"You are not smart or pretty enough."

Growing up, my teachers were the root of my low self-esteem. I was dyslexic, and they would actually make fun of me in front of other students. 

I wanted to try out for a public speaking organization, but as soon as I stood up, one of my teachers told me, "You are not smart or pretty enough to compete in public speaking. You need to go back to your seat and sit quietly while the students who actually have a shot at winning try out. Try losing 10 pounds, learn how to do your makeup and get rid of that lisp then we can talk." 

Everyone laughed including the 2 other teachers in the room, while I was forced to sit in the back of class and wait until tryouts were over. 

When my mom asked how it went, I lied and told here it went well and that I might actually make it. I didn't want her to be sad. I was 11 years old.

"Your case isn't even that bad."

When I was about 14, my mom made me see a therapist, even though I never told her that I was depressed and haven't told her to this day. 

Based on the way my mom and step dad treated me, I learned from a young age not to trust adults. So I only gave the therapist limited information.

One day the therapist said to me, "Don't worry, your case isn't even that bad. I've seen so many kids who have way worse cases." 

In reality, I had a verbally and emotionally abusive home. I had depression from the huge expectations my parents had for no one but me, and I have a crippling fear of failure from the punishment I got for my best simply not being good enough. 

But yeah, my case "isn't even that bad." You're right. What was I thinking?

"He's such a nice boy."

When I told my favorite teacher that another student in our class had raped me, her response was, and I quote, "Oh, Jason*? That doesn't seem like something he would do. He's such a nice boy." 

*Names have been changed.
 

"You probably ruined that girl's confidence..."

I was in university, learning to be a primary school teacher. For one of my school experience sessions, I had to show the class on the overhead projector how to edit their stories for spelling errors. I asked the teacher if I should prepare an example story that wasn't based on an actual student's work, but she said it wouldn't be necessary, that there was a child in class who would be fine with me using her work as an example, and that the teacher had done this before. 

I was being assessed on this lesson by my university contact, so I wanted this to go well.

When I pointed out the first spelling mistake, the child burst into tears. I quickly tried to create my own spelling mistake on the chalkboard and use it as an example instead, but I was shaken. I didn't want to draw attention to the child crying, but I didn't want her to be upset either.

I set the class a quick task to find a spelling mistake in their work, putting them in pairs to work together, while I approached the child in question. My assessor was comforting her, and told me to continue the class.

When the class ended, my assessor approached me and said, "You probably ruined that girl's confidence in her own writing for life."

She was ten. I wish I could apologize.
 

"It's all your fault!"

When I was six, my mom and I were planning to visit my extended family in another state, and I couldn't wait. I was particularly excited to see my great grandmother, who I was especially close to and who I was named after. 

When the day finally came, my mom and I got on a plane, and when we arrived, we were told to go right to the hospital.

The day before we were scheduled to arrive, my great grandma was so excited for our visit, and she tried to go to the store to buy ingredients to cook all my favorite dishes. She ended up having a stroke in the car, and she hit a tree. 

I sat there in the ICU, looking at my great grandma, covered in tubes and completely brain dead. What was supposed to be a happy reunion turned into a traumatic moment to say goodbye.

As I exited the room, her daughter (my grandmother) shouted in front of the entire family, "It's all your fault!"

It's been 29 years, and when this memory sneaks in, I'm still reduced to heartbreaking sobs. I know it wasn't my fault, but it was so horrible and cruel, and it's what stuck with me. 

"He's going to hell. Get over it."

My father was absent basically my whole life, but at the beginning of 2015, we started going to counseling, in an attempt to work on our relationship. 

On May 28th of that year, my 15-year-old brother and best friend was accidentally struck and killed by a train. 

My mother called my father to tell him that I wouldn't be able to go to counseling the next day, since I hadn't slept all night while I waited for the coroner to confirm that the body was in fact my brother's.

After my mom yelled at my father for fifteen minutes, she handed me the phone. The only words that slipped out of his mouth were, "He committed suicide. It's his fault. He's going to hell, so just get over it."

That was the last time I really talked to my father. 

It'll be two years in May, and those words have always been and always will be echoing in the back of my brain. I know that my brother didn't die by suicide. But I can still hear those words. "He's going to hell. Get over it." 
 

"I just want my kids to have a tree."

It was tradition in our house to get our tree two weeks before Christmas, and spend an evening decorating it together as a family, sipping hot cocoa and singing carols. 

But when I was five, it was Christmas Eve, and we still didn't have a tree yet. This was when I first discovered my family was poor. 

That Christmas Eve, my mom begged my proud father to ask his friend for a tree, any tree. The friend sold them in our small town, and surely would let my dad have one with a promise to repay him once business picked up again. 

Faced with disappointing his wife and children, my dad went to do something he had never in his life done before, ask for a handout. 

I tagged along, being a Daddy's girl. He firmly told me to stay in the truck, and I watched for a minute as my dad made small talk. I rolled the window down a crack, then an inch. 

"Please, just for my kids. The ugliest, smallest tree you have, I just want my kids to have a tree." My dad couldn't look his childhood friend in the eyes. 

The friend came over to the truck and opened my door. I was afraid I'd been caught eavesdropping. "Go pick a tree honey, any tree you want!" 

Being five, I picked the largest one there. 

We left, got home and put the tree up. As we started our traditional decorating, there was a knock on the door. 

A neighbor dropping off an extra ham they had in their freezer and said Merry Christmas. Another knock, this time it was handmade hats and mittens. Another knock, another neighbor. This continued well after us kids had gone to bed. 

Christmas morning, I was the first to get up, so I snuck downstairs to see if Santa had come. I found my father sitting at the foot of our Christmas tree, crying. The room was full of gifts, some wrapped, some not, each one labelled. 

I sat in my dad's lap, unable to understand how he could possibly be crying. 

"I asked God for a miracle, instead He gave us great neighbors, and a great town."

Thirty years later, my husband still can't understand why I cannot pass a Toys for Tots bin without donating.

"You made it."

After graduating from high school at 18, I fell into a life of drugs and alcohol. I wanted to get clean, so I went to my grandmother's house. Our relationship wasn't great, but she had offered me a place to stay if I was ever in need. Strung out on meth and cocaine, I called her numerous times on the way to her house, but she didn't answer. Once I arrived at her house, she didn't answer the door. The police showed up and told me to get off the property. 

That night I slept at the bus stop around the corner from her house. I slept in the snow. 

The next morning I called my uncle who lived in another state, begging for help. All he did was give me my father's phone number. My only memory of my father was him locking me in the closet while he beat my mother. When I got ahold of him, he said, "Don't you get the point? I didn't want you then, and I don't want you now." 

I went back to my mother's house, who started crying when she saw what I had become. She helped me get off the drugs and back on my feet. 

I am now 20 years old and two years clean. I have two jobs and am in college online. I've met an amazing guy who has a similar history and is three years clean. My mom and I have an amazing relationship.

What stuck with me wasn't all the horrible things that were said to me over the years. It's what my boyfriend and mom tell me every day. 

"You're beautiful and amazing." 

"Thank you for being sober." 

"You made it." 

No matter how much my family screwed me over, I made it! 
 

"I hope you have a heart attack!"

When I was 13, I stole some Halloween candy from the bowl before trick-or-treaters showed up, even though my mom told me not to. She found out and became very angry and told me I'd get diabetes.

She sent me to my room, and as I was walking up the stairs, she yelled, "I hope you have a heart attack! And you can sit in your room and rot."

I've never forgotten that.

"Don't let it get to you."

When I was in middle school, I was the awkward kid who was constantly picked on for things like my name and how I dressed. One day on my walk to class (which always felt like a battlefield because people shot me with teasing words) a group of girls started laughing at me and commenting on my shoes.

Later on in class, one of the most popular guys in school came up to me and said, "You know they're jealous of you because you are ten times prettier than they are." 

At that point I thought I was hallucinating. I couldn't believe that someone like him would even talk to me, let alone compliment me. 

He continued, "Don't let it get to you. One day they'll be begging you to be their friend."

His words honestly changed my entire perspective on myself and the reason I was always called out.