How to Deal with a Bully

Depressed Quality Time

Hearing a doctor rant is not a pleasant experience, particularly if you don't know what the bloody hell they were talking about. Dr Silverman examined my condition the day of my 'outburst' with seething silence. His brows were furrowed in concentration and he looked ready to pass out. Weirdly enough, his odour had the palpable aroma of tobacco. Good job, mate! When he finished examining me, he let out his mumbo jumbo the way a dragon lets out fire. I tried to decipher what the hec he was saying but to little avail. At one point, I speculated he was speaking another language.

He also gave me medicine I can't pronounce, let alone no what they mean. I was accompanied to the hospital the day of the fight by my mother. I waited for her to finish her John-you-blithering-heartless-boy-who-doesnt-care-about-his-mother-how-dare-you-go-into-a-fight-like-that-I-taught-you-better monologue. She was absolutely livid. Never have I seen such a blend of emotion it was almost hilarious. First moment, she saw me, it was relief. That was followed by a deep sense of worry. Worry morphed into unprecedented contempt. Contempt was swiped away by a profound sense of agitation. When she came to the hospital with me, she didn't utter a word, not even courteous greeting. When we were in the car going back home, I could see her nostrils flare, her expression as hard as a rock.

"Um, mom, are you okay?" I asked tentatively.

She responded with silence. Then she pulled over and stopped the car.

"Where are we going, mom?"

That was the catalyst. She began to sob. Tears poured profusely down her cheeks like raindrops. Never before had I seen my mother in a state like this. She was wailing, crying, and letting out profanity I didn't even know existed.

Okay, enough is enough!

"Mom, look at me right now." My voice wasn't hoarse but it held a scent of authority. "I promise I will tell you everything when we get home. I will tell you anything you want. I will tell you the most dangerous I have ever done. But tell me what is bothering you. Why are you crying? Last I checked, I am the one who should be crying."

She began to calm down. Her breathing was heavy but she looked relaxed. She wiped her tears with her hands. Her cheeks were as puffy as a pillow.

"I'm so sorry, John!" She croaked.

Bewilderment left me speechless.

"This was all my fault! I was so busy at work, I couldn't pay attention to the fact that my son was bullied. I was so engrossed in my duties I forgot the most precious gift I had: you. I can never forgive myself."

Whoa, didn't see that one coming.

"That's bollocks!"

Her eyes widened, "I am the reason you fought today, John! If I was paying attention to you, none of this would have -"

"Bollocks times two! The reason I fought today was because some douchebag was picking on me and I had to put an end to it. I did something I never did before mom; something I would have never imagined doing. I faced my fear until it blinked in surprise and ran. I looked in my heart and removed all doubt. I had to do this! Honestly, what would you have told me to do had I come to you?"

"Go to the principal's office!" She raised her voice.

"Oh, what a brilliant idea! And he would have told me to put on a Santa Clause custom and bury the hatchet with the guy who shoves my face down the toilet. And that would totally deter him from bullying  me again, won't it!"

"Who told you to fight, son?"  She asked quietly.

Bloody hell.

I didn't flinch from the reality. "Eric."