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Sometimes I wonder if you still think of me, if my presence in your life meant something, if you even remember my name, or if I was just a punching bag in which to vent your frustrations. I, at least, think about you and everything I endured almost daily. I suffer because while you are living your life I remained the same 7-year-old child who was abused both at school and at home, the same 7-year-old child who did not understand why no one loved him and why no one wanted to be him friend with him.
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same with me and my bully
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