In seventh grade, one of my first few days at grammar school, the brother of a former classmate said hi to me. Or, at least, that’s how anyone sane would probably have interpreted his waving gesture. But my heart saw it differently; it insisted on taking it sarcastically, and I responded accordingly: rudely, dismissively, trying to say: “you don’t actually mean that.”

And in ninth grade, in PE, a classmate would ask me my online nickname. Again, the question probably came from genuine interest. But I didn’t consider that possibility likely, so once more, I brushed her — and the others watching — off, stating it’s none of their business. The confusion and near-anger on their part is quite understandable.

By insinuating that others mean me harm, I react as a jerk. But they didn’t, and so my reaction lacks an action; almost paradoxically, my answer lacks a question.

There’s a very simple reason for my behavior, of course. The teasing, bullying and painting me as an outsider went far enough that I was too embarrassed to tell my own parents (or, really, anyone) of certain incidents — I was too scared and confused to ponder the possibility that, if only they knew, they could help. Had those mistreating me known what effect it had, they might even have stopped. But most of that was twenty years ago, and fair or not, it’s happened.

What about today?

Today, I’m writing this post, because it hasn’t changed. Improved, perhaps, but not fundamentally changed. I remain too cynical over people disliking me¹, plotting against me, taking advantage of me, or plainly feeling superior to me. And here’s the kicker: I frequently do this, even, with those who consider themselves friends of mine. It’s a behavioral pattern so dangerous that, when I’m offered something, I often stop to think of ulterior motives, even when it’s coming from someone I should have learned to trust years ago.

I know it can improve, just as it already has improved. Every positive experience helps. But far too often, I’m still the teenage guy who thinks the entire class hates him, and thus proverbially or actually give them the finger, even though they have done nothing wrong. I reduce them to projections of people I haven’t met in many years. It’s not fair, and I need to change it.

All the more, I am grateful of those who can see beyond it; those who know I don’t truly mean to, and that I’m actually better than that. Never underestimate the power of friendship.

…and Happy Easter.

1. Indeed, I was tempted to name this post “Insinuated Hatred” rather than mere “Dislike”. ↩