I’m Shy, Please Leave Me Alone

The knots from bullying are hard to untangle

“You alright, Scott? You’ve barely said a word.”

The chatter dies down. Everyone’s listening.

I don’t like where this is going, Emma. I look up from my glass. “Yeah, I’m just tired. That’s all.”

That’s BS. My heart’s racing.

She giggles. “Bet you wish you were home.”

You’re a bitch.

Someone slices through the awkwardness and the conversations continue. I can’t enjoy the rest of the night, though.

It’s the last day at my job. I should be happy. Instead, a familiar sense of dread washes over me. It’s like The Matrix scene where Neo’s mouth is closed by Agent Smith.

Only Smith is my manager.

I want to scream. I want to jump out of my seat and punch something. Instead, I go to the men's room and pretend I need the loo.

Shyness isn’t fun.

I’m sat on the back row. Ben’s a few computers down, whispering to my friends. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them laughing.

“Crouchy, show us your house.”

I don’t tell him.

My friends do, though. Like a pack of jackals, they crowd around Ben’s screen and give him the address. They wait for Google Earth to load.

“My god, Crouchy! You live here?”

I pretend not to hear.

“Must be hard to stand up in this place!”

Our terraced council house is small and our neighbours smoke pot. I hate living here.

“It looks like a rabbit hutch.”

If I keep quiet, maybe they’ll stop.

They don’t. The silence empowers Ben and he digs in further. I’ve got no comeback. He’s the coolest kid in the year and lives in an old-money mansion.

I can’t see chinks in his armour. Nor do I want to. I just want the bell to ring and sprint out of the computer room.

It doesn’t.

Something bounces off my head. That felt like a rubber. I stare at my screen, pretending to work.

“Crouchyyyy. Don’t ignore us, Crouchy. Crouchy!”

I remind him of the football striker, Peter Crouch. I’m not sure about that, but crouching under a desk is appealing right now.

For the rest of the year, Ben made me feel small. The irony is I was the tallest in our year.

The torment filtered into other areas of my life. I rarely invited friends to my house. I used to get off the bus three stops later so people wouldn’t see where I lived. Worse of all, I could sense people’s pity when they found out.

I’m shy because I was bullied. I see that now.

Not physical bullying. I could have coped with that. No, verbal bullying leaves knots that are hard to untangle. Only through therapy have I been able to understand the lessons.

The main lesson is I’m grateful for Ben. His meanness is a counterpoint to the joy brought by others. I truly appreciate these people.

Besides, I don’t believe bullying’s personal. Happy people don’t attack others. It’s only bullies who project their pain.

Chances are he was going through his own sh*t. Maybe his gran died. Maybe he hated his brother. Maybe his parents were getting a divorce.

That doesn’t excuse bullying. Far from it. I wanted to cower in bed and never get up. Sometimes, though, we don’t know what to do when we feel sh*tty ourselves.

All this is to say, I forgive you, Ben.

Emerging from the men’s room, I rejoin the table. I pull up a chair and sit next to Emma.

“Can I have a word?”

She smiles.

I take a deep breath. “I’m shy in small groups. It’s like a crippling fear comes over me.

“What if I say the wrong thing? What if I’m boring? My head fills with questions and doubts, and when I open my mouth, it’s too late. Someone else has jumped in.

“I’ve been in countless situations where this has happened. When I haven’t said a word. And you know what? It’s okay. I’ll slink off and find someone to chat with. People may notice, but they never question it — not in front of me, at least.

“So do you know how you made me feel when you called me out? Terrible. Exposed. Like something is wrong with me.

“But then I think back to the other morning. I picked you up for work, attempted small talk, and you said nothing. No worries. I got the hint. I let you stew on your thoughts whilst I listened to the radio.

“I don’t know what you had going on that day. Maybe you’d slept badly. Maybe you’d argued with your boyfriend. Maybe you’re just miserable. Quite frankly, it was none of my business.

“And yet here you are, making me feel like a child on what is supposed to be a happy time — my leaving drinks. So here’s what I have to say, in the nicest, possible way.

“F*ck you.”

I wish this is what I said.

I wish I’d made the pain stop.

But then again, do I really?

What would it have achieved?

Nothing. She was drunk. She could have fired me on the spot. I was dealt sh*t cards. Maybe folding was the best play.

“If it’s not going to matter in five years' time, don’t spend more than five minutes thinking about it.” — Cher

I’m choosing to hug these memories. Sure, they’ve caused me pain, but owning them has given me confidence. I believe I can face anything.

When you shed the embarrassment and embrace who you are, no one can hurt you. Not even bullies.

I’m shy and proud.

“This guy ain't no mother-f*cking MC, I know everything he’s got to say against me”

— Eminem, 8 Mile