The Victim Strikes Back
Discovering a Counter to Panic Attacks & Bullying
I had a rough time in sixth grade, especially dealing with bullying and frequent panic attacks, and did not handle it well. By the end of the school year I was engaged in kleptomania and pyromania phases, regularly watching R-rated movies and wearing ballcaps with the brim low to block out the world. I demanded Mom buy me boxer shorts and stopped wearing white briefs, after feeling inadequate compared to some of the other, more developed kids I saw in the locker room who wore boxers.
That summer I attended an all-boys sleepaway camp, Sea Gull in North Carolina. It was not my choice, but I was optimistic when I arrived and the first few days were fine. I quickly meshed with a couple kids in another bunk with kids my age. A bunkmate confided in me that he was homesick – which simultaneously freaked me out (‘Why is he telling me this?’ I wondered, now accustomed to bottling up my feelings) and made me feel better (‘At least I’m not homesick,’ I thought).
But another bunkmate, Eric, seemed to be looking to push somebody around. He was rather unsightly; he had an underbite that made his jaw stick out and his head was too big for the rest of his (pretty large) body. Maybe his classmates back home in Connecticut rode him hard for this, and he soon identified me as a target.
I can’t remember most of his regular bullying, but it reached a crescendo one afternoon. Several of us were hanging in our bunk unsupervised when Eric did something to set me off. Fighting back tears, I, whimpered: “Get the fuck out of my life!”
Eric smiled wide and giggled at nearly breaking me (picture Shrek with an evil smile), joined by the other kids who mocked me.
But, unlike the bullying I had experienced during the school year, I would have my revenge at Camp Sea Gull.
Every weekend campers 12 and up boarded buses for the girls’ camp nearby, Seafarer. As we approached the first dance, I was nervous, but there was no way I was sitting this out. It was not that I relished the chance to dance with a girl, though I was intrigued. But mostly I could not risk being labeled a “pussy” or a “f-----t” by staying back.
I dressed in my gray cotton Quicksilver shorts with lime green trim. I also wore a teal blue Ocean Pacific or yellow Vuarnet T-shirt, to go with my orange-purple-and-white Bo Jackson cross-trainers covering my fast-growing feet, approaching adult size 12. They were so large compared to the rest of my medium-height, skinny frame, my cousin had joked that everything I ate (a ton) went straight to my feet.
Eric wore a white-and-orange polo shirt adorned with the NFL Cleveland Browns logo. Bunkmates loudly questioned his choice, while I silently mocked him. I may have known little about style at 12 (I thought Zubaz pants were cool), but I knew enough to know that an ugly kid was wearing an ugly shirt to a dance. I could not wait to see him strike out.
But the dance started out awful for me. As Paula Abdul, Janet Jackson and Bell Biv DeVoe hits mixed in with others, I circled the blacktop -- sometimes looking down quietly as I walked with friends, other times just trotting around on my own.
I was petrified. I had survived aggressive bullying, but this situation felt more threatening. Dread and panic enveloped me, producing intense fear and pain in my sternum and stomach. I struggled to breathe. ‘Am I having a heart attack?’ I wondered. ‘Am I going to die?’ In hindsight I was suffering a panic attack, but I had no idea what was going on. I only knew that I was in trouble and felt alone in my plight.
All around me older boys talked with girls and joked with each other. The other 12-year-old boys and I did our best to keep a brave face. Some even seemed to look comfortable, while others actually talked to girls. That just made me more afraid and self-loathing. I had long believed I was different from other kids -- and not just because of my advanced intelligence.
Now I felt really different, as no one else seemed to be dying. I intuitively recognized that something was wrong with me mentally, but in the early 1990’s boys in my orbit simply could not accept that; it meant you were weak, possibly crazy. I was already physically weak, so I was not going to admit that I had a mental weakness too. I had no plan to escape my inner beast.
But on this night, I soon found out, the beast could disappear in an instant.
Her friend approached me suddenly, as I was staring at the ground in the corner of the blacktop immersed in my pain. “Hee hee,” she giggled, “my friend thinks you’re cute. Will you dance with her?”
I didn’t think; I just responded as I lifted my head and exited my mind: “Sure,” I said softly.
“Great!” she said, smiling widely and giggling some more. “I’ll go get her.”
Within seconds Karen walked over and greeted me with composure. Her soft smile made the panic vanish right away. She was trim, with a cute face and dirty blond hair. Not that I was being picky about looks at this moment.
We talked for a few minutes and then retreated to a tree nearby to privately talk more. I opened up to this girl more than I had talked to anyone since the previous school year had started. We discussed where we were from, what bands and sports teams we liked, and much more.
Then Karen perked up: “Want to dance?”
“Yeah,” I rose and offered her my hand. Mom’s training was paying off. Karen took it and I led her to an open space on the blacktop. We danced to a couple faster songs and then a slow song came on – let’s say Roxette’s “It Must Have Been Love.” I knew what to do, wrapping my arms around her waist and lower back and drawing her in close. She responded in kind.
We spent most of the rest of the night and the following three dances together. At some point we snuck off into the woods to kiss.
As I boarded the bus back to Sea Gull after the final dance had ended, I sat content next to a friend with Karen’s number and address written on a piece of paper in my pocket.
And Eric? He struck out. Every week. After one dance, his Browns shirt hung on the drying rack outside our bunk – right next to a pair of his skid-marked tighty whities.
