I was always on the lookout for the monster down the street

It was a beautiful village where my parents moved with my brother and me in the late 1970s. Not far from the city, near forest, historic center. But every time I think back to that village, where I really experienced some great things, I automatically think of the fear and gloom I felt there.

In our street, a narrow cul-de-sac in a 1970s neighborhood, lived a little boy my age. When we first moved there, I must have been about six years old, he came to my birthday party – we were carefree children, just out of toddlerhood, still young enough to want to play with everyone.

A few years later everything was different. For reasons that are unclear to me, the boy suddenly started shouting after me and swearing at me when he saw me. In a loud voice, causing the other boys in the group that often stood on the square at the end of the street to also turn their heads towards me and laugh along.

I didn’t know how to respond. I was a generally cheerful girl but shy in groups, I blushed easily. Their aggression never became physical, but became increasingly hateful both verbally and non-verbally. Soon I no longer dared to cycle or walk past that group. When I had to go outside (I gradually went out voluntarily) I first tried to look unobtrusively from the front garden and listen to see if they might be there. If not, I cycled down the street as fast as I could.

Sometimes things went wrong and I had to pass them at close range, my heart pounding, suffering the cheering. The neighborhood became a horrible place. Thanks to that monster from my street.

Hidden in the wardrobe

Unfortunately, there were also a few monsters at school. I never belonged to the popular kids anyway, but I didn’t mind. Being completely excluded and ridiculed in front of the entire class was the other extreme. For example, shouting loudly across the class that I was so ugly – it was a boy with a head full of pimples who did that – after which I shrank back blushing and the class laughed loudly. Walking through the hallways or canteen was an ordeal. In the end I ate my sandwiches between the coats in the cloakroom. As long as no one saw me, no one could embarrass me.

What was the matter? I was the youngest in my class, only eleven when I went to that big high school in the city, a bit more childish than the rest. Furthermore, I was quite thin and did not always look good; it took a while before I saw what was and what was definitely not possible. I bought new clothes, but the bullying did not decrease. It was too late – the position of the bully had already been definitively determined.

Headache, poor sleep and stomach ache on Sundays

If you have to get through the days like this, a school year will take an inhumanly long time. I developed severe headaches. Slept poorly. I already had a stomach ache on Sunday at the thought of another week of school. I increasingly thought that being dead would be a salvation. Those thoughts did not become really concrete; then I thought of my poor parents and rejected that option again. Sometimes I banged my head against the wall out of sheer desperation. The cruelty of some of my peers – I couldn’t understand it. How can you continue when you see someone suffering so much? That lack of empathy was and remains a mystery to me.

And if only I could have felt safe at home. Yes, it was safe within the walls of our house, in a loving family. And Doe Maar gave me a lot of comfort in my room. But there was always that threat just out there. I remember the anxious evening when my parents were at the theater and the boy and his friends shot a pile of bricks under the carport with a football amid much noise and cheering. The bangs against the wooden wall made my brother and me shiver and cry, waiting until it was over, hiding from the laughing faces against the window.

We tried a few times to get the bullying to stop. A conversation with the mentor at school did not help. The terror of the boy from the street did not stop once my parents contacted his. After the incident with the bricks, my mother called the police, who also approached his parents. We heard his mother’s reaction through the police: “Those people are just overwrought.”

Eventually we moved to a bigger house on the other side of the village. I breathed again. And I was able to go outside normally again. However, I always remained on my guard: if I saw him in the distance, I turned around.

Bullying at school also passed. A different secondary school, including repeating so that I was no longer the youngest, had already helped. Once I was sixteen, I also found a new identity: I became ‘alto’ – black clothes, wild hair, U2, The Cure. Because now it was almost a blessing not hearing about those ‘discos’ no longer touched me. And I was no longer interesting to them, apparently.

I fell in love and got into a serious relationship with someone who genuinely thought I was beautiful. Being an adult turned out to be a thousand times more fun than being a child. Get rid of that rotten youth. I went to work, had great friends, no one seemed to think I was stupid or ugly. I have never been lonely again.

Low self esteem

And yet. It sometimes became clear to me that those five miserable childhood years had caused some kind of trauma. Movies, books, news reports about a child being bullied: their pain immediately brings back my own – it still does. I hardly dared to say anything out loud in a group for many years: all the heads turning in your direction was a nightmare. And so, in class, I didn’t ask the questions necessary to understand the material – which led to worse grades. Even later, in meetings, I remained afraid of a red face. I skipped fun jobs where you would regularly have to speak in front of a group. And if a false colleague crossed my path, he would blame me – instead of standing up for myself and responding to that person, I would avoid that person, lying awake at night from the stress.

The past also seeped into the private sphere for a long time. For years I didn’t dare put an end to a relationship that wasn’t good for me; I couldn’t do it alone, I was convinced, resulting from a low self-esteem that was further fueled by him.

Hold on

Recently I googled the bully from my street. It would be good to meet him, I thought. To see – hopefully – that the monster is no longer a monster, but a normal, friendly fifty-something. I am also curious how he looks back on that period. Whether he has an explanation for his behavior. Perhaps what I read everywhere about bullies also applies to him – that they often have problems themselves and therefore bully, as a way to take it out or to avoid being bullied themselves. A single ‘Yes, you were an easy victim’, with a sincere ‘sorry’ – that would do me so much good. It would erase the last bit of trauma in one go.

I write a friendly note explaining why I want to contact him, and that his response could help children who are currently being bullied if it appears in the newspaper – anonymously if desired. I ask a girlfriend from a long time ago who now turns out to be friends with him to ask if I can email him my letter through her. It remains quiet for a few days. Then: ‘Hi Saskia, I had your app read. He doesn’t need a letter/email. So it ends here. Greetings.’

I didn’t really know what to feel. It’s as if another middle finger is being raised at me: my interests don’t matter, and he decides that. Perhaps dredging up that time also brings back painful memories for him. But by closing the door in advance, he also deprives me of the opportunity to understand are situation. And to be able to forgive someone for the years he took from me.

I would especially like to give children who are currently being bullied a glimpse into the mind of a notorious bully through this story. It might provide comfort: bullying usually says nothing about you, but everything about the bully. That insight can give vulnerable children just that little bit of support. Hang in there, I would urge them to do. Those high school years are the hardest, children are the cruelest then; after that everything gets better.

Forty years later I visit the village again. I walk down my street from back then, standing in front of our old house. The square where danger always lurked is quiet. I think it’s actually a nice neighborhood to live in, with those playgrounds and greenery. The sun is shining, the church bells are starting to chime. I recognize the sounds – a deep, beautiful sound. It could have been a fantastic childhood.

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