I Battled My Inner Bully And Won
No one was meaner to me than myself.
Burak Sür | Canva “You’re gross!”
“How can you allow yourself to be seen like that?”
“You need to exercise more — a lot more.”
No, these weren’t taunts from the neighborhood bully or helpful suggestions from my critical mom — these were things I said to myself. The bully was inside me.
When my body cried and begged me to be kinder to it, I ignored its requests for empathy. We weren’t a united front but two separate entities at war — one that raged on for decades.
Before I became my body’s bully, I was the defender of the bullied.
Mike, a boy in my second-grade class, had a masculine name that didn’t match his effeminate demeanor. At age 6, Mike wore foundation, eyeliner, and blush. I was impressed that he carried a satin handbag and wore tight, high-water pants. However, his fashion sense made him a prime target for schoolyard bullies.
I was cutting through the playground on my way home when I found Mike in the middle of a circle of 5th-grade boys. They were calling him names and playing keep away with his purse. When I saw Mike was crying, I couldn’t take it and confronted his abusers. “Leave him alone!” I screamed. I wasn’t afraid they’d turn on me — I saw my friend attacked and felt compelled to stop it.
Looking surprised that anyone dared stand up to them, especially a six-year-old girl, the boys lowered their raised fists, shoved Mike toward me, and ran off. That incident bonded Mike and me; we were great friends through 12th grade.
Sometimes, there were repercussions for confronting bullies. In high school, I stood up to our class’s nastiest boy, Jon, and demanded he stop tormenting Ricky, who had an intellectual disability. The bully stopped, but my action earned me the nickname “Mrs. [R-word] Boy,” which he called me every chance he got until we graduated.
Tolerating injustice isn’t in my playbook. I’ll always support the underdog, the nonconformist, and the bullied — as long as that person isn’t myself.
I wasn’t my only bully. Other people often joined in and bullied me, too. My neighbors put my bike on top of a telephone pole and called me “fish face” because of my large eyes. While it doesn’t excuse their behavior, I sensed they did this out of a weird love, so I didn’t take it too personally. Eventually, they stopped picking on me and became my friends and fiercest allies.
My brother verbally bullied me, calling me fat well before I had a weight problem. When he moved away, I replayed the tapes in my head of his abuse so often that, in time, they became my own. He was convinced I’d get fat; perhaps it was my destiny, and I shouldn’t try and fight it.
How did I handle this bullying? I locked myself in my bedroom, and with tears falling down my face, I’d write long lists in my diary about how I needed to improve. Looking back over my self-improvement list, I felt helpless and scratched it all out — there was too much wrong with me.
All my bullies had their style of bullying — my brother was direct, but my mother’s bullying masqueraded as being “helpful.” She said things like, “Men don’t marry fat women.” Fed by the fat-shaming in my own house, my inner abuser grew in strength, “You’re not only fat but lazy, too.”
I’d diet for a while and then eat horribly. As a teenager, I could do it without seeing many health consequences — but I ate that way well past my teen years. I indulged myself constantly, thinking that because I’d suffered, I deserved to have whatever I wanted. When we’re young, we believe we’re invincible and the terrible way we treat ourselves will never catch up with us.
Our bodies try to tell us they’re not OK by giving us subtle clues like stomach aches, headaches, and indigestion, but we ignore them. You’re your body’s voice, but if you’re constantly criticizing and self-shaming, your body has limited means to express itself. It’s not normal to run to the bathroom every time you eat lunch, but somehow, I never made the connection that it was my body’s way of saying, “This food isn’t just unhealthy; it’s harmful.”
Anything positive I tried to do, such as therapy or exercise, my inner bully would shut down, “It won’t work; you’re stupid to think you’ll ever change.” I worried people would judge me harshly, so I distanced myself from them before they knew me. I stuffed my natural exuberance and energy down and became reserved around others. I didn’t want to be seen as the sloppy, fat girl my inner bully said I was.
I had love, success, good friends, and happiness — all things my inner tormentor was convinced I’d never have. I wasn’t perfect, but people loved me anyway, so why couldn’t I love myself?
Insecure with low self-esteem wasn’t a good look for me. I was getting older, and I couldn’t wait any longer to be closer to my idealized version — to live my best life. I needed to silence the negative self-talk and confront my inner bully.
I can’t pinpoint when I stood up for myself to my inner bully and told them enough was enough. My path to self-acceptance wasn’t straightforward. Turning 50 made me focus on what I wanted out of life and what I needed to do to get it. Having a healthy sense of worth, confidence, and self-esteem were tools I already possessed; I only needed to stop listening to my negative self-talk to access them.
I started saying affirmations every day — silly, maybe? But my brain had only so much room, and the positive self-talk drowned out the nasty things I’d been saying to myself. My body and I became partners, not adversaries. It was the only body I’d get, and I needed to appreciate it and all the wonderful things it could do. I exercised more, cut down on sugar (still a battle,) and stopped trying to suffer through things instead of seeing a doctor.
As tough as the bully inside me pretended to be, it was no match for self-love. I know it’s still there, but my internal antagonizer has been starved of the negativity it fed on.
No bullying is OK with me, and I will stand up to those who torment and terrorize anyone — especially myself. Now, throughout the day, I say things to myself like, “You can do anything you put your mind to,” “Your hair looks fab!” and “Pink is your color!”
And the amazing thing about this? I believe myself. It has made all the difference.
Christine Schoenwald is a writer, performer, and frequent contributor to YourTango. She's had articles featured in The Los Angeles Times, Salon, Bustle, Medium, Huffington Post, Business Insider, and Woman's Day, among many others.