Category: Truth

Victim Blaming has to STOP!!!!!

First of all I want to apologize for not writing for so long. Something has been going on with the website, I don’t know what it is, but every time I write something it won’t load. In fact, I’m writing this wondering if it will load, hoping that it does. Anyway, I have been thinking about writing this post for months, since November actually, but wasn’t emotionally prepared to do it, but I am now, so here we go.

When I was 15 years old I was dating a handsome guy with brown eyes and dark hair. He was the first boy to make me feel really special and to make me feel like I had to earn his love. However, I had to earn my parent’s love, so earning love wasn’t new to me. There was one thing I wouldn’t do though, I wasn’t going to have sex with him. I told him that from the start and multiple times throughout the relationship.

We had been dating for ten months when he asked me to go with him to one of his friend’s apartments with him, I had met the friend before so I agreed. When we got there, his friend wasn’t there, but he had the key to let us in. I thought that was a weird, but I trusted him so I went in with him when he explained that the friend had given him the key because he knew he’d get there later than us.

My boyfriend led me to the couch and started kissing me, whispering that we might as well make good use of the time alone. So we started making out. Next thing I knew he had me pinned down on the couch, I was wearing a skirt, and he was forcing himself inside of me. There was nothing nice or romantic about what he was doing. When he was done, he told me to clean up before his friend got there and knew what I had done.

I was humiliated. I was horrified. I was shocked. I was scared. I was broken. I was crying (he told me to stop). I was devastated.

Nobody would know what I had done. I tried to bury myself in the couch while he was on top of me, but the couch wouldn’t open up and swallow me. I couldn’t get away from him because he weighed almost a hundred pounds more than me and had me pinned beneath him. I didn’t tell him to stop.

I was too humiliated to tell a soul. I was scared if I broke up with him he’d tell people that I’d had sex with him, or people would ask me why I broke up with him and I couldn’t tell anybody what happened, so I stayed. I was ashamed.

Months later, I finally told someone what he did to me, and finally called it what it was, rape. They had to report it to the police. I was questioned. The officer asked me if I had told anybody when it happened. He asked me why I stayed. He asked me if I ever said no or told him to stop. He blamed me for being raped. It was my fault because I went with him willingly to the apartment, because I never said no, because I didn’t tell him to stop, because I didn’t fight back.

It took years for me to realize that it wasn’t my fault. Everyone from that police officer to my rapist, to my mom, to my best friend, to the teachings of my church told me it was my fault that I was raped.

In November I read an excellent book that wasn’t easy to read. There were times that I threw the book across the bed or couch where I was sitting. Other times I was ugly crying with loud angry sobs and snot running out of my nose. I would definitely recommend the book to anyone who has been sexually assaulted or who knows someone who has been sexually assaulted. It was hard to read, but oh so worth it.

It was written by the Stanford rape survivor Chanel Miller and it’s called Know My Name.

So many people blamed her for being raped because she was drunk. There is never a reason for rape except that the rapist is a rapist.

One of the quotes from the book that stands out to me shows how ridiculous it is that so many people blame sexual assault victims for the crime against them, when they don’t so easily blame other victims for crimes against them.

Nobody really expects you to fight back if a person steals your purse or car or breaks into your house, but they expect you to fight back when you are being sexually assaulted and if you don’t then it’s your fault or you must have wanted it.

I had been telling my boyfriend for ten months that I didn’t want to have sex, he knew I didn’t want to have sex, so if I had told him while he had my arms pinned above my head and was laying on top of me forcing himself into me, would me telling him “NO” have made him stop. I was crying and that didn’t make him stop so I doubt any words would have worked.

The police officers let me know that there was nothing that they could really do, especially since it had been over a year by the time I talked to them and he was in the Marines at that point. After the Marines, my rapist has gone on to become a police officer in New Orleans.

I have healed, for the most part, I still have moments that are hard. I have an amazing husband and family and a great job. I love the life I have despite what happened to me when I was 15 years old.

My daughter is now 15. I look at her and hope that she never has to endure what I went through, especially not at that age. 15 is so young, too young to have to endure such trauma, alone.

Let’s all make a promise to stop victim blaming.

If you have been a victim of Sexual Assault

Need help?

Call 800.656.HOPE (4673) to be connected with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area.

Holidays Can Be Hard

Most people just assume this is the happiest time of the year. I mean there’s even a song that tells us it is, so it must be true. But for many people, the holidays are the hardest time of the year for many reasons.

For some it reminds them that someone is missing; that there is an empty place at the table, a hole in the family.

For others, the stress and demands of the season is over whelming, leaving them a burnt out grouch.

Some people are sent back to those times in childhood when they weren’t even good enough for Santa to bring them what they wanted while he brought that other kid in class the latest and greatest gadget or toy. Like maybe a Cabbage Patch Kid.

For little ones, the different schedule, the stress of their parents all takes a toll and changes their behavior, possibly causing them to act out.

So many reasons the holidays can be hard and not so happy.

If you are one of the thousands of people who struggles with the holidays know that you aren’t alone. Know that you’re feelings are valid, it’s okay to not be okay, even at Christmas. It’s okay to say no to that party and stay home with your family. It’s okay to cry while you remember the past Christmases with loved ones who are no longer here. It’s okay to hold onto the little ones a bit longer and tighter at bedtime and let them know that they’ll be okay too.

If you have a friend who struggles with the holidays just be there. They just need to know they’re not alone. If they want to talk, just listen; don’t offer advice or tell them to get over it or remind them that it’s the happiest time of the year. Just be there for them.

If you’re out in public and someone doesn’t wish you a Merry Christmas, don’t be offended, they may not be having the easiest time. Just smile and walk on.

The holidays can be hard.

My Shero is Gone

My Grandma, my Shero

The Oxford Dictionary defines shero as “a woman admired or idealized for her courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities; a heroine.”

I define a shero much more simply…my Grandma.

She passed away just a few days after my last post, making the darkness seem so much thicker. A few weeks ago I was able to spend five days with my sister and last weekend we had my Grandma’s celebration of life with the family. Remembering her has helped.

My Grandma is in most of my childhood memories, from family Thanksgiving celebrations to Fourth of July barbeques. Summer days pretending I could play her organ to knowing she’d taking me clothes shopping for my birthday just before school started so I’d have new school clothes instead of old clothes or hand me downs.

She was at my wedding and welcomed both my kids into the world.

She wasn’t just my shero for what she did for me though, but for who she was.

She was a high school athlete in the 1940s.

She was a young wife and mother, then later a single mom when she and my grandpa divorced.

She was capable of loving again when she married my other Grandpa.

She was active. She walked and took care of herself. She traveled.

Into her eighties, she hopped into her truck or van every September and drove to Iowa, Arkansas and Southern California before coming home at the end of the month. On the driving days she often just slept in her vehicle!

She was a hard worker. She worked as long as I knew her, even through most of her retirement.

She was strong. From the stories I’ve heard from her and other family members, her life wasn’t always easy, but she got through it all and became a strong, independent woman because of it.

She was also wise.

It’s the future now and I wish I would have spent more time with her when I had it.

She was an amazing woman and I hope I can be just a little bit like her.

A Switch Has Flipped

I’ve been feeling extremely good for a long time. I’ve had a few anxious moments, but no bouts of anxiety lasting for weeks,or worse, months. It’s been nice, like a little vacation for my brain.

A few weeks ago, however, I had an anxiety attack at school during my prep period. My students left the classroom and a feeling of impending doom came over me.My heart began to race, my breaths were quick and shallow. It seemed to hit me out of nowhere. I wasn’t particularly stressed or worried about anything. Luckily, I knew exactly what it was and practiced some techniques to get it under control and the whole episode lasted maybe two minutes from start to finish. I gathered up the stuff I needed and got to work, feeling back to normal.

The whole incident slipped my mind until a few days later, when I needed to make dinner for my family. I like to cook,i enjoy creating something from the ingredients I have. It’s usually relaxing to me and something I look forward to. That day, I didn’t want to cook. It wasn’t that there wasn’t much time so we were going to make sandwiches, even those can be a fun creation. I. DIDN’T. WANT. TO. MAKE. DINNER.

A few days after that was the weekend. I hadn’t written a blog in a while and I told myself that I needed to write one, but I didn’t want to write. Me, Mishell Wolff, who has enjoyed writing since I was seven years old. I DIDN’T WANT TO WRITE!

This past week, I was driving my daughter to soccer practice, dreading the drive, dreading being there, dreading seeing people. For reference, I have an amazingly fun car to drive and most of the drive to her practice is through the country where I get to legally drive fairly fast. It’s fun. Usually. And I usually don’t mind seeing and talking to the coach and the other parents, most of us are friends at this point. I also enjoy watching her practice or sitting in the shade or in my car reading or playing on my phone. But last week, I didn’t want to do any of it. I almost cried as I drove her there.

I feel like somebody came in and flipped my light switch off. I feel like I’m sitting in the dark. I feel like the brain vacation is over, but instead of anxiety coming for a visit this time, it’s depression; anxiety’s darker twin.

Some of the signs of depression are a feeling of sadness and despair and a loss of interest in activities that you once enjoyed. I’ve definitely been experiencing those for the past few weeks.

Lucky for me , I guess, is that I know the signs of depression and I can tell when they are sneaking into my brain. I know the light switch will eventually get flipped back on.

But I hat how I’m feeling now!

I didn’t even want to write today. In fact I wrote this blog early this morning and something went wrong with my WordPress app and it deleted everything I wrote, so this is the second time today that I have sat down to write this. I know though, that if I want to get the switch flipped back on, I have to do the things I like to do, even if for now I don’t enjoy doing them.

I know I can’t give in to the darkness and sadness I feel.

I know I’m not alone.

If you or someone you know is experiencing depression, anxiety or any other mental health issue they can text the crisis line at 741741.

Or call the suicide prevention line at 1-800-273-8255

No Means No!

So many times this week, more than usual it seems, I have had to tell multiple students that “no means no!”

It seems obvious to me. If you ask somebody for something and they tell you no, that’s the end of that conversation, move on, walk away. It’s over and done, they gave you their answer. But that isn’t the case most of the time.

Oh. My. Goodness.

Instead of “NO!” what they seem to hear is, “keep asking me the same question over and over.” It annoys me, so I can only imagine how it makes the person being asked feel. Ignored, unimportant, good for only one thing?

I step in whenever I hear the conversation continue and tell them that “no means no” and to move on with their life.

If we don’t teach our children that “no means no” in situations that seem unimportant, like sharing toys or food, how can we expect them to know that “No means no” as adults in situations that carry life long consequences as in forcing or coercing someone into having sex with them?

Rape culture starts at a young age. What we teach our toddlers and children about the right to say no and the responsibility to respect when people tell us no goes with them into their teen and adult years where rape and other sexual assault happens. We don’t want to teach our children the wrong thing. We want them to be able to tell someone no, with conviction, and stand up against them, when they continue to beg, but we also want to teach our children to respect the right of others to tell us no.

April is sexual assault awareness month. I was in Junior High the first time that somebody touched me without my permission and I never told anyone until a few years ago. I was 15 years old when my boyfriend raped me, I was too ashamed to tell anybody what happened for over a year and when I did tell, most people blamed me since I didn’t break up with him right away.

According the the National Sexual Violence Resource Center Website ( https://www.nsvrc.org/statistics ) one in four girls and one in six boys will be sexually abused before they turn 18 years old. One in five women and one in 71 men will experience rape in their lifetime while one in three women and one in six men will experience some form of contact sexual violence in their lifetime. If you want even more heart breaking statistics, feel free to check out that link.

The only way we are going to change rape culture is to change what we teach our kids. Instead of teaching our daughters not to get raped, (well both genders, but girls do tend to get raped at much higher rates than boys) we need to teach our kids not to rape. They need to know that “no means no,” but so does silence, and “go away,” and “leave me alone”…

If you or a loved one has been affected by sexual abuse or assault and needs help call the National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline at 1-800-656-4473 to be connected to a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area.

Holiday Hope

I have overheard people talking baout how they don’t like Christmas because of a bad childhood. I grew up in a dysfunctional family. My mom and dad separated when I was almost 7 years old and my siblings and I spent the next several years living mostly with my mom, but sometimes with my dad, but we always spent Christmas with my mom and her family.

Even though they were separated and we spent Christmas day with my mom, our Christmas tradition included both of them.

Even though my parents fought, a lot. Even though they cut me down and made me feel insignificant, a lot. Even though most of the year was filled with anger and tension, Christmas time seemed magical.

One afternoon in December, when we got home from school, my dad would decide it was Christmas tree day. We’d load into what we referred to as the “banana truck”, a yellow, Volkswagen, flatbed truck, and drive to a Christmas tree farm. We’d see a tree and if it looked good, one of us kids stood there to guard it until we decided that was the one and we cut it down, or cut down a better one. He always let the three of us take a turn with the saw too, so we each had a part in bringing home the Christmas tree. Once we had the perfect tree for that year, he’d throw it onto the back of the truck, drive us to our mom’s and set it up for us. Sometimes he’d stay while we decorated and they’d get along for the evening. The magical part, they’d get along.

Then one year, when I was in middle school, we lived with my dad, and my mom rented a room from a friend. Even though it wasn’t my mom’s own house, we were going there for Christmas and there was already a tree. The problem, for me anyway, was that we weren’t going to be in a house with Christmas spirit, leading up to Christmas. My dad wasn’t going to get a tree if we weren’t going to be there for Christmas.

That year, my siblings and I took matters into our own hands.

My sister and I went hunting for the box of Christmas decorations, while my brother raided the wood pile. He found the perfect pieces of wood to fashion together in a Christmas tree shape, it wasn’t huge, maybe 2 feet tall, but it’d work.

Then, the three of is found my dad’s supply of green butcher paper. We cut off enough to wrap around our wooden Christmas tree frame, laid it out on the floor and decorated it. We drew on ornaments and Christmas lights in bright colors. Once the paper was Christmas-y enough, we wrapped it around our frame.

We took the Christmas lights and strung them up around the room, we didn’t want to put them in our paper tree, because it was the eighties and those big, old Christmas lights got hot and we didn’t want to burn our paper tree. We even hung lights in our bedrooms.

It was perfect.

Looking back, it’s still my favorite childhood Christmas memory. My siblings and I took a bad situation and filled it with hope and love. I spent many evenings that December sitting in front of our homemade, artificial tree, with nothing but the Christmas lights to illuminate the room, dreaming of a magical life and feeling peace in the hope that I could make Christmas magical on my own.

Right now, this world we live in is dysfunctional. People are fighting, a lot. People are cutting others down and making them feel insignificant, a lot. People are filled with anger and tension, alot. We can have a magical Christmas season.

We can choose to dwell on the negative and talk about how horrible things are. We can choose to keep the divisions between us and them.

Or…

We can choose to do something else.

We can choose to work together to make the world a better place, just like my siblings and I made our house a better place.

We can choose to see hope in the holidays.

We can choose to stop fighting and start talking.

We can choose to stop cutting others down and making them feel insignificant and start building others up and letting them know how important they are.

We can choose to let the anger go and find constructive ways to release the tension, like giving to others and loving them.

Each person in this world can choose to make it a better place.

My holiday hope is that everyone chooses love and peace.

I Cried in Class!

Yes, I really did cry in class. I was up in front, teaching a lesson, when tears filled my eyes. My students got a glimpse of my vulnerable side. It was a good thing, I think. I know it was a lesson they won’t soon forget.

In my psychology classes, we are just starting our unit on mental illness. Every year, I start this unit with a lesson about ending the stigma of mental illness and the importance of getting help if you are struggling with a mental illness.

The lesson started out simply enough; we defined stigma. Here’s the definition from the Cambridge Dictionary: “a strong lack of respect for a person or a group of people or a bad opinion of them because they have done something society does not approve of:”

Then we looked specifically at the stigma associated with mental illness with this:

“Stigma refers to a cluster of negative attitudes and beliefs that motivate the general public to fear, reject, avoid and discriminate against people with mental illnesses. Stigma is not just a matter of using the wrong word or action. Stigma is about disrespect. It is the use of negative labels to identify a person living with mental illness. Stigma is a barrier. Fear of stigma and the resulting discrimination discourages individuals and their families from getting the help they need.” SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration), School Materials for a Mental Health Friendly Classroom, 2004

We had a little discussion about their attitudes towards mental illness and some facts about it, like the fact that 1 in 5 teens will experience a mental illness, which means their life will most likely be impacted in one way or another by mental illness.

Then we watched a couple of videos of teens and young adults discussing the way in which a mental illness has impacted their lives.

I ended the lesson by discussing several ways that each individual can help end the stigma surrounding mental health issues. These include: get educated about mental illnesses, listen to people talk about their personal experience with mental illness, respond to stigmatizing material in the media, speak up about stigma and watch your language.

The “watch your language” explanation was when I cried. Let me explain what happened.

I have Anxiety, Depression, PTSD and OCD. Thankfully, at the moment I am not having an episode of any of them, they have all gotten the memo that they are not invited to my party and are, so far, staying away from me. However, many of my readers know that I experience some dark times, where I feel like I’m drowning. It was the memory of one of those times that made me cry.

One of the “bonuses” of working in a high school is overhearing teenage conversations. Statements like this are common place:

“Maybe I’ll just kill myself so I won’t have to do that project/assignment…”

“I had such an OCD moment last night, I cleaned and organized my entire room.”

“I can’t sit still today, I’m so ADHD right now.”

“Oh my God! I can’t believe I just did that. I’m so retarded!”

Now, I don’t know the mental health status of all my students, but when only 1 in 5 deals with a mental illness, I can be pretty sure that many of the students who make such statements are just using the terms as adjectives.

These are mental illnesses, not adjectives!

In order to explain how this kind of talk can be stigmatizing, I chose to describe how OCD effects me at it’s worst.

In case you don’t know what OCD is, it stands for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

A person with this illness has obsessive behavior, things they have to do. It could be organizing their closet a certain way, it could be not driving over bridges, it could be having to check and recheck that the doors are locked every night before they go to bed. Whatever the behavior is, it’s obsessive.

Then there’s the compulsive part. That’s the thoughts and feelings that cause the obsessive behavior. Usually, this part involves a feeling of terror or panic. It is not just because the person has a moment and cleans their room.

So back to my story. I wanted to describe how OCD affects me.

Every evening I check all the doors to the house and make sure they’re all locked and the windows closed. In the summer a few windows are allowed to stay open if I’m not experiencing an OCD episode. However, whether I’m having an episode or not, the routine stays the same. That way if I’m having an episode of OCD, I won’t forget to do it.

When OCD is on vacation, I can check the doors once and go to bed, no problem. When OCD first comes for a visit, I will have to get out of bed a few times to check before I can fall asleep.

When OCD is at it’s most terrifying to me, I see the terrible thing that will happen to my family if I don’t get up and check the doors and windows.

OCD doesn’t let my brain just think about the terrible thing, no, OCD takes control of my imagination and shows me vivid images of it.

That’s when I cried. One of the vivid images took center stage in my brain, in the middle of the lesson. I’m not going to describe what I saw inside my head, but imagine the  worst,  gory, horror movie scene you’ve ever watched happening to your family. That’ll give you an idea of the images that flood my mind during an episode of OCD and that’s what filled my mind in that moment of my lesson.

So I cried.

They saw a mental illness’s effect on a real person that they see almost every day. Hopefully, it will help them to watch their language and realize those are mental illnesses, not adjectives.

P.S. I know that many people with OCD don’t have the same horrific images that I see. Some obsessions have much milder compulsions, but OCD is still intrusive and disruptive to the person’s life.

#endthestigma Proud Mom Brag

I have two awesome kids and I’m super proud of them a lot. They are both friendly, smart, and totally different from each other.

In this post I’m going to brag on my daughter, just to warn you.

If you don’t want to know the incredible thing she did this week, stop reading now.

If you do want to know what she did this week to make me so proud, please continue reading.

She’s in eighth grade and taking a leadership class. This past week they were assigned to give a short, informative presentation, like a TED talk, but only about 2 minutes long.

The students picked their topics and some were; the importance of the gas light in your car, art, phobias, being a blonde, being a brunette, there was even one about TED talks.

My daughter chose to talk about mental health disorders. She wanted students her age to understand how common mental health disorders are, how they affect people’s lives  and not to make fun of people who have them.

She cautioned people to not use the names of mental health disorders lightly. For example, saying you have OCD because you’re organized. She informed her classmates that saying those sorts of things can really hurt someone suffering from that mental health disorder

.

The best thing is she didn’t even tell me about the talk; she usually goes about her school life without telling me what she’s doing. A student in her class told her mom about my daughter’s talk because it made such an impression on her. That mom came and told me.

When I asked my daughter about it, she shrugged it off like no big deal. She just thought people needed to know.

I can not put into words how proud I am.

#endthestigma

Fantastic New Song by Avril Lavigne

I have been having a fantastic, busy past few weeks, I haven’t even had much time to blog, so I’ll give a quick update before I introduce this amazing new song.

Last year, I started having a hard time with the anti-anxiety medication I was on. It made me not care about anything and all I ever wanted to do was sleep, I was always sooooooo tired. I like to get one medication out of my system before starting another one, so I asked my doctor is I could take the summer off any medication so that I could see how I do without it. It’s been years since I haven’t been on medication and while it initially works, each one I’ve been on has ultimately left me feeling exhausted and not caring about anything.

By the end of May, I was off medication and I tried natural ways to relieve my anxiety. I have a regular bedtime that I do my best to keep, whether its a weekday or not. I do my best to stay away from food that is made more out of chemicals than real food. I drink far less soda than I used to and way more water. I also walk two miles most mornings before I do anything else and practice yoga stretching and breathing exercises while listening to a local Christian radio station,which a friend of mine DJs on.

Overall, I feel so much better. I have energy that I didn’t have at the end of my run with medication. I’m feeling physically fit, I can walk two miles in 30 minutes. I’m losing weight from eating better foods. I don’t feel anxious all the time about every little thing.

Having said that, my anxiety is not completely gone. I still have the occasional panic attack, complete with rapid breathing, tears, and my whole body shaking. Sometimes I know what situation has caused it, sometimes I don’t. What I do know is that all I have to do to get through it, is focus on something relaxing, and take some deep breaths until the panic passes.

I still worry about random things too. For example, this past week I was in Washington DC, where I used public transportation to get around. It was hot there, but I wouldn’t wear shorts because I didn’t want to put my bare legs on the seats in the subway trains because somebody else may have put there bare legs there. It doesn’t even matter though because I’m going to take a shower, so who cares? I did. Little things like that still cause me excessive worry, but I can function. I just wore pants and went on with my life, the same exact germs that I didn’t want on my legs got on my pants instead. It all worked itself out in the end and I had a fantastic time taking new people to one of my favorite places.

Now, to this song by Avril Lavigne, called “Head Above Water”.  The words of the song tell my story and the story of so many others who suffer with anxiety. It’s beautiful and heart-wrenching. Thank you Avril Lavigne for putting these feelings into such an amazing song and video.

This song brings hope!

To The MAN Who Yelled At My Child

Since I promised the police officer that I wouldn’t confront the man who yelled at my child, I decided to give him a piece of my mind here on my blog.

This is not a picture of him, its a random picture of an angry man from the internet. I have some manners and respect for people. I don’t take pictures of children; some with their parents, some not, while they walk by after school. I did however drive by and take a picture of his house after he yelled at my child.

So here it is my open letter to the MAN who yelled at my child,

You don’t know me nor my son and we only know you as “the man who live in the house on the corner near our school,” yet yesterday you felt it necessary and appropriate to lean over your fence, red-faced, and yell at my 10 year old son and another child about the same age, gesturing your arms wildly and using language only appropriate when slamming your thumb in the car door, or perhaps stepping on a Lego, barefoot, in the middle of the night, but never to a child.

You might say that the children were using that language too in talking to each other, and maybe they were, that does not, in any way, make it okay for you, an adult between 40 and 50 years old, to speak that way to 10 or 11 year old children. They are kids trying out language, you are an adult who should be setting an example for the children, some as young as 5 years old, who walk by your house every morning and afternoon on their way to the elementary school that you chose to live two houses away from.

Let me tell you how sorry I am. I am sorry that your life is miserable, shallow, and pathetic that you have nothing better to do than stand in your broken- toy and last-year’s-Christmas-lights littered front yard after school everyday with a camera to “catch” children on their way home from school.

I don’t know what you think you’re going to “catch” them doing with your camera. Maybe drop some trash, say some bad words? I have been picking my children up at that corner for eight years now and that’s the worst behavior I have ever seen.

I’m sorry that you feel so week that you make yourself feel better by yelling and cussing at children.

You have no idea what I wanted to do to you when I pulled up and saw you yelling at my son and that little girl. However, I am an adult and chose an adult way to deal with the situation because I want to set an example for my son and any other kids who have to deal with a bully.

I simply made a report about your bad behavior, in this case with the police department.

If you ever yell at my child again, I will make another report. If your despicable behavior towards my child continues, I will eventually make a report about harrassing my child.

You see, I am an adult. I know how to handle things in a responsible fashion, while you are among the lowest dregs of society and resort to bullying children.

An angry mom,

Mishell Wolff