Open Letters

At 60, I’m facing the pain I was taught to bury. As a child, I learned my emotions didn’t matter—others always came first. But some of my deepest scars come from first grade at St. Jude’s Catholic Elementary School in St. Petersburg, Florida, where a bully named Matthew Brastle and a system that failed me left wounds that still echo in my body and mind.

Matthew was a pervert and a bully who turned the bathroom—a place that should’ve been safe—into a nightmare. He and his friends would watch me at the urinal, their stares invasive and cruel. When I switched to the stalls for privacy, Matthew climbed over to peer down at me. I was six, and my sense of safety was stolen. I reported it to the teachers, but they ignored me, their silence as damaging as the bullying itself. Terrified, I stopped using the bathroom, even avoiding it during other classes’ breaks. The fear grew so intense that one day, hiding in a closet to wait out the others, I couldn’t hold it anymore and peed on the floor. The shame was overwhelming. I swore it would never happen again—even at Disney World, I refused to go, my body locked in fear.

This avoidance didn’t just hurt me then; it caused serious health problems later. Years of holding it in, of avoiding public restrooms, contributed to irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), a painful condition that serves as a physical reminder of that trauma. Matthew’s terror didn’t end until second grade, when he stabbed a girl named Suzy in the leg with a pencil, embedding it halfway. Her eerie calm—asking the teacher’s permission before going to the hospital—still haunts me. Only then was he removed. But Matthew, an athlete, held privilege. In a baseball game where we chose the batting order, I put my friends first, but he demanded to go first, his friends threatening to quit. I backed down, a choice I regret. I should’ve let them walk—my friends could’ve played, and his grades might’ve suffered.

Now, at 60, I’m naming this pain. I was taught to “let it go,” that my fear, shame, and health struggles didn’t matter. But they do. I’m writing this to heal and to reach others who’ve carried the weight of childhood bullying, sexual harassment, or institutional neglect. You don’t have to tolerate abuse to feel connected to others. You don’t have to let shame or health issues define you. Healing starts with truth—acknowledging the six-year-old who deserved protection and the adult who’s fighting for peace.

To those reading, if you’ve lived a similar story, know you’re not alone. Your pain is real, and it’s okay to feel it. At 60, I’m learning to honor my emotions and my body’s needs. You can too. We’re free to heal, one step at a time.