One warm Sunday evening, when I was nearly 11 years old, there was a knock at our front door. My mum answered the door and called to me. As I peered out from behind her, I saw my worst nightmare. Kids. Loads of kids. What seemed like most of my class at school. Kids circling lazily on bikes in the road. Kids holding footballs. Kids with their dogs. I can’t remember which two actually knocked at the door and asked if I was coming out to play, just that there were two. I shrank away immediately, back into the living room. My mum told me not to be silly, that I should go out and play. So I did. I didn’t tell her that I’d been being bullied at school for months, that even the kids who didn’t take part in the bullying just avoided me, such was the power of that group of girls I’d got on the wrong side of. My former friends. I just stepped right out there, in absolute terror, to face this latest ordeal. I remember no more details. It’s all a blur, a mass of feelings. Yet the memory of what happened in the next… Read full this story
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