When I was in high school, all it took to get the harassment to stop was people believing I might turn into a shooter. That was the rumor that came, and I was honestly glad for it.

It didn't take much. Bullying wasn't something I had ever dealt with before until I moved schools. I didn't know what it was like to have people trying to take my power away from me, reduce me to a stepping stone for their own trips. I didn't know how to deal with it.

Schizophrenia was what came over me to justify the degree of antisocial behaviors that it took to put an end to it. The kind and understanding person that I used to be just didn't stand a chance. There was no negotiating. There was no help. The only solution was stand up for myself, every single time, and for every little infraction. I couldn't take any chances if I was ever really going to stomp it out.

All I could think about was putting an end to it at all costs, and any push back took me to the next extreme. I was a big boy, though. Spent a few hours every day cutting tight trails through dense brush and sprinting through them. Everybody got one warning, and I never had to repeat myself. All I had to do was stand and stare over them like a statue while I fantasized painting the hard tile floor with their teeth, cool as a cucumber, zero concern for consequences, waiting for them to give me an excuse to follow through. My sense of duty and justice about it was nothing but dogmatic, sterilizing all emotion.

I never had to hurt anybody, though I might have if I was any less intimidating.