PART ONE
When I was a young child I remember feeling lucky to have friends. I have loads of fun memories of the shenanigans, creativity, and laughter that I shared with these kids who made me feel content. In my innocence though, I had no idea the reality of what was to come. I also could have never imagined that some of those valued compadres would grow up to be my tormentors only a few years later.
I have struggled with the shame, embarrassment, and hopelessness of childhood bullying for the last 28 years. This reality, my truth, burns in my soul like an eternal flame. I live quietly with it, although at times it sucks the breath from my chest if I think about it for too long. Many times I have wanted to leave it in my past and continue on with my fulfilling life. I’m okay. I made it through that very dark period and came out on the other side a winner. In fact, I have been able to keep many people close to me from ever knowing what I suffered. So many of those people think I’m strong, always positive, and full of life. How can I show them my weaknesses? How can I take the chance of disillusioning them?
About 10 years ago, when kids began killing themselves regularly because of bullying, I began to feel an emotional nudge each time I heard another tragic story. “You need to share your story, Becky. Tell them how capable they are of getting through it. Tell them that no matter how pitch black it gets they will see the sun shine again.” This quickening in my spirit began to manifest itself everywhere I turned. But no matter how much it consumed my thoughts, I just didn’t know how to speak out or even if I could. I didn’t understand the dynamics of pouring out your soul this way. I didn’t understand that the time to do it would choose me. I could not choose the time.
I had no idea 10 years ago, that I would become a writer. I didn’t imagine that I’d have my own platform to share the darkness and the triumph of this experience. But I knew from the day I started “Forty and Full of It” over 2 years ago that this story would be told. I had no idea how I would tell it, what I would call it, or when it would happen. All I knew was that I wanted the timing and the process to feel organic. That time came this past February 2nd on my 42nd Birthday.
I’m a sucker for a theme party. This year was Disco themed and I had a smoking outfit and fabulous 70’s hair. On my way out to my party I posted a photo of myself on Instagram and Facebook. Lots of complimentary and flattering comments started coming in and I have to say they made me feel great! A few hours later as I was enjoying all the revelry I noticed a new comment notification. As soon as I read it it was like someone had slapped me. “Backseat Becky” that was all he wrote. I was instantly transported back to that damaged and broken 16 year old kid who wanted to disappear from life. It had struck me like a bolt of lightening. My heart began to race and my hands trembled as I quickly deleted that cruel and painful name that I had not heard in so long.
Now I’m sure you’re asking “Why are you Facebook friends with anyone who would post something like that on your page?” I had grown up with this kid. He was one of my brother’s closest childhood friends. I could not assimilate what was more stunning to me. Was it that my “reputation” had filtered down to a kid 4 years my junior? Was it the fact that people still thought of me as "Backseat Becky" over 20 years later? Or was it that this now grown man must have had no idea what that name and all the terrifying and violent bullying that accompanied it had done to me? I knew in that moment the time had come. I was finally ready to publicly relive the pain, aching loneliness, and disdain that I lived with but ultimately was freed from.
How the hell did I become “Backseat Becky”? How did I survive that awful persona? How do I wake up everyday and think of that hopeless despair and smile at myself in the mirror? How did I forgive them even though today they probably have no idea what they did to me? Well, I’m about to tell you.
Stay Tuned, cuz Mama needs a glass of Chardonnay for this one...