Creativity and The Bullies In Our Minds
At three years old, I stood on a chair in a bustling local restaurant and belted out "Memories" from Cats. I was unashamed, joyful, and utterly free. It was a moment of pure, uninhibited expression—a toddler's version of a standing ovation from life itself.
Fast forward five years in Stowe, Vermont. I was eight, seated in my third-grade classroom when I felt a sharp sting on my chair—a tack placed by snickering boys. That year marked the beginning of overt bullying that would shape much of my school life. A boy named Phillip ridiculed another classmate for his weight, dubbing him "Pork Chop,” and demanding others call him that too. By age 11, my distinct Eastern European-Armenian heritage contrasted sharply with my mostly tall, blond, Finnish-descended classmates. Jack, a boy I considered somewhat of a friend, branded me "beaver hair," likening my frizzy curls to pubic hair. The name spread rapidly, embedding a sense of shame and exclusion.
A particularly painful memory involved Mason, a classmate who asked to borrow my Trapper Keeper. I was naively pleased, thinking this meant I was being accepted. He returned it defaced with drawings of beavers. Juli, a staunch friend and protector (now a DC lawyer), marched me to the principal's office to demand justice. Despite her fierce advocacy, the response was tepid. Mason's half-hearted apology did little to mend the damage.
That year, another boy, Ben, coldly declared I was the ugliest girl in our grade. My mom had always advised against tattling, suggesting it would only worsen things. “Nobody likes a narc.” So, choking back tears, I retorted weakly, "That's your opinion," to which he cruelly replied, "That's everyone's opinion." This interaction epitomized the cruelty I felt, which persisted.
Amid these challenges, I found solace in music. At 11, I began voice lessons and dreamed of recording an album. When I shared this with Jack, he sneered, "You'll never do that," crushing my spirits further.
However, not all was bleak. By 13, my friends and I—dubbed "the family"—shared weekly potluck lunches, creating a pocket of joy and acceptance amidst the school's harsh social climate. We laughed, shared secrets, and supported each other fiercely. We were ridiculed for our potlucks, but that somehow didn’t matter to us.
By the end of eighth grade most of my friends had moved away, and I felt largely alone, navigating high school's treacherous social landscape by making myself mostly invisible. I watched from the sidelines as other “outcasts” were ridiculed, isolated, and made to feel worthless by this same group of mean kids. The school's prevailing attitude was merciless: stand out, and you'll be cut down.
These years left deep scars, instilling a pervasive fear of standing out. Even as an adult, when I perform—my greatest joy—I battle the ghosts of those kids, whose silent judgments once dictated my worth. As I matured, the echoes of those mean boys continued to haunt me. Their judgments shadowed my steps into adulthood, especially when I performed, turning my most cherished moments into bouts of anxiety. This internalized audience—a defense mechanism—convinced me that blending in was safer than standing out.
Recognizing and confronting this pattern is daunting. It requires peeling back layers of pain and confronting the fear of rejection deeply embedded in our psyche. This blog post represents a big step toward breaking free from these chains. By openly discussing these experiences and calling out the bullies by name, I reclaim my narrative.
I do still feel like they would mock me if they read this. But that’s OK.
This journey is about honesty, facing past fears, and seeking communal support for a life of bold, unashamed expression. It's a call to all who've felt stifled by their internal critics to join in shedding the weight of judgment.
To those who've struggled similarly, know this: your uniqueness is your power. I’ve seen that over and over again. Let's pledge to create a community that uplifts and validates, not one that tears down. And when we face judgment, as we inevitably will, let's channel our inner Juli’s—fierce, uncompromising, supportive.
I’m reaching back to the unselfconscious little girl who once stood on a chair, singing her heart out, untouched by fear or shame. It’s almost safe to come back out now.
