I did a Multi-Genre Research Project on bullying in school. The MGRP includes research-based writings of all kinds (poetry, essays, journals, etc) and I really felt compelled to show one portion of the overall project. I did journal entries for a fictional family trying to overcome the daughter's bullying. This first one is from the daughter's perspective. A lot of this reflects how I felt growing up.

Journal#1

Twigs. Bones. Walking Stick. Bean Pole. Anorexic.

Mom says that the other kids at school call me names because they're jealous. But honestly, Mom, what kind of logic is that? Do those sound like names that people are dying to be called? It's always annoying when they say, "Hey, anorexic!" and then stick their fingers in their mouths and pretend to gag - I always want to tell them that they've mixed up bulimia and anorexia, and that, in fact, anorexics don't purge, they just don't eat at all... but then I think of the material that gives them. "Oh yeahhh, you would know, wouldn't you?!?"

Ugh.

Middle school is obnoxious. We're all awkward - too big, too small, us girls tower over the small guys. We all smell bad and wear too much makeup and too short of skirts and stuff our bras and have zits the size of red M&Ms and we all cry at night because we're not good enough and never will be and our friends only like us for our similarities in enemies.

Tomorrow's just another day on the front lines. Another day to eat lunch alone, pretending I'm reading ahead for English class, even though I know that only gives them more ammo. They'll take shot after shot into my too-flat chest, and I'll pick up the shells and put them in a keep-safe box. Dad says the more hits I take, the stronger I get. God, I hope he's right.