Feed The Good Wolf

Tag: bullying

  • Biological vs Ideal Mom

    Family are the people you care about, not who contributed to your DNA. If someone is blessed enough to have family be who contributed to that person’s DNA, that is a privilege – one that I did not experience.

    My biological mother threatened to throw the love of my sister’s life off of a rooftop. She wanted to have kids with this man, who dared to speak his mind to my mother. By standing up for my sister’s feelings, telling my biological mom that my sister gets to feel however she wants on her graduation day from her dream school. Given they weren’t going to be seeing each other every day, my sister was sad. He had become such a part of my sister’s life that she was understandably upset. He stood up for my sister, and my mom threatened him with physical violence in return. In reality, my sister’s feelings are valid. She gets to feel how she wants to feel. My biological parents saw the worst in everyone. My mom informed me that she believed he was stealing her away from the. Years later, my mom started pedaling the same story – that my partner is stealing me away from my biological family. My sister spot the same lies that had been used on her and didn’t believe what she was hearing. My ideal mom would have respected my sister’s feelings and comforted her – not threatened her. My ideal mom would have comforted her and worked through her feelings in a healthy manner – not destroy a relationship. In private, she still harbors feelings for him and still speaks of the pain caused by my biological mother nearly two decades later.

    I knew I was different, starting at age 3 – my second memory in life. I was held back from participating in a bouquet throwing at a wedding. I wanted to go with the other women and little girls – a group I instinctually felt I belonged to. I was denied. At the time, I knew better – I just couldn’t vocalize my feelings, being three years old at the time. Years later, I found myself alone on the internet for the first time. I added the words “transexual” and “transgender” to my lexicon after some research into my feelings. In school, I would go on to be teased that I was “gay.” I was in denial about being transgender, although my true feelings would assert themselves when I was alone. A secretly borrowed high heel shoes, a dress, a one piece swimsuit, and makeup. I expressed an interest in growing my hair out long to my biological mother. I was informed that should I try , my mom would shave my head in my sleep. She threatened me to exert her will and mold me into her exceptions. She refused to meet the person who I really was. I didn’t dare stand up to her in fear of her retaliation. My ideal mom would have communicated with her child, asked why they wanted to grow their hair out, and heard them out, respecting their desires. My ideal mom would have been there for me, heard me out, respected me, and met me on my own terms. Instead, I was threatened.

    By fifth grade, I had thoughts of killing myself. I remember sitting on a curb at recess, crying, and was eventually taken to the school counselor’s office. I was terrified that my mom would find out and felt like I couldn’t open up to him as a result. Having swallowed those feelings of suicide and pressing on, I had later asked my biological mom to see a therapist. I was straight up told no – that mental health was a scam meant to push pills and to line the pockets of doctors from pharmaceutical reps. My ideal mom wouldn’t have thought the concept of mental health was a scam. If that was the case, I would have felt comfortable opening up to the school counselor – maybe I would have gotten some help as a kid. I would have seen a therapist and worked through my feelings a kid instead of letting them fester for decades. My ideal mom would have asked why I wanted to see a therapist in the first place and worked with me with the help of a therapist to confront my feelings. She would have been there for me instead of shutting my feelings down.

    In high school, I stumbled across a club called the “Gay Straight Alliance”, the GSA – a LGBT community at my high school. I joined this LGBT club and ended up in a club photo in the high school yearbook photo for the GSA. When my mom looked at the yearbook glossary, looking at all of the instances where I appeared. When she saw the GSA photo, she exploded, yelling at me, and told me it would hurt my chances of getting into college. My ideal mom would have emotionally connected with me, inquired further, and embraced me. My ideal mom would have emotionally connected with me, showing compassion instead of anger. She would have embraced who I really was – a member of the LGBT community.

    My love of food has gone back very far. I remember a coloring assignment I had in grade school. The assignment was to draw what you wanted to be when you grew up. I drew myself in a kitchen, holding up a knife. I would do my best to look for cooking shows on the limited number of channels we could pull in from public broadcasting. Whenever I was sick at home watching TV, I would binge watch them. Despite my lifelong culinary passions, the idea of earring a degree in the culinary world wasn’t acceptable to them – they told me I had to choose a major containing with the word “Engineering.” My ideal mom would have embraced her passions, and told her that it’s her life to go live – follow what you’re passionate about. I have continued studying this passion of mine for decades and plan on going to culinary school regardless. I feel like my ideal mom would have embraced my heartfelt passions in life instead of setting me back decades of progress by pushing me into a passionless career that I am regularly unenthralled by.

    The first time I had seen a therapist I was in college, terrified of my biological parents finding out. My emotional walls were still reinforced, but the limited amount of information I had disclosed managed to concern her. Our very first sesion, she was deeply concerned for my wellbeing and even walked me over to a university-ran campus physician who prescribed me antidepressants. I continued therapy with her, and discussed started the process of opening up about my feelings. By the time graduation day came around, my biological parents had picked up on the body language of my therapist. My biological parents introduced themselves to her and learned that I was seeing her. Already highly alarmed, they threatened her when she disclosed that she had almost hospitalized me for what I had told her. My biological parents then threatened her and spouted fear surrounding what would have happened to me should I actually be hospitalized. My ideal mom wouldn’t have threatened her when she learned I was seeing a therapist. She would have helped me work through my feelings and actually been there for me instead of issuing a threat. She would have been emotionally supportive instead of making my graduation day worse than it already was – just like she did with my sister.

    After a suicidal gesture, I self-admitted to a hospital for treatment. I had hit rock bottom in my life and I knew I needed help. At the time, my parents were regularly calling me and I wasn’t able to have my phone while in treatment (along with having clothing containing zippers and other items). I had called them through a hospital phone and let them know that I was alright, completing hiding the fact that I had made a suicidal gesture or even letting them know where I was. Looking back, it seems ridiculous that I had to hide all of this from them, but that’s the kind of relationship I had with my biological parents. Only a single person knew where I was — the friend who had driven me there. My ideal mother would have open to hearing about what had happened, been supportive of me, emotionally supportive, cared for me and shown some compassion. Instead of I feared about her finding out that I was in crisis.

    When I finally came out to my parents on “National Coming Out Day,” it was not well received. I later found out they prayed for me to no longer be transgender. Coming out to your parents is a huge event in the LGBT+ community. Mine was filled with fear. My ideal mom would have welcomed me with open arms, embraced her daughter, and made sure she felt welcome to express herself. Instead I was made to feel like a pariah.

    In therapy, we keep discussing what my ideal parents would do in various scenarios. How they would have been supportive, how they would have been there for me, how they would have spent time with me, learned about who I was as a person, and inspired me. Instead, they’re a large part of why my childhood was traumatic.

    Children don’t get traumatized because they get hurt; they get traumatized because they’re alone with the hurt.

    – Dr. Gabor Gabor Maté

    #FeedTheGoodWolf

  • Sense of Danger

    Over time, most living things on this planet have developed some ability to sense danger. In the most primal sense of living, this served as a survival mechanism – a lone zebra’s sense of danger in the Serengeti may keep it alive with a hungry lion on the prowl. In that sense, a signal of danger stemming from a sympathetic nervous system might keep something alive. In a primal sense, such as in life-or-death scenarios, this is a healthy mechanism. When a sympathetic nervous system becomes over-sensitized though, this becomes a problem.

    In humans, when a danger is perceived, a “fight, flight, freeze, or fawn” mechanism is activated. When this mechanism is over-sensitized through trauma, less than ideal outcomes are the result. In my case, this over-sensitization has resulted in an apprehensive nature, the construction of emotional barriers, social anxiety, fear of being hurt, and suspicion of others. As a result, I am very slow at opening up to people, it’s difficult for me to ask for help, rely on others, let people in, trust someone has my best intentions at heart, or will really be there for me when I need them to be.

    Today, my therapist and I spoke of my disorganized attachment style (fearful-avoidant). We spoke about how, while crying, I would share my feelings with my parents as a child, and subsequently be yelled at. My therapist and I spoke about how I always had to be strong and handle everything on my own with no one to lean on. I didn’t just feel this way, it was that way. Getting bullied and having no one to emotionally lean on eventually broke me down. Negative cognitive beliefs crept into my psyche and grew roots. Eventually, I started believing the things bullies told me – that I was dumb and that no one would ever love me. It’s an odd combination to feel dumb while simultaneously getting top scores in an Advanced Placement Calculus class as a Sophomore (only one other person achieved this in a class of hundreds). Yet somehow, I am still haunted by what bullies told me – that I was a dumb loser.

    Disorganized Attachment: Causes & Symptoms

    While those around me tell me I am loved, that I am smart, and that I am successful, the negative cognitive beliefs stemming from these toxic roots tell me otherwise. These roots still live. My therapist has instructed me to go over my affirmations daily, but I still feel like I’m lying to myself. I hope that someday I won’t feel this way.

    It’s amazing to me how decades can pass from traumatic events and yet they can still feel fresh … that my sympathetic nervous system can still be activated just by thinking about the past. It can be activated by hearing a song on the radio or seeing the same model of vehicle that my parents drove. It can be activated by seeing bullying on TV. I have to remind myself to breathe in these moments as I frequently hold my breath, sensing danger. While I may not be in physical danger, my overactive sympathetic nervous system senses danger all the same.

    #FeedTheGoodWolf

  • The Trauma Virus

    I have frequently wondered if psychological viruses exist. Viruses can be transmitted from person to person. In a sense, so can trauma.

    Generational trauma is the concept of trauma perpetuating from grandparent, to parent to child, propagating the “virus” generationally through families. Viruses don’t just have to be limited to familial associations though – it can spread from person to person

    The familial stories of Trauma I have date back to my great grandparents. A long time ago, a couple fled their home country disrupted by World War I. They managed to escape with their lives and their children to a new country. Immigrants to a new country, speaking a foreign tongue in a foreign land, they had to start their lives over. This came with many challenges, and their daughter – my maternal grandmother – did not escape unscathed. My material grandmother grew to have severe anxiety from the trauma she endured. After newly developed anxiety medications were developed, she began incorporating them into her treatment.

    Her daughter – my biological mother – would go on to describe her mother as “zonked out” on these medications, which would go on to influence her opinion of mental health. Between my biological mother being bullied herself at school and by her own sisters, she almost threw herself out of a window as a child. My biological mother never got over her own trauma, even later in life. Having observed the effects of first-generation mental health medications on her mother, my biological mother had a very low opinion of them. She went on to call them a scam, a hoax utilized by doctors to push pills and receive kickbacks from pharmaceutical companies.

    When my biological mother eventually had kids, the trauma virus propagated down my family tree to yet another generation. By the time I was suicidal in fifth grade, I was begging to be seen by a therapist or someone to help me struggling through suicidal ideation. The phrase “over my dead body” was uttered by my mom. Between my mom dealing with her trauma, handling my dad’s trauma the best she could, working part time, and being the caretaker for her children, my emotional needs were not met.

    It took me a long time to observe and reflect upon the trauma that propagated down my family tree, and I question if the roots extend further back in time. I’ll never know. This “trauma virus” I speak of I does not only propagate generationally through families via “generational trauma.” Trauma can be spread between anyone at any time – much like a virus. All it takes is emotional contact between two people. Bullying is one such example. Despite being unrelated to a childhood bully, hearing “No one will ever love you” is a phrase that has been repeated many times in therapy. Looking back, I’ve questioned what would bring someone to say such a thing. Were they suffering through their own trauma? Another example would be a person mistreating their partner. Fueled by trauma, their misdirected hurt might inflict emotional damage to their partner, which in turn can cause further trauma.

    The inoculation for this virus is love. Love allows for communication barriers to be shattered. It has the power to break through emotional walls, bridge emotional divides, unmask issues, and most perhaps importantly, it allows painful matters to have light shed upon them. Without these support systems, trauma is much more likely to occur. Whether it be a supportive family, friend or therapist, don’t let issues fester in the dark – drag them into the light. Help is out there.

    #FeedTheGoodWolf

  • Cookie Monster

    An unsent farewell letter to a former friend

    From the moment you saw me head-banging to a French lullaby, you knew I was different. You even cited this as the reason why you approached me in French class, knowing we would become friends. You knew there was something different about me that resonated with you. There was. I was different. For better or worse, everyone saw I was different; but they saw neither the pain, nor the self-destructive behaviors that were holding me back. Now that I’ve broken free of the emotional prison I built for myself have journeyed down the path to healing my trauma, it’s time you know the full story. I write this to letter continue the healing journey from my childhood, not to reconnect with you.

    Dating all the way back to even pre-school, I remember being bullied. In the very beginning, I stood up for myself. I was even written up a few times. My teacher even wrote a note about me standing up for myself during a parent-teacher conference in preschool. In grade school, I also got in trouble for putting a goldfish into a bully’s chocolate milk. Eventually, I’m ashamed to admit that I broke. I stopped standing up for myself.

    Sitting alone on the curb one day at recess in fifth grade, I was thinking about suicide. I was in fifth grade and in a very dark place. I was being bullied relentlessly and was being emotionally neglected at home. When I had attempted to talk to my mom about what I was going through, I was yelled at and told I needed to “toughen up.” Between being bullied, an emotionally toxic environment at home, and zero outlets for any of the big feelings I was having, an emotional stockpile started to assemble and brick by brick an emotional wall was constructed. Some days it felt a mile thick. Others, as thin as paper. I continually felt like I was walking on eggshells in my own life, living in fear, ridicule, and shame on a daily basis.

    In middle school, the bullying escalated to almost being killed in gym class via a can of spray deodorant while two bullies laughed in torment. Afterwards, I might have appeared okay on the surface, this event has been brought up in therapy many times. Almost dying changed me for the worse and I emotionally withdrew, fortifying my emotional wall even further just to survive.

    The bullying continued through high school. I’m not sure how many students were aware of this, but our school had a policy where if there’s an altercation between students, all parties got in trouble. Even if one student is mercilessly beating another student without reciprocity, both students would get into trouble. This policy was weaponized by my mom who told me to be agreeable and to not escalate – that it wasn’t worth hurting my chances of getting into a good college.

    Sophomore year of high school, during a moment of learning in French class, I was within my “Window of Tolerance” (CPTSD term) and feeling momentarily comfortable just being myself and having fun listening to a French lullaby. You saw the real me for a moment there and we connected. 

    We connected and grew to be best friends. I printed out lyrics to songs and left them on your homeroom desk. I gave you that empty bottle of grape soda filled with knickknacks and their meanings. You said it was the best gift you’ve ever received. My actions were trying to tell you what my words never did, they never could back then. I had been so conditioned by years of trauma that I was never direct with you about the feelings I had developed for you. Others noticed –several of your partners even asked if I had feelings for you. You never looked at me that way, and to be fair … I don’t blame you. I was a freaking mess, held together by chewing gum and bailing wire.

    Despite our separation in college, my feelings didn’t change. I continued to be there for you and even agreed to pet-sit in Connecticut when you were unavailable. I stayed up on the phone with you long into the early morning hours, listening to you complain about your most recent relationship woes. Years later, you told me that you were proposed to. You were my first love and committing your life to someone else. I don’t blame you, or hold any feelings against you whatsoever for this. You didn’t even know how I felt towards you, trapped by trauma and emotional pain. I felt immeasurable and unbounded sadness in the situation and in myself for not speaking my truth. I bounced between hyperarousal and hypoarousal for a while, having my emotions vary between feeling numb and then way too much. Eventually an old self-protection mechanism kicked in. You were my best friend. I was your best friend … and I cut off all contact with you in an emotional response. You deserved better – I was just unable to do any better. All the feelings I was having were all so overwhelming. This trauma response was the best I could manage. I felt shame about doing this for a long time. After I cut off contact with you, the experience of watching SpongeBob changed from an enjoyable, silly cartoon to a painful reminder of the highly traumatized person I used to be that led me to where I was. 

    Some have the luxury of building their lives from a place of emotional stability, with emotionally responsive, loving, caring, attentive parents. I was not provided such a luxury in life. The foundations I was provided were broken, and so I had to build from scratch. After a suicide attempt landed me in a hospital, I spent a lot of time asking myself who I was, what mattered to me, and who I even was as a person. I went through a gender transition and I was trying to start my life over, unburdened by my past. I had met someone and felt like I had a chance at something real, something tangible – a real, healthy relationship I could call my own. This is when I broke my silence with you and reached out for a video call. So much had changed, and yet so much hadn’t.

    After that call, the person I was seeing at the time connected the dots. Between SpongeBob being a sore subject, her historical knowledge surrounding my childhood, and my demeanor summarizing reconnecting with you, they had felt threatened. As a result, you were blocked for a second time in my life to save my relationship. While I felt shitty about doing this, a part of me thought maybe it was best to simply move on and shut out everything from my past. You had never seen me as anything other than a friend after all.

    Run away as someone may, no one can escape their past – but they can become unburdened by it. To this day, I am still working on unburdening myself. I have an EMDR certified LCSW who’s helping me cut the emotional strings to my past. I have heard that writing can help with this process, so I’m working on writing a book. While I don’t know when or even if it’ll ever be published, I truly believe a book will help me process the trauma I went through as a kid. I just feel remorseful that you got dragged into all this.

    Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if your response to all this is “F**k you, I don’t care. You treated me horribly and I don’t care about your feelings.” I would deserve it and worse. Truthfully, the reasoning behind writing this is not to attempt to get back in contact with you, but to say goodbye. You’ve taken up too much of my headspace for far too long. I loved you and was too traumatized to be direct about it. Then I cut you off, not once, but twice. I feel shame about my interactions with you, but you were a great friend. I hoped this letter connected some more of the details behind my behavior and provide you some explanations. All I’ve ever wanted is peace, but trauma is a bitch.

    I’m tired of being in survival mode, tired of being on-edge all the time, tired of being scared, tired of my own bullshit standing in my own way. I’m tired of so many explanations coming down events in my childhood. I’m just so, so tired of not feeling whole. Trauma is fucking exhausting. This is no excuse for my behavior, but it is an explanation.

    People in the know about my parents have called them “monsters” for the things they’ve said and done to me. You could probably call me the same for cutting you out of my life twice, and I’d deserve it. I know I destroyed the relationship we had. 

    I sincerely hope you have a great life, and I apologize for my behavior.

    Farewell, Cookie Monster

  • Emotional Violence

    I want to start off by I do not believe in violence. Except in the exceptionally rare cases of self defense when someone is imminently about to take a life, violence is never the right, moral, just path.

    Physical violence is condemned and punished far more frequently than emotional violence. There are cases of physical violence that are seen as objectively immoral, such as premeditated murder. Others cases still might involve the death of someone, such as cases of self-defense, but are seen through a different lens. Emotional violence on the other hand is far less cared about, yet it can take lives too, albeit in an indirect way.

    Someone who has encountered emotional violence may lose all will to live, turning to hard drugs, alcohol, and other coping mechanisms. Having been unsuccessful in escaping their emotional harm, they throw away their potential – a life ended. Another may turn the emotional pain inward and end their own life.

    Others may turn the emotional pain outward, and redirect the emotional violence received upon them into physical violence upon others. School shootings stemming from merciless bullying is one such example. Generally speaking, the physical violence is remembered but the emotional violence provoking the behavior is not. People remember the massacre, but not the circumstances that led up to it. Both should be remembered; but, for different reasons.

    Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it

    This saying from George Santayana illustrates why both should be remembered. The narrative of “school shooter massacres students” has a much different context than “school student revenge kills tormentors.” One narrative focuses on the physical violence. The other narrative speaks to the emotional violence escalating to physical violence. This narrative is rarely heard and may be supressed in fear of copy-cat killings, resulting in yet another student suffering from emotional violence turning to physical violence; however, doing so only allows the cycle of violence to continue. The takeaway lesson is never learned and history is repeated time and time again.

    The school district I went to had a zero tolerance policy. If there was ever physical violence, all parties caught fighting would get in trouble, regardless of the circumstances. I was taught to never fight back – that it would go on my school record and I could forget about college. When I was almost killed at school, I didn’t fight back, even though I could have died. Long before this though I was subject to escalating emotional violence at school. This, however, the school did not care about. The rare time teachers heard of bullying, they would simply say “stop it”. While this may have temporarily paused the bullying, it did nothing to remediate the situation. The emotional violence continued.

    Between the emotional violence at school and the emotional neglect at home, I found myself in a very dark place. The first time I remember wanting to kill myself was in fifth grade – emotional violence turning into physical violence upon the self.

    Passive suicidal idealization resurfaced from time to time until it became active suicidal idealization over a decade later. I simply couldn’t see how any path moving forward was going to be better than simply ending my life. It wasn’t to get attention, it wasn’t a cry for help, I was in a very dark place emotionally. I downed a bottle of pills and ended up in the hospital. That was when I started to turn my life around.

    Justified or not, externally visible or not, there’s always a fairly clear indication of physical violence – a physical harm. Such physical harm can be diagnosed by a physician. Emotional harm may be readily apparent to mental health professionals or obscured from view with an uncooperative patient. When physical harm is severe enough, there are hospitals and even emergency rooms for intensive care; however, emotional harm is frequently left untreated.

    My parents demonized mental health as a whole, even when I begged to see a therapist as a child. I was told that mental health was a scam and doctors were just trying to push pills and receive kickbacks from pharmaceutical companies. Other people in my life insinuated there’s a stigma of going to therapy – that it’s looked down upon.

    Imagine for a moment how ridiculous it would sound if physical violence was treated in the same manner. Imagine a child just broke their arm after falling from a tree, the bone protruding from their skin. Now imagine their parents refusing to see a doctor. Sounds absurd doesn’t it? Child protective services would be involved for neglect.

    Emotional harm can be just as destructive, yet far more frequently ignored. Too many people want to be seen as “strong,” dismiss seeing a therapist saying “they’re fine”, or claim they “don’t have time” while their metal health degrades. I have personally witnessed these people go on to hurt others, propagating the cycle of emotional harm. I have observed relationships be ruined, families torn apart, children estranged from their parents … and for what? To seem “strong?”

    It’s time that bullying is stopped. While I understand that is easier said than done, there have been programs developed to assist schools. These have resulted in fewer bullying incidents in school and when bullying occurs, it is addressed instead of being ignored. One such program is “The No Bully System” by “The Power of Zero.” As a society we need to learn there’s a better, healthier path forward, free of emotional violence.

    If you or someone you know has been the victim of bullying, there are resources available such as https://www.stopbullying.gov. If you see something, say something. Silence is violence.

    #FeedTheGoodWolf

  • Brush with Death

    My sister and I were not close growing up. While we were both physically living in the same house, mentally speaking, we were living on different planets. It really wasn’t until after she graduated high school and went to college that I started seeing her blossom into her own person. I don’t hold any of this against her – we were both just trying to survive our childhood.

    After cutting my parents out of my life, I worked on connecting with my sister. While my sister is still on speaking terms with them, it has been a strained relationship that’s not built on a healthy foundation. My sister even went no contact with them for a few years after my mom threatened to throw my sister’s college boyfriend off a roof – all because he told my mom my sister’s feelings were valid. To this day she still morns the death of the relationship. He’s married to someone else now, and that remains an emotionally charged topic my sister struggles to discuss.

    I had previously gone no contact with my parents for a few years before coming back to them at the behest of my partner, claiming “You only get one set of parents,” pushing me to attempt to reconnect with them. Knowing this would not end well, I appeased by insisting parter in an attempt to quell any skepticisms surrounding my childhood. It wasn’t long until my parent’s character was revealed after lashing out at my partner that I went back to no contact. My partner no longer pushes for me to have a relationship with my parents, having observed their true nature.

    Cutting my parents out of my life wasn’t the result of a singular incident – it was the climax. I have given them more chances than they deserve, explained how they’ve damaged the relationship and they’ve still expressed they have no interest in changing. The only way I could foster peace in my life was to hold them accountable for the patterns of behavior they’ve habitually refused to recognize, and cut them out of my life.

    I got tired of being yelled at every time my parents saw me crying, being told I needed to “toughen up” and that “I’d never survive in the real world.” I got tired of playing peacemaker trying to end fights between my parents and my sister. I got tired of emotionally picking up my sister and my mom after every fight. Mostly I was tired of being bullied while being emotionally abandoned at home, preventing me from having healthy emotional outlets.

    Between being bullied at school and my life at home, I became sensitized to picking up perceived threats as they seemed all around me during most of my childhood. I was left to continually be the overcomer of obstacles and the peacemaker of arguments. Without a doubt, I was considered to be the peacemaker of the family. I wanted the fights to stop. Sometimes they were so loud, they couldn’t be drowned out with headphones at maximum volume, despite being on the opposite side of the house. Any time I brought up my parent’s behavior, I was mercilessly refuted and challenged as they could not see the forrest through the trees. I was told to reflect on how much better my life was than those starving and living on the street, reminding me that I was living under my parent’s roof and that I should be grateful. While I never feared physical violence at home, this was not the case at school.

    In additional to the emotional violence incurred at school, I was kicked, tripped, pushed, and even encountered a brush with death. One day in the gym locker room, two bullies approached me with a can of aerosolized deodorant and began emptying the can into my face. They raucously laughed while I recoiled, collapsing to the floor while I struggled to breathe. The assault persisted, adjusting the stream to meet my face in my new position on the floor. After some time the aerosol thankfully expired, otherwise my life would have.

    #FeedTheGoodWolf