I was lounging on my bed and mechanically playing a game on my phone when the first Facebook post about me went up. My friends – or former friends, by that point – were publicly insulting me, humiliating me, sniggering at me. Of course, it wasn’t unprovoked, and I’ll own up to the fact that I started it. I’d been hearing from several people that my closest friends – and I mean very, very close – were spreading ridiculous rumours about me. It’s hardly unexpected that I confronted them, in the process saying some very rude, hurtful things, but there was absolutely no way that I could hold down the rage I felt. I just had to retaliate. This led to a huge fight, which in turn led to a huge number of people ganging up on me via social media.
It was almost entertaining on some level. It was like an out-of-body experience, and I wondered what everyone else thought of this extremely public spectacle. They were probably watching their screens intently, waiting for the next spiteful comment, like I was. But it was rational for them to do that, because none of this was happening to them. Then again, was it really happening to me? The complete and total detachment I felt from the situation seemed inappropriate. I felt like I should be more affected but strangely enough, I wasn’t able to summon any emotion besides indifference, accompanied by sporadic bursts of irritation — irritation towards how public this had become, and irritation towards the sheer magnitude of random people.
These people were the classmates who didn’t know me or talk to me, but gleefully encouraged the onslaught by clicking the ‘like’ button on all the dreadful posts. Just to let me know that they ‘liked’ me being humiliated. These were the ones who thought they had the right to have an opinion on what was happening to me, and had absolutely no inhibitions about freely expressing it. The ones who had the audacity to interfere in something they knew nothing about.
It’s rather funny that the people who supported my grand stripping of pride aggravated me far more than the ones who actually stripped me of my pride. I couldn’t understand why none of it hurt. In fact, I even remember laughing a few times while it was going on because all said and done, some of my “friends” doled out pretty witty insults.
I realised a few months after the whole thing occurred, that I had technically been “cyber-bullied”. It felt odd to give it that label. I’d actually thought of it as more of a metaphorically resonant bad day. Whatever it was, I’m so glad that I got bullied by people who used to matter to me. I didn’t expect to be numb, but I loved that I was. I loved that I could still think coherently and move on but simultaneously hold an unflinching grudge. It probably doesn’t make sense but being bullied by some entitled bull-dog faced kid with sausage-like arms and two starry-eyed sycophants backing him up would probably have left me more damaged than this did.
If I had that kid tormenting me relentlessly, day after day for no apparent reason, I would’ve felt weak. I would’ve felt victimised. I would’ve truly understood bullying.
But this?
This was a blessing in disguise. I felt strong, and liberated, and invincible. I even felt lucky.