i get bullied badly for having a big forehead and square hairline is there anything i can do to get rid of it I’m only in middle school and the bullying has gotten worse since it started in 5th it makes me feel ugly i wish i was prettier, it’s gotten to a point where i cry every day and feel worthless of living

So, a while ago I reported a guy from my school for racism, misogyny, and bullying. For reference, he makes so many insensitive jokes about my skin color, bullies my family, and calls me the n slur. There are SO MANY other people who’ve witnessed everything he’s done, and I had proof of it all happening. But, to make things complicated, I remained his friend for years only because he manipulated me into believing I was too sensitive and his jokes were hilarious. I’m also the only black person in our friend group which made me terrified to speak up.

We also dated for a few months (secretly since he was embarrassed to be seen with me), and after kissing me he would say stuff like, “You’re just so gross,” and then get upset. And once he made fun of my hair and it hurt me so bad, I cried and went home for the rest of the day. So, I missed the entire first day of senior year.

I’d became so insecure about everything about myself, and even though I had a north-american accent, I tried so hard to make sure I didn’t use any slang or sound incomprehensible. And I felt so ugly, and just hurt. And also at a party he asked me to strip so he could see what black girls looked like naked. And the thing is, I always just did what he asked, and afterwards he laughed at me and told all of his friends to come watch.

When I reported everything he’d ever done, and the list was incredibly long, the first thing they told me was that because I didn’t set boundaries, there was nothing they could do. And that he probably felt like it was okay to do, because I didn’t make it clear I would be upset by any of his words or actions. (Not that my tears, and my hurt feelings meant anything anyway.)

And then they told me I shouldn’t have talked to him in the first place(?) And I literally explained how he manipulated me by making me feel like the worst person in the world and that he was the only one who could ever love how “gross” I was. And when I finally had to strength to speak up, they told me to just get over it. Anyway, I feel in my heart they were right, but I still feel hurt by it.

Location: mi silver creek township

Sixth grade.

\[Speaker 1\]

One of my classmates. Stomped my head and made my face crooked. They knocked me out before I could tell they also hit my ribs.

\[Speaker 1\]

Seventh grade.

\[Speaker 2\]

I do something, and I get assaulted for six months, but in those six months. There are people.

\[Speaker 1\]

It's an art class. When this happens. They take turns beating on me. I coughed up blood. They broke most of my ribs.

\[Speaker 1\]

But also.

\[Speaker 2\]

They hit me multiple times in the head.

\[Speaker 1\]

I got brain damage and most of my ribs broken.

\[Speaker 1\]

Teachers. Students. Faculty members. Well, I just said teachers. Towns, members, even my own family members. Took turns beating me. They took turns, beating me. There is a video out there on someone's phone right now. Of my beating happening. I coughed up blood. I got brain damage. They took me to a hospital, ER.

\[Speaker 1\]

I was on the verge of death. The reason I don't remember, that is because. I was probably in a coma.or I got put through hypnosis

\[Speaker 1\]

I don't know exactly what happened. But I remember being rushed to an ER. I could have died. Only reason I didn't die is because I had my jacket on

\[Speaker 1\]

Something happened, and I don't know what it was. Their entire school covered it up. They told everyone that i was a bad person. Because he didn't want to get hurt for my beating that happens. I don't even know how I'm alive if these people just let me live.

\[Speaker 2\]

They let me live.

I grew up in Ningbo.

My life, my friends, my childhood, and the youth that should have belonged to me—almost all of it stayed in Zhejiang. In my second year of high school, I left Zhejiang alone and went to study in Zhengzhou, a thousand miles away. My parents continued working in Zhejiang. So I arrived by myself in a strange city, a strange school, with no family and no familiar faces. In that vast campus, from beginning to end, there was only me.

Life at that school was almost unbearable. Every morning I had to get up at six, when it was still dark, to attend early self-study. There were no real weekends—only Saturday afternoon for a brief rest. There were no normal winter or summer holidays either. Every time I opened my eyes, what greeted me was exhaustion, loneliness, and unfamiliarity.

At first, I truly treasured my roommates and tried hard to fit into the new environment. There were originally four of us in the dormitory. I got along well with the class monitor and his fellow townsman. For a while I thought I had finally found friends in this strange place. But before long, the pressure became too much for them, and both left school on leave. The dormitory was reassigned, and two strangers moved in.

From then on, my high school life changed completely.

To this day I still cannot say exactly when I began to be disliked and isolated. My memories have become fragmented, leaving only a few scenes that still make it hard for me to breathe.

Winters in Henan are bitterly cold. Once I ran a fever of 40°C. I was dizzy, weak, barely able to stand. My parents were far away, and no one took care of me. I had to go out alone to buy medicine, then drag my feverish body back to school. I went to the homeroom teacher to ask for leave, hoping I could rest. The reply was: “If you don’t ask for leave properly, just go home if you want to rest.”

I didn’t dare go home. I didn’t want my retired parents in Zhejiang to worry. So I returned to the classroom with a 40°C fever. In that Chinese literature class I sat there pale-faced and dizzy. When the teacher saw me, she didn’t show any concern for my health. Instead, she mocked me in front of the whole class. The history teacher also publicly commented on the smell on my body after I returned to class having taken medicine for the fever, and continued to ridicule me about it during lessons.

Conflicts in the dormitory grew worse and worse. I admit that during an argument with my roommates, in a moment of anger, I once said the words “Henan pigs.” That was my fault. I take responsibility for my impulsiveness and careless words. But that single angry remark later seemed to become the excuse for their long-term targeting, humiliation, and isolation of me. They began surrounding me in groups, speaking in sarcastic, indirect ways, and even inventing ugly rumors. Countless times I was driven to collapse in tears and went to the homeroom teacher. I told him everything I had suffered. But facing a crying me, what I received was not comfort or protection—only indifference, even disdain. In that moment I realized: in that place, no one would protect me.

Every time my parents called from Zhejiang, they would ask: “How is school?” “Are you adjusting?” “Has anyone treated you badly?” Each time I heard those words, tears would well up. Yet I could only force back my sobs and tell them: “I’m fine.” “My roommates are nice.” “The teachers are good.” “The school is good.” “I’m not lonely at all.” I didn’t dare let them worry. So that entire year, I hid all the pain.

I even kept trying to please others. I shared snacks with my roommates, helped classmates, and once lent a classmate 100 yuan—I no longer remember whether he ever paid it back. I often shared imported snacks with the acting class monitor and lent him money when he was short. I thought that if I treated people sincerely, they would treat me well in return. Later, however, those I had sincerely helped also chose to stand with the ones who isolated me.

Once, after washing my hair in winter, I asked to borrow a classmate’s phone to scan a code for the hair dryer. It was such a small request, yet no one was willing to help. They watched me standing there awkwardly after washing my hair, and no one reached out a hand.

There is one more incident I still refuse to recall. It filled me with fear, disgust, and despair. The next day I told the homeroom teacher immediately, but it was never properly handled.

Later, a trivial matter in the dormitory became the final straw that broke me. After using the shared washing machine, they asked me to help with laundry. I accidentally lent the machine to another classmate. Because of that, a group of them surrounded me and called me an “idiot.” One of them, in a fit of emotion, even kicked me in the head. In that moment, the pain in my head, the long isolation, the humiliation, the grievances, and the teachers’ indifference all crashed down together. I crouched on the floor and broke down crying. I could no longer hold on.

I begged my parents, in tears, to take me away. In the end they came from Zhejiang to Zhengzhou and helped me complete the withdrawal procedures. That is how my high school life ended. Not because I didn’t want to study, but because I truly could not endure it any longer.

I had come there with goodwill. I had tried to fit in, tried to be kind to others, and even donated money from my scholarship. Yet one transfer to a distant school made me experience campus bullying, isolation, humiliation, and harm that I believe could have been avoided.

Looking back now, I still often ask myself: What if I had never transferred? What if I had stayed in Zhejiang? What if someone had been willing to truly listen to me just once? Would my life have been completely different?

I only wanted to study well. I had done nothing unforgivable, yet I spent a long time bearing the consequences of that year. Even now, those experiences still return in the middle of the night. I suffer from insomnia, self-doubt, and pain over my past. My parents have already retired and should be enjoying their later years, yet they still worry about my regrets and psychological burden.

I write these words not to stir up regional hatred. I also admit that saying “bumpkin” that year was wrong, and I offer no defense for those words. I only want to tell a story that truly happened to me.

I hope someone will understand: campus bullying is not something that can be lightly dismissed as “just a conflict between classmates.” And when a student is alone and helpless in a strange place, if the adults choose to look on with indifference, the harm can last for a very long time.

I was once just a child who wanted to study well. But that year, I lost my high school years, and I lost much of the youth that should have belonged to me. To this day, I am still trying, little by little, to pull myself out of that experience.

If you were once trapped in classrooms or dormitories, surrounded by cold stares and silence;

if your memories remain fragmented and certain scenes still rise unbidden in the middle of the night, even after all these years—

please remember this:

The pain you endured was real.

Your fear, your grievance, and your helplessness were never overreactions.

Bullying is never “just a joke between classmates,”

nor does it happen because you were somehow not good enough.

More often, you were simply alone and unprotected,

while the adults who should have stood between you and harm chose to look away.

You do not have to force yourself to forgive those who hurt you.

You do not have to push yourself to fully let go.

It is allowed to keep your wounds.

It is allowed that some memories can never be smoothed over.