If Facebook had existed when I was a teenager, I probably wouldn’t be here to write this
If Facebook had existed when I was a teenager, I would probably be dead. I was bullied from the beginning of high school until around the start of fifth form (year 11). For me, the Brit-Pop years were about listening to Blur, wanting a swagger like Liam Gallagher had, fancying Justine Frischmann and being spat at and kicked in corridors.
I was verbally abused and physically bruised term after term. It was down to a lot of things: I cried too easily, I liked books that the popular kids in my year hadn’t heard of, was into bands they didn’t like and wanted to be a writer when most people dreamed of proper jobs that actually had a listing in the Careers Library.
Oh and I was occasionally epically annoying. I’m still definitely guilty of the last one…on a daily basis. There were even two teachers who effectively victimised me. If I ever get rich enough to build a library for my old school, I’m doing it in their dishonour.
The experience of being picked on almost daily for four solid years has stuck with me. It’s the primary cause of the chip on my shoulder. It’s what makes me prone to periods of extreme sensitivity, when a harsh word or an ill-conceived criticism will destroy me.
I’m quite sure the memory of being bullied is an element of the black dog days that can consume me sometimes. It’s also definitely affected my career. I’ve shown off, craved approval and kicked out at bosses because I remember being that boy who felt like everyone hated him.
Watching the Panorama documentary on online bullying took me right back to high school. It reminded me of how safe I felt at home. How happy I was when I could retreat into my room with my books, my records and my radio.
In there I could listen to Radio 4 to get my real education, obsess over old punk records and write reams and reams of bad poetry. My computer was hooked up to the internet but that was a primary coloured world of AOL and Compuserve. Mark Zuckerberg was just another anonymous kid somewhere half a world away.
If Facebook had existed then, I know my bullies would have found me there. I know they would have brought the taunts and jeers that followed me along the English room corridor to the virtual world. And I wouldn’t have been able to put my hands over my ears and ignored them. I would have obsessed over what was said about me there just as I study every online comment I get these days.
Telling kids now to “just leave Facebook” is like telling them to opt out of a social life. And even if they do ignore the hurtful words, they’ll know they’re out there. Someone will always be a real life pop up notification.
If Facebook had existed in 1995, I’m not sure I would have been able to escape the despair I felt. I can understand how some of the kids discussed on the Panorama show came to kill themselves. Everything seems utterly awful and insurmountable when you’re 14, bullied and lonely.
It’s too easy to blame social networks for giving bullies a platform to fire off their abuse anonymously but they’ll take any platform available to them.
When mobile phones were new, the scare stories were about text messages. I’m pretty certain there’s an obscure tabloid tale from the yellowing past about telegrams and morse code being misused for malicious messages.
I don’t like the word “troll” when “bully” has served us well for so many centuries. Don’t give online bastards their own special tag.
I can imagine how tough it must be for teenagers now they have an online identity to create and maintain that will linger far longer than any bad haircut. As part of the last generation to make it through adolescence before social networks became ubiquitous, I could remake myself.
While I was bullied and belittled at school, I could travel 20 miles down the road to a theatre group where I met likeminded people and found my confidence, where wanting to be a writer was a pretty standard ambition. It’s where I met my best friend and learned many more life lessons than the acrid atmosphere of school could ever offer me. I could be someone else there. Someone confident.
I’m grateful for meeting the people at the Theatre Arts Course who turned my teenage years round. The fun and laughter and hard work I had there is the counter-balance to the bitter little chip that still wobbles on my other shoulder. But even more than that, I’m grateful that I’m not a teenager today, that when I get abuse online now, I know deep down that it’s a passing thing and not permanent damage to my fragile self-esteem.
That photo at the top is of some of those fine Arts Course folk. It’s from Facebook…
