This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Harvard chapter.
I remember two things about the letter you slipped into my locker in seventh grade. I remember the line, “You should brush your hair” and the line, “You should kill yourself.”
You were right. About brushing my hair, that is. I did need to do a better job with that.
About killing myself, you were wrong, but that’s okay.
“Your enemy,” you signed it. I know you think I don’t know who you are, but I do, I’ve always known. Do you remember when I brought you candy on your birthday? And gave you my favorite mechanical pencil? You see, after I got your letter, I didn’t hate you. I was scared of you. I wanted you to like me. Isn’t that sick? You told me to kill myself, and I brought you Skittles.
I did grow to hate you, though. When you humiliated that boy in our English class by calling him a leprechaun and by convincing everyone to ostracize him. I hated you because you scared me out of doing what I knew was right. It took me a long time to forgive myself for not defending him.
But it wasn’t your fault. Middle school was hard. There was the dress code: Crocs, Abercrombie, a string of fake plastic pearls, Uggs. There were the hormones: suddenly being attracted to guys, suddenly being unsure of what your own body was doing. There was gym class: changing in front of other girls, running a mile in under ten minutes. There was lunch, or lack thereof; there was fear of crossing the boundary from a double-digit weight to a triple-digit one. There was loving your parents, but being embarrassed to be seen with them—making them walk ten feet ahead of you in public at all times. There were friends that you made, grew to depend on and love, and then lost.
Middle school was hard. But I always thought that it was easier for you. Now I realize it wasn’t. I forgive you for telling me to kill myself. I hope you’ve forgiven yourself, too.