POV JULIE
I've gone through moments in my school life where I just wanted to lock myself away from everyone, disappear for a few hours, and return only when people changed their attitudes and stopped viewing others as a source of amusement, forgetting that those others, like them, had feelings, cried, got hurt, and felt pain. Yet, nothing I experienced in my childhood or early adolescence compares to what I faced in the past year. One would expect that over time people would grow, not just physically but mentally as well, but what I see is that instead of evolving, they regress more and more, and I am a victim of the immature minds inhabiting adult bodies.
In my first year as a medical student, I tried to focus on my dream and not let the cruelty of others get to me or make me want to give up what I had waited years to achieve. While getting ready in the morning and on my way to college, I would repeat to myself that I was stronger than the hurtful comments about me, that I would face each one without lowering myself to their level, without hurting others' feelings. But that lasted until I crossed the gates and found myself in the midst of a cage of lions ready to attack, and then I realized I was just a weak girl who, for my own good, needed to learn to be strong—or at least pretend to be—until I reached the comfort of my room and could shed the tears I had held back all day.
There was a boy who seemed to love making me suffer, and he was the cause of many of my escapes to the most hidden corner of the library when I felt I was at my limit. I would allow the tears, which blurred my vision, to slide down my face and make their way to the place where it hurt the most: my heart. Scott Wayans was adored and worshipped by all the girls, except for me, who had my reasons for not feeling any trace of empathy for him, but rather had more than enough reasons to hate him. However, all I felt for him was pity. Not hate, not resentment—just pity. Pity for him being such an empty person who used popularity to feel superior to others. Pity for him stepping on others without a hint of remorse. Pity for him spending hours of his day dedicated to making others' lives a true hell. I didn't hate him; my heart had no room for such feelings, but I felt he, like all others who were like him, needed something to happen to make him reconsider his view of the world.
So every night, after crying until my tears ran dry, I didn't ask God to make me stop being a victim of hurtful comments and offensive nicknames, but I prayed that they would cease to be empty people. After all, empty people tend to become bitter and end their lives alone, without friends and without anyone to turn to in tough times, and I didn't wish for any of them to feel the pain of going through a problem alone, without someone to confide in and receive a word of comfort. The pain of pretending to be okay on the outside and then breaking down in tears behind closed doors, feeling your insides shatter with every muffled sob into the pillow.