An open letter to my school bullies from the eighties
A story of LGBTQ+ Resilience, Healing, and Self-Acceptance
To the boys on the school bus,
You probably don’t remember me. Or maybe you do. I was the quiet one. The soft one. The kid who sat down the front hunched in his seat, avoiding eye contact, praying to stay invisible. You were the boys who made it impossible.
You spat on me. Punched me. You laughed. You called me names—"poofter", "pansy", "faggot". Words designed to cut deep, even when I didn’t yet understand what they meant. I just knew they were dangerous. And somehow, I knew they were about me.
I was a child trying to find his place in the world, and you made that world very small. I learnt quickly that softness was a liability. That being different—too gentle, too creative, too expressive—would be punished.
What you did wasn’t just schoolyard teasing. It was bullying. It was systematic, cruel, and constant. And it stuck with me. I carried the weight of those moments—on the bus, in the corridors, and during PE—for years. I let them shape how I saw myself. I swallowed your words and internalised the shame. The message was loud and clear: you’re not one of us; you don’t belong.
So I adapted. I buried parts of myself. I learnt how to fit in just enough to avoid more pain. I hid who I was—especially from myself.
And I stayed hidden for a long time.
I married a woman. I had children. I tried to be everything I thought I should be. But behind the façade was a man weighed down by unspoken truth. The shame planted on those bus rides grew roots, and for a while, I let it define me.
But something shifted. It didn’t happen overnight, but eventually, I couldn’t live in hiding anymore. I came out—first to myself, then to my family, then to the world. I came out not just as a gay man but as someone who was done being afraid. Someone who was ready to reclaim his life.
And here’s the part I never thought I’d write:
‘Thank you’.
Not for the pain you caused. Not for the years of silence and confusion. But for the unexpected gift hidden beneath all that cruelty. Because in surviving your bullying, I found something deeper. Something unshakeable. I found strength.
You became part of the fire I had to walk through to become who I am. And I did walk through it. Slowly, painfully—but I made it out the other side.
Today, I work as a mental health counsellor supporting LGBTQ+ individuals, many of whom have lived through the same kind of trauma I did. They come to me carrying wounds from schoolyards, family homes, and workplaces—scars from a society that told them they were wrong simply for existing. And I get to sit with them in that space. I get to say, I know. I’ve been there. And it doesn’t have to end in shame.
Your words once made me feel broken. But now, I help others put the pieces of themselves back together. That is the power I’ve taken back.
You were part of my story, but you don’t get to write the ending.
I want to believe that maybe, with time, you’ve grown. That maybe you’ve reflected. That you now understand how your words and actions shaped someone’s life. I hope you’re teaching your sons and daughters to be kinder. I hope you’re showing them what it means to accept difference, not fear it.
But this letter isn’t really about you. It’s about me.
It’s about the boy I was—the one who thought he was unloveable.
It’s about the man I am now—the one who knows he’s more than enough.
It’s about the people I support—queer men, trans teens, gay dads, non-binary artists, and closeted professionals—all of whom have faced the sting of rejection and the ache of loneliness and all whom deserve better.
I no longer need your apology. That’s not what this is about. This is about releasing myself from the weight of your actions. It’s about saying, with full conviction, that I am proud of who I am.
Your homophobia taught me how cruel the world could be. But it also lit the fire that now fuels my purpose. I turned your hate into something meaningful. I created a life where compassion, not fear, leads the way.
Now, I run a mental health service that supports men and LGBTQ+ communities across Australia. I host conversations that give voice to topics we were once told to keep silent about. I help people break free from the shame that was never theirs to carry.
And the boy on the bus? He didn’t disappear. He grew up.
He became a father, a counsellor, and a leader. He learnt to speak. He learnt to love. He learnt that being sensitive, emotional, and honest isn’t a weakness—it’s a gift.
I’m writing this letter not to reopen old wounds but to acknowledge them. To say: I see what happened. I understand its impact. And I choose to rise above it.
That child you bullied has become a man you’ll never silence again.
I found my pride. I found my voice. And I found my people.
So, thank you—not because I needed the lesson, but because I survived it. And survival, when transformed, becomes something extraordinary. It becomes resilience.
To anyone reading this who still carries the weight of bullying, I want you to know: you are not alone. Your story matters. Your pain is valid. And it’s possible to heal—not by forgetting the past, but by facing it and finding your own power within it.
To the boys on the bus: you were loud. But now, I am louder—in the best, most human, most loving way.
With strength,
Have you experienced bullying or shame around your identity?
You’re not alone. At Bent Couch Counselling, we provide inclusive, LGBTQIA+ affirming support in a safe, non-judgemental space. Whether you're navigating shame, coming out later in life, or still healing from past wounds, you deserve support.
