The news this week reminded me of something I did when I was a target at school, letting us out on the playground.

Something that fended off the fear and anxiety I felt this week from the outside, and more and more lately.

Watching the news was upsetting, fighting. It brought back memories of my being bullied by people who cared nothing for me and cared nothing about what I felt or thought.

I decided to fight back in my own way, to make the bullies the guilty ones in my mind, the suffering ones. I resolved to be strong and pity them. I still feel that way. I wanted to give them back the fear and sadness they had given me, but not in a violent way.

I pity people who are hateful, cruel, and angry. A few weeks ago, I saw videos of a pregnant immigrant mother – a school aide in Chicago – who was dragged out of her workplace, knocked down, refused a call to her children, flown away to a detention center somewhere in Texas, and then taken to South America without a chance to call her family or an attorney.

She was last hurt begging for her captors to let her say goodbye to her students, who were terrified by her arrest.

They refused to let her call anyone. She was a criminal, they said.

People who do that and who endorse it, I believe, are the true victims. This was my idea to think about it. To do that and brag about it was a sign of a broken soul, a person in pain, a person without the ability or gift to empathize. I pity a country that would unleash and celebrate captures like that every day. It must also be broken.

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The teachers in my school those years ago took advantage of that time to take a break, leaving us all alone. I was a target of kids, mostly Irish bullies fresh from hard times in Ireland. They were victims too.

I was an anxious kid, puzzled by my frightening Dyslexia, prone to ridicule and accidents in a time when kids were punished for them by their teachers. They were considered character flaws. They know nothing about disorders.

The bullying in the playgrounds was relentless and cruel, from name-calling to punching and kicking to having lunch money stolen and pants ripped. If I went to the teachers, it would only be worse.

One day, I played hooky and spent a few hours near the school, but hidden in the bushes. The only tool and comfort I had was my mind. That was my weapon, my savior. No bully could take my thoughts away. No teacher could punish me for being frightened.

Not far from my house, where I lived, there was a huge cemetery with marble mausoleums and crypts where I could go and hide. They were my safe place. No one bothered me there, except for the occasional policeman who took me home.

Sitting on one, chewing on my lunch sandwich, I had this idea that I wasn’t alone. I did have a way to empower my mind, although I didn’t put it in that way. It was me.

With my mind, I could be tough, fearless, feared, and admired. And so it was. That was the picture I began to draw for myself, in my own head.

My assailants were the piteous ones. They didn’t know good from bad. I returned to the playground and worked at believing that my torturers were the victims, my mind was a sanctuary, and my soul was my champion. I was not a victim; they were. Imagine the lives of people who revel in doing that to other people.

To hate, I thought, was a sickness. I didn’t want it, I didnt want to feel it. Over time, this gave me strength, a way of sicking myself that could not be beaten, or humiliated.

It didn’t matter; I couldn’t care what they all thought of me; it mattered what I thought of me. My mind was the answer. I could never do the things to them that they did to me, and that made me better and worthy. The more they did, the sorrier I was for them. I could take it away from me and give it to the people who deserve it.

It helped me to do that. I turn the hate and cruelty and give it to the people who use it on the helpless and needy. I feel better.

It still helps me.

Watching the news this past week brought back that time and feeling. I’m doing the same thing in response. The heartless are missing a big chunk of their soul.

It works. I give all the hatred back. They are the victims, not me. My meditation was exciting. These are frightening times at times. I needed my mind.

My mind is my sanctuary, my iron wall. No one could take it away, then or now.