from…
