School, bullying and hormonal ups and downs: How to survive
Going to school in a provincial town is a bit like stepping into an 80s film: everyone knows you, everyone judges you, and if you’re not the lead, you’re at best the comic relief. It’s a shame that, when you’re a queer teenager, there’s nothing funny about it. You’re just the kid who has to hide so as not to end up in the crosshairs of those who’ve already decided you’re not ‘normal’.
School, out in the countryside, isn’t just a place where you learn maths or history. It’s a survival workshop. You learnt to walk with your back straight (but not too straight, or they’d accuse you of being stuck-up), to laugh at jokes (even if they hurt), and to pretend to be someone you weren’t. Bullying, then, was the extra you hadn’t asked for. Not the violent sort, not the sort that leaves bruises on your body, but the insidious kind, made up of glances, sniggers and trick questions. * Phrases that, if you heard them once, made you smile. If you heard them every day, they made you doubt yourself.
And then there were the hormones. A whirlwind spinning round in your head that made you feel everything and its opposite in the space of five minutes. One day you felt proud of yourself, the next day convinced you were all wrong. One day you wanted to shout to the world who you were, the next day vanish from the face of the earth. One day happy and at peace, the next day a sea of tears and feeling utterly down. And in between, the realisation that, deep down, you already knew who you were, but the world around you wasn’t ready to accept it.
But it wasn’t all doom and gloom. There were them: your close friends. The ones who, even if they didn’t fully understand, stood by you. The ones who made you feel normal, even though you weren’t normal. And then, the revelation: that day when one of them, between one test and the next, said to you: “You know, I feel that way too. I thought I was the only one.” And suddenly, you weren’t alone any more. It was as if someone had switched on a light in that dark room. Not that the fog had disappeared, but at least you could see a bit better.
And then there was the survival strategy: pretending. Pretending to laugh at the jokes, pretending not to care about the stares, pretending to be just like everyone else. But every now and then, something would slip out. A gesture, a word, a glance. And then the world would remind you that you weren’t like everyone else. But, paradoxically, it was precisely in those moments that you began to truly understand it.
School, in the provinces, teaches you two fundamental things:
- That you’re not wrong. You’re just different. And difference, in a world of copycats, is the only thing that really matters.
- That hormones come and go, but self-awareness remains. And that, in the end, every moment of doubt, every hidden tear, every forced laugh was worth it. Because who you were back then – confused, scared, but authentic – has led you to become who you are today.
And now, when I look back on those days, I don’t hate them. In fact, in a way, I’m grateful for them. Because if it hadn’t been for the bullying, the stares, the questions, I wouldn’t have learnt to be strong. And if it hadn’t been for my friends, the laughter, the confidences, I wouldn’t have learnt to be myself.
P.S. If you, too, spent your school years pretending, hiding and doubting, know that you weren’t alone. And that, in the end, the fog lifts. And when it lifts, you realise the sun had always been there. Perhaps hidden behind a cloud, perhaps behind a thick beard, but it was there. And it still is.