Dear person from my past,

I haven’t thought about you in a very very long time.

A couple of years ago, my husband and I moved house, and I was going through some boxes. I found a stack of old diaries and couldn’t resist going through them. I don’t think I need to explain how awful they were; full of schoolgirl crushes and wonderings and gossip, and more than the occasional rant of self-loathing. They all went in the bin, but not before I found the worst one of all. It was a notebook from my primary school days, and you were in it.

Before you get defensive, it wasn’t the worst one because you were in it. Well, it sort of was, but it isn’t how you think. The reason this notebook was so bad was because of what I had written about you. It wasn’t long, and it wasn’t detailed, but it was a horrid, blunt message of hate.

You never knew it was written. You probably never will. But I want to say sorry.

My earliest memory of you is from when we were eight years old. One breaktime I went to the bathroom and found, to my horror, that I had forgotten to put on underwear that morning. My embarrassment tripled when I remembered we had PE that afternoon. How was I going to get changed without everyone noticing my mistake?

I went to the teacher and tearfully explained my predicament. She was very kind, but had her hands tied by various rules and regulations about where children were and weren’t allowed to go accompanied, and so she had to ignore my request to change in the bathroom. Instead she suggested I go in the small sub-classroom next door, while everyone else changed in the larger outer classroom. I was so grateful I raced in and started changing right away. Of course, I forgot the windows in the doors.

When I heard the giggles, yours was the first face I saw in the window. You called for the other children to come and look, and soon a dozen faces were squashed up against those windows. Why you all found it so fascinating I have no idea. All I remember is the heat of my face as I struggled to get my shorts on as quickly as possible.

Was my humiliation your fault? No, I don’t think so. If you hadn’t seen me, someone else would. I wasn’t terribly popular by any stretch of the imagination. Besides, if children see something funny, they laugh. I don’t think anybody meant any harm.

I think you blended in with the crowd a bit after that. Like I said, I wasn’t liked much by my classmates, and you would poke fun as much of the rest of them. You were tall and pretty and therefore commanded a certain level of respect in the playground that meant the first and sharpest barbs were yours, opening the way for your pals to continue. Overall it was a group effort, and I don’t blame any of you. I was a know-it-all and very sensitive. Most of what you said may well have been true.

At the time I wrote that poison in my notebook, you had been growing particularly close to a friend of mine. She and I had a strange friendship. I remember referring to her as my ‘out-of-school’ friend. We lived across the road from each other, and would often spend time playing after school. But within the school grounds things were different. She was well-liked, and had lots of friends, and I didn’t. We never communicated at school. I don’t think it was ever officially arranged that way. It was just the way things were.

You, like everyone else at school, didn’t know about this. You and she started spending more time together, which was fine in school, but when you visited her afterwards, I got upset. That was my territory, my time with her. I didn’t have many friends. You had seen to that. Why take away one of the few I did have?

I don’t really think those things, not now. But back then I was young, and hurt. You put yourself in the unlucky position of scapegoat. Your teasing at school was one thing, but now you were friend-stealing too. You were guilty. Your sentence? To be ridiculed in my notebook, and to be hated by me for all eternity.

Even a judge can make mistakes, and when that judge is a hurt, lonely ten year-old girl, they are much more likely. So I’m sorry. You are released – I hate you no longer. I’m sure that means nothing to you, but it means a lot to me. I’ve seen pictures of you via mutual friends on Facebook – you are still tall and beautiful, and you look like you’re having a great time. I hope you are. Your confidence was always something I secretly admired. Now I’m gaining some of my own, I’m learning to let go of these little things in the past – starting with you. So thank you, and bless you in all you do.

Yours,

Becky