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Do I Have to Forgive a Bully Just Because He’s Dead?
I thought of my high school bully as a monster, but I couldn’t figure out how to feel about his death
I didn’t go to the funeral because I didn’t feel like I belonged there. Funerals are meant for people who are grieving.
Was I grieving?
I was grieving something.
It just wasn’t him.
The memory of Roger that stands out to me the most happened during our sixth-grade gym class.
My friends and I were standing around in a circle talking, like we always did, while our more athletically inclined classmates played flag football. Suddenly, there was an arm wrapped around my throat.
I panicked, thoughts racing through my mind. Initially, I couldn’t even comprehend what was happening. Then I realized: Roger. Of course.
After I realized how I’d ended up on the ground — unceremoniously wrestled there at Roger’s hands — I felt angry and embarrassed. I remember his friends laughing at me. I knew the coaches hadn’t seen what had happened, and that if I tried to retaliate, his friends would join him and I would get in trouble.
He made me feel helpless.
