Boarding school trauma

I spent four years at this place in England — Stowe school:

If it looks beautiful to you, let me confirm — it’s absolutely stunning. It’s truly one of the most beautiful, picturesque places I’ve ever been to. People pay to have special once-in-a-life events at Stowe, like weddings; and I walked on Stowe grounds every day, for hundreds of days. When you’re young you tend to be less aware of the aesthetic aspect of your surroundings, but my schoolmates and I — we were teenagers — understood even then that we were in a very special place.

Yet, my boarding school years left a scar. Without Stowe, my life journey — with its incredible intensity, international travels, and the experience of some of the world’s most renowned institutions, would have been a lot less special probably. Still, the scar is there. In my 40s now, I’m still a little upset with my parents. I’m still reconciling their decision to send me away. I wouldn’t do it to my kids. I don’t understand why anyone would send their kid away to boarding school, save for some special circumstances — say, when parents are separated.

No, I wasn’t bullied. I mean, sure, it was a tough environment — every now and then I had to stand up for myself or just learn to tolerate being teased or insulted. But we all had to. I was a Russian twat (and a nerd — I did very well academically), my friend from Pakistan was a fat Paki, and the ginger German exchange student whose English was very broken had a really tough time (apparently his shampoo was pissed in; well, that’s bullying for sure). It wasn’t always related to one’s race or nationality. Everyone was marginalized at some point and attacked, my English mates too — directly or behind the back. Over the years though not only did we grow thick-skinned but became truly great mates with a lot of respect for each other; today we still share a very special bond, even we haven’t seen each other for decades, even if we are on different continents. So I’m not complaining about that side of things. Well, maybe just a little; it was still rough at times.

But I missed my home, I missed my bed, I missed my room. I missed the solitude of my own room, the privacy…