Your Story

Share Your Story

People from all over the world have been bullied and cyber bullied. They have shared their stories, poems and experiences with you. By learning about what others go through, you come to realize that many targets go through the same struggles. You are not alone. We may post your story or poem on our site. If you wish to post your story you can click now.


  • - Miranda


    When I was 11 years old, I tried to kill myself.
    In the second grade, I was rollerblading down my street and ended up meeting the new girls from out of town. One was my age (let’s call her Tanya) and her sister was a year younger than us and went by Bean. Almost instantly we became friends. We hung out every day and would play and ride bikes together. Then, a year or two later, I went to their house and saw Tanya with a cast on her leg. I thought she had broken it somehow, but apparently, they didn’t know what was wrong. After a while we found the culprit: my best friend had cancer. She started to lose a lot of weight and a lot of hair, but we still played together the same way we used to before. She went back and forth to Boston to see a special doctor and had to get surgeries; she missed a lot of school, but I always visited her and still played with her. After saving up all my money for over a year to buy a new bike, my mom took me to the bank, but I saw a jar for donations for Tanya on the counter there and I put all my money in that instead. Then, on Halloween, I even carried her on my back for trick-or-treating.When we started middle school she had to get her leg amputated, so I would leave class early with her to push her in her wheelchair, carry her books, and take her to class; we made sure ahead of time that we had the same schedule for this reason. Later that year we had a science fair and Tanya was supposed to be at the table next to me. I was worried, so I used my mom’s cell phone to call her. Turns out everything was alright and she was just with another one of our friends instead; she was having a sleepover that night with (let’s call her Chelsea), a girl I had been close friends with since kindergarten. The next day my mother checked her phone and found voicemail upon voicemail of prank calls ranging from her getting fired to messages about how fat I was to extremely rude messages in male voices about things they could do to me. Upon listening to them, I knew right away they were responsible. Chelsea has a very distinct and recognizable voice and so do her brothers. I had also heard Tanya’s voice in many of the messages and knew that she had supplied them with the number. Naturally I was extremely hurt and upset and we got into a fight (all verbal and emotional). Everyone at school who had been my friend before had immediately turned on me because I was mad at the girl with cancer. No one bothered to hear what really happened. Everyone just took it as a reason to hate me and to bond with each other over new ways to humiliate me and make me miserable. I spent my days and nights crying, but never told my parents because I was their social butterfly, their perfect, yet overweight, girl. There was no way I could tell them that I had no friends, no happiness, nothing to be proud of except good grades and a respectful demeanor. One day near the end of 6th grade when I got home from school, I went upstairs and made the decision that I no longer wanted to be alive. My father had been in and out of the hospital due to a motorcycle accident he had been in a couple years prior, so I had access to very serious medication. I dumped out as many as could fit in my hand, swallowing two to three at a time, until my hand was empty. I thought to myself, “It will all be over soon. I’ll fall asleep and dream forever and I’ll never have to face these people again. I’ll never have to shame myself by telling everyone my problems. The world will be a better place once it rids itself of me.” Then I heard something downstairs, a door. Someone was home. I suddenly had second thoughts, realized the pain it would cause my family and knew deep down I would never want to be responsible for that sort of emotional pain, having been victim of enough of it myself. I put my fingers down my throat, threw up everything I had just taken, cleaned myself up, and walked downstairs as if nothing had happened. I went to school the next day. I came home. I ate dinner. Repeat. I would sometimes indulge in self-harm, realizing it was the only pain I could control. I waded through the waters of depression, sinking deep but never allowing myself to stay under long enough to never reach the surface again. This torment lasted for two more years until I reached high school and met new friends who were able to see me for me, not for the names I had been called or how I looked in my past. My bullies never apologized, and some never even stopped, but I stopped listening as much. I had friends and kind words to listen to instead.
    Now I am 19 years old and things are much better. I am surrounded by people who love me and I think, one day, I will learn to love me too. I think one thing people don’t realize is the lasting effect bullying can have on a person. I carried the weight of those awful memories alone for years, not telling a single soul until about a year and a half ago when I opened up to my boyfriend (we have now been together for over 2 years and he has saved me and helped me more than he will ever know). It felt good to let some of the weight go, but I don’t think it will ever all be gone. The torments and comments remain with me to this day; the self-loathing that came about because of those words has wavered, but lingers just enough to ruin my day when I least expect it. I still have not gotten away from my past and it affects me every day in every aspect of my life, but I am determined to either get past it or use it as a catalyst, as a vehicle for change and motivation to continually prove to not only them but to myself that I will survive. I will always use it as a reminder of the things I have overcome and as proof that no matter how shattered I was, the pieces still belong to me and no one can take away from who I am. If not for those awful people I wouldn’t be who I am today, and while I know I should in some weird way be thankful, it’s still hard to see things in that light.