Destined to be the Outcast

⚠️ Trigger Warning: This post contains references to bullying, mental health struggles, and suicidal thoughts. Please take care while reading.

✨ Destined to Be the Outcast

She always believed secondary school would be a fresh start.

Primary had been a mess—awkward friendships, whispered insults, teachers who seemed to barely tolerate her. But this? This was a new school. A new building. New faces. Surely, a new version of herself would emerge.

Right?

Wrong.

She came home on the very first day in tears. Her cheeks were blotchy, her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, her jumper clinging to her arms like a wet rag. Nothing had gone right.

She hadn’t known where her classes were. She’d been late to nearly all of them and got told off each time. The sun had blazed mercilessly, and when she dared to take off her jumper to breathe, a teacher snapped at her to put it back on.

She nearly fainted. Her deodorant had long worn off, and puberty had started doing its thing—awkwardly and uninvited.

In French, the teacher made a show of twisting the questions so she would fail. She mispronounced something and got laughed at. Kids began calling her “thicko.” They all said she belonged in the “thick class.”

Maths and English didn’t offer any mercy. Her letters flipped—M’s looked like W’s, Y’s were sometimes backwards. Numbers refused to stay still in her head. Teachers chuckled—not cruelly, but loud enough for the other students to notice.

She thought Food Tech would be her safe space—she loved baking—but the classroom was chaos. Cramped, messy, loud. She craved calm. Instead, she got ovens caked with grime and group work where no one wanted her on their team.

P.E. was even worse. She was labelled lazy, fat, slow. During a football match, she tripped over the ball and cost her team the game. One of the girls shouted across the field,
“What’s the point of you even living? You’re useless!”

Only two subjects gave her a sliver of peace: R.E. and Geography.

R.E. let her express herself. The teacher was kind and didn’t force her to speak when she wasn’t ready. And Geography reminded her of her dad. He’d passed on his love of maps and earth science to her. In those lessons, she could almost pretend everything was okay—that she was doing well.

She had friends—but it always felt like they were just tolerating her. Like she was the tag-along, the side character in their main story. Only one friend ever really made her feel safe, though she still felt like a burden to her.

But as the years went on, that one friend stayed. No matter what, she was still there.

After one particularly hard test, she tried to explain how difficult it had been, how her brain just… fogged over.

Her cleverest friend blinked at her.
“But that test was so easy.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she nodded, smiled, and stayed quiet.

Year 9: A Ray of Hope

One afternoon, after Year 9 English, Mr. Bradley asked her to stay behind.

Her heart sank. She was sure she was in trouble.

But he didn’t yell. Didn’t scold.

Instead, he tilted his head and asked,
“Have you ever heard of dyslexia?”

She hadn’t.

He gave her a soft smile—the kind that said he wasn’t judging her, just seeing her clearly for the first time.

“I think you show a lot of signs,” he said gently.
“I’m surprised no one picked up on it earlier.”

For the first time, someone apologised—not for what she had done, but for what had been done to her.

Tests followed.

Diagnosis confirmed.

Severe dyslexia.

It didn’t fix everything—but it explained so much. Why words jumped. Why teachers sighed. Why she always felt ten steps behind when her brain was sprinting sideways instead.

Finally… it all made sense.

The Bus

She lived in a small village and had to take the school minibus. It wasn’t the friendly kind you see in coming-of-age films. It was cold, cramped—and cruel.

There were only a few other kids: one older girl who sometimes defended her, and a gang of boys who saw her shyness as a red flag. A target.

They mocked her weight. Her acne. Her glasses. Her clothes.

Sometimes the girl joined in—perhaps trying to impress them.

They laughed at her for being “square,” because she hadn’t kissed anyone yet.

That kiss wouldn’t come until she was fifteen, maybe sixteen—and even then, she felt undeserving of it.

She told herself love wasn’t for girls like her. Not for soft, round girls with frizzy hair, crooked teeth, and a silence stitched into their throats.

The Bullying

There were two girls who made it their mission to break her spirit.

They pushed her off stools in science. Tripped her in corridors. Set off firecrackers at her feet.

The teachers turned a blind eye.

The only adult who seemed to care was the school nurse, who let her sit quietly in the medical room during lunch.

Eventually, she told her mum.

Her mum called the school.

They said they’d deal with it.

Instead, a teacher called the bullies aside—in front of everyone—and said,
“She says you’ve been bullying her.”

Lunchtime detention. That was it.

And from that moment on—it got worse.

Even her friends began to distance themselves. Some didn’t believe her.

“She’s being dramatic.”
“She just wants attention.”

That betrayal? It cut deeper than the bullying ever had.

She made a quiet vow:
Never again. Never speak up. It’s not worth it.

The Boy

There was a boy, too. Rich. Cold. Disgusted by her very existence.

He would push her, sometimes kick her when walking pass her, but it was his words that hirt the most. He threw his words like daggers:
“Slit your wrists.”
“You’re a freak.”
“You’re not meant to exist.”

Sometimes, she believed him.

She even tried to prove him right.

Once. Twice.

But something—or someone—always intervened.

A teacher. A neighbour. A cat curled on her bed. A sibling knocking on the door at just the right moment.

Some part of the universe always pulled her back.

Because maybe—just maybe—she was meant to exist.

But Still, the Outsider

She moved on to college. Then university.

But college didn’t understand. University didn’t either.

She kept trying to fit in. Changed her clothes. Smiled when she wanted to cry. Forced herself into social shapes that didn’t feel right.

Nothing worked.

They still saw her as weird. Fat. Stupid. A try-hard. A ghost. Something between invisible and too much.

The whispers in her head grew louder:

“What’s wrong with you?”
“Why does no one like you?”

By the time she turned sixteen, the whispers had become screams.

Dark thoughts circled her mind like vultures.
Maybe I just don’t belong here.
Maybe I’ll never be accepted.
Why do I even exist?

Now

Now, she is a woman.

She survived.

She watches those same bullies post their shiny lives online. Big smiles. White weddings. Perfect children.

For years, it made her ache.

“Why did they get happiness after causing so much pain?”

But then… something shifted.

A whisper—not of self-loathing, but of clarity:

“This isn’t mine to carry anymore.”

She realised their cruelty was never a reflection of her worth.

She wasn’t broken.
She wasn’t weird.
She wasn’t a waste.

She was just someone too good for small minds.

She started writing.
Stories. Poems. Fragments of pain transformed into power.

She built a quiet world of her own—a soft corner of the internet filled with honesty, grief, and healing.

She stopped hiding.
Stopped apologising.

She laughed more. Wore what she wanted. Found peace in baking again. Took long walks with her headphones in and her heart wide open.

She still doesn’t like tea.

But she’s found she really does enjoy strong coffee.

Especially now that she’s learned to enjoy her own company.

Final Line

She was never destined to be the outcast.
She was just destined to outgrow a world that never knew what to do with a girl like her.

💌 If you are going through—or have been through—something similar, please seek help. There is hope. I am living proof of it.

What they did to you was never your fault.
You don’t deserve to carry the pain they inflicted.
You are worthy.
You are strong.
You are not alone.

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