As a child I often had a lot of sleepless nights. My mind was like an ocean. An ocean of words that were never spoken, thoughts that were too deep for me to speak – an ocean of who I truly was. These thoughts would crash in big waves around my mind, and speaking honestly – they scared mea lot. So evidently, they would keep me awake at night. Pestering me. Bugging me. Making me think. Causing all these ripples and tides inside my head. It was as if some monstrous form of anxiety had crept into my mind. Waiting to turn one innocent thought into a huge predicament…
 
This anxiety monster first appeared after meeting my childhood bully for the first time. It was as if it was her duty to make my life and my friend’s like her own twisted game. Even when we used to sit quietly shewould seek us out. Her victory was predetermined – she would always find a way to make me feel bad. My friend. She was strong. Growing up with an older sister was apparently hard, so she would always manage to bat of her insults. But me I wasn’t strong. I grew up by myself, no one was there to insult me or to make me stronger – I wasn’t used to this form of verbal torture. Shewould feed off me like a vulture searching for pray, leaving animated and buzzing, as I feel drained and tense.She was my bully, sure, but really, she was more like my parasite. But one day my friend left. And that was the day it all went down hill.
 
There used to be a discarded playhouse that stood skeletal at the end of the playground. It was not the beauty that many teachers remembered. The timeworn house seemed to have collapsed inwards on itself- the roof sagged and the roof tiles stuck up in places like wonky teeth. Stripped of the splendour, it would wither under gravity, dying gradually. Our teachers would tell us about the times when that house would stand grandly and proudly. But now the rain had beaten down mercilessly – wearing it down bit by bit. The house tried as long as it could to but it was hanging by splinters – the wood had been decaying on the inside for so long but no one had realised till it finally fell apart. The house had tried to remain strong but had been slowly been disintegrating – no one noticing, until it finally showed its true colours. When I was a child, the playhouse was a monotonous monochrome of grey instead of the former glory it used to be. The array of colour that was once visible had now been drained. The teachers made the mistake of looking at it superficially – they hadn’t noticed the rotting on the inside slowly deteriorating – all they saw was a vibrant and vivid playhouse. The once brilliant hues of cherry scarlet would pop out and every blue, that was a neither dark or light but a bright royal colour, was gone. Unrecognisable. But one day someone decided to help this house – to restore it’s previous ambience. And slowly teachers started to recognise the beautiful playhouse that it used to be.
 
Coincidently, awhile after my friend had left, some new friends came and helped me defeat her. And gradually helped me to become the former girl I was - restored to my former glory - like the playhouse. Of course, I guess I never really healed. There are certain scars that never close. Even at the age of thirteen after I left my childhood bully, she would be there at night, telling me how worthless I was.
 
-       You’re worthless
-       LEAVE ME ALONE
-       NO
-       please
And I guess that’s how most of my nights growing up as a teenager was. An endless night of worries. Replaying my personal crash stories on a loop. It was like being in an ocean of darkness and not knowing how to swim. But eventually, it stopped. And I don’t think about heras much as I used to. Because after a while you forget about the girl who used to tease you…
 
Well at least I try to forget about that girl.