The Pain of Junior High: ‘I Felt Like I Deserved to Get Bagged On.’

I remember junior high as being the hardest time of my life. Some of it was cool, like being the oldest in the school in eighth grade and having all of my friends in one little school. But looking back on that period of my life, I mostly remember it as painful, sad and very hard.

One day in sixth grade, I went to school wearing bright red sweats. Some eighth-grader came up to me and said, “Those are the ugliest sweats I’ve ever seen. How could you ever wear them?” It felt like someone had shot me in the heart. I could literally feel it crumbling inside my chest. I mean, this guy was obviously right. He had to be, he was in eighth grade.

After the “sweats incident” I didn’t want to go to school. I didn’t want to go to sleep because in only a few hours, I would have to wake up and live a life that I didn’t want to live.

I was chubby in junior high. I thought I was the fattest person in the world. I tried to hide my “fatness” by grabbing my shirt to stretch it. I also wore big baggy shirts so no one could see my stomach. Looking back, I can’t help but cringe, I mean I really wasn’t that fat.

It seemed like people were always backstabbing each other. Someone could be your friend one second and a traitor the next. I wanted to be part of the crowd and I felt that if I didn’t join in, the guys would call me a dork and start making fun of me again.

Once, in English class, I sat next to a girl who had just moved to this country. She had unshaved legs, a small mustache and wore mismatched, cheap clothes. This girl got teased a little bit here and there but one day we had a substitute teacher and pretty soon a “bagfest” erupted. Half of my classmates started making fun of her. They shouted things like “take a shower,” “shave your back” and “go back to your country.” I felt bad for the girl and I looked around to see a room full of laughter and mean faces.

After shouting insults to the girl got boring, a few people started tearing paper out of their notebooks, making spitballs and throwing them at her. My friend next to me whispered to me and asked me what was wrong. Why wasn’t I joining in making fun of her?

So I started to laugh at the jokes and contributed some of my own. It felt good. I felt like I was better then her. But I started to feel bad about the whole incident later, which confused me. I knew deep down that I should have defended her, but I didn’t have the guts.

In eighth grade, life just seemed to drag on. Why couldn’t I seem to fit in with the “popular” crowd? What was wrong with me, anyway? I thought, why couldn’t I make everyone happy? Why weren’t my grades as good as those of other people? Why wasn’t I as good-looking or athletic as other-people? I had no answers. I spent a lot of time alone listening to music, reflecting on life.

With all of the things bothering me inside, I couldn’t really stand up for myself. I felt like I deserved to get bagged on, since I was worthless anyway.

Every day my pain inside and depression grew, until one day I exploded. I was playing basketball after school in eighth grade with a couple of classmates like I always did. There was this guy on the other team who was about the same size as me. He had pushed me around before. I don’t remember exactly how our fight had started, but after he got a rebound, I fouled him and he got mad. He charged up to me and gave me a strong push. Before I knew it, I ran up to the guy and knocked him down to the hard concrete floor. I started punching him in the face as hard as I could. Every sad thought, every hurtful emotion I ever felt, and for every time when I had a problem but had no one to tell them to, I took it all out on him. The weird thing is that I can’t even of remember punching him. For a few seconds I was an animal or another person.

After several punches I felt someone’s hands pulling me off of him. I stood up with blood dripping down my knees from scraping them against the floor and a bloody lip. I couldn’t believe what I had done. I looked around at the small crowd that had formed. All of them began whispering to each other in disbelief. They had always thought of me as the nice, shy kid who didn’t say much.

As I walked away with tears dripping down my face, the man who had pulled me off came up to me. He was a counselor who worked at the school. I was afraid that he might send me to the office and get me in trouble. Instead, he sat me down to talk.

The counselor asked me questions like what made me get into the fight and what was going on in my life for me to do such a thing. He didn’t try to criticize or judge me, he simply listened. I started to feel better just getting some of that weight off my shoulders. That night the counselor called me at home. I thanked him for helping me out, when he unexpectedly suggested that I see a therapist. He said that a therapist could meet with me once a week and that I could get all of my feelings out.

A therapist, I thought. Therapy was something for people who were unstable. I tried to tell myself that I was fine, that I didn’t need help. I tried everything to forget about my problems; lifting weights, self-help books and denial. I couldn’t tell my friends about my problems. What would they think of me? I couldn’t tell my parents because I didn’t feel like they would understand.

Three years later I finally got the courage to approach my mother and tell her that I wanted to see a therapist. I had had enough. My girlfriend at the time helped me take the step. I was sick of walking around every day with so much weight on my shoulders.

I worried how my parents would react. I was afraid that they would ask “why can’t you talk to me?” Would they try to call a mental hospital to take me away? Would they freak out?

To my surprise, my parents were all for the idea. In fact they strongly encouraged it. They had realized that I was having problems. My parents wanted the best for me but didn’t know how to help.

On the first day of therapy I was scared. I wasn’t sure if I could trust a total stranger with my problems. After I realized that the therapist wasn’t a demon with horns on his head, I began feeling more comfortable. After the first session I walked home feeling so much better. It felt like I had made my first steps toward freeing myself from prison.

Before I knew it, I started to feel a lot better about myself. I could deal with things much better. This past year, someone came up to me at school and told me my shirt looked “dirty,” just like the kid who insulted my sweats in sixth grade. But this time I was prepared for the insult. I realized that the person making the comment had a lot of his own problems and really felt insecure about himself. He was just trying to drag me down with him.

Through therapy I learned that people are always going to try to put you down; family members, friends, strangers, and teachers. There are people who want to see you fail.

I used to be afraid that people would find out that I go to a therapist. If people found out, they would laugh at me. I don’t mind if people know now, because being in therapy just shows that I am getting help for my problems and I can now deal with them better. I realize that anyone who criticizes me for going to therapy is jealous because I want to improve my life.

I have a new outlook on life. Things became fun for the first time ever. I remember a classmate made a rude comment because I failed a Spanish test. I decided not to let it bother me because I knew that there were other subjects that I was good at. I started focusing on what was really important to me. I used to want to go to the most prestigious university and become a doctor. Now I am just concerned about finding a school I like and am comfortable at.

I used to think that something was wrong with me. But I’ve learned that every teen-ager has problems. I also got over the pain of junior high. I think the hardest part about it was wanting it to be over but knowing that you can’t fast forward your life.

To seek help:

Teen Line, (310) 855-HOPE, teen counselors available 6pm. to 10 p.m.

Youth Crisis Hotline, 800 TLC-TEEN

Youth Crisis Line, 800 843-5200 (Spanish-speaking counselors available)