20:28 I’ve been thinking for the past hour already, I think? And it’s getting heavier and heavier by the minute. I accidentally lashed out to a friend, letting my anger speak rather than my usual calm and collected self. I feel horrible. Although it went unnoticed, I still feel horrible that I said something so rude and mean like that. And now the feeling just won’t leave. Some family members were video chatting about an hour ago. I was talking to my cousin. Everything was just normal, nothing too special. It happens everyday. Then my mom said something. “Go say hi to them.” I felt sick. I wanted to cry. Thoughts are running through my head, it’s a completely tangled mess. My heart felt so heavy just thinking about facing them and even worse, talking to them. Sounds mean? Yes, I guess. But it’s nothing compared to the trauma and self-hatred they left and imprinted in me. I’m turning 20 this year. Twenty. I’ve been alive for almost two decades now. Two fucking decades. And a quarter of it was filled with nothing but insecurity. I don’t know where it started. All I know is as soon as I got consciousness and started understanding things and words, I’ve always been fat-shamed. I remember being three or four years old in kindergarten and being called fat by my classmates and my family.
I was 4 years old. All I knew was to eat, play, go to school, sleep, have fun. Like what a normal four-year-old should be doing. And the one family member suddenly called me fat. They told me I’m fat, and I’m too big for my age and I should lose weight. That I should diet to lose weight and stop being fat. A four-year-old. I was taught that being fat is bad. That I should not be fat and just be thin like what normal people should be. I was very sad that time, because I feel like a different person. Why am I fat? Why am I like everybody else? Why do I wear large clothes while my friends wear size small?
I was 4 years old. All I knew was to eat, play, go to school, sleep, have fun. Like what a normal four-year-old should be doing.
And the one family member suddenly called me fat. They told me I’m fat, and I’m too big for my age and I should lose weight. That I should diet to lose weight and stop being fat.
A four-year-old.
I was taught that being fat is bad. That I should not be fat and just be thin like what normal people should be. I was very sad that time, because I feel like a different person. Why am I fat? Why am I like everybody else? Why do I wear large clothes while my friends wear size small?
I was four years old. And my thoughts were infiltrated by such negative thoughts.
Being in elementary school, I was always bullied. Why? Because I’m fat. Whenever I join games with my classmates, I always lose because my body is not as flexible as them. I can’t jump as high as them. When I jump, they make fun that there’s an earthquake because of how heavy I am.
I started excluding myself in their games. I prefer just watching them, seeing them jump high and have fun, laugh at themselves and enjoy the game. I was envious of them. They’re very light and can jump so easily in the air. I can’t do that. I was too heavy to do that.
Even at home, it never stops. I was always made fun of at how big my arms and thighs are. I’m always teased that I’m always in the kitchen that’s why I’ve gotten this fat. I stopped eating snacks in hopes that I’ll lose weight.
Fifth grade. One of my worst years ever.
I tried to kill myself.
My mom was working in Singapore, my dad is studying to be a teacher, my brother started kindergarten. I was left with just my grandparents who also have their own lives to leave.
My parents were still fighting everyday. My dad told me that starting that day, I’ll be the one responsible for getting the money from my mom and not him anymore. I broke down in front of him, words couldn’t find its way to my mouth.
I remember our English requiring us to write in our daily diary to keep track of our life. I just bullshitted my entries there, saying I’m happy, everything’s fine, Miles is very normal :D
I love collecting notebooks. And each notebook there was at least one written goodbye letter in it. It became a habit. I write suicide letter whenever I could. I could die any day, and I want to leave a letter.
I found them again recently. I was nine years old and my letters were full of anger. Full of spite, full of hatred, full of bitterness. I was nine years old. Thinking about it now, how fucked up was I that I started writing suicide letters full of hatred at the age of 9?
It was horrible, and I kept thinking everyday that it will be the last day I’ll live. It was too tempting to jump off our building from the fourth floor, imagining my bones crack at the contact with the concrete floor. Thinking of how my blood gets splattered on the floor as I twitch in pain and take my last breath.
Thinking about it was satisfying to me.
Seventh grade came and I grew up. I grew taller and lost some weight. Still, I was bullied and kept thinking how fat I am.
It was a horrible year too. I felt so excluded from our class, I was still being shitted at home like it usually does. I think I forgot what happiness was during this time.
I have really few friends. And this one friend influenced me the most.
I saw scars on her wrist. I was confused. How can someone get scars that many? So I asked her, genuinely curious. What happened to her? I was concerned, of course.
She told me she was cutting. She wasn’t clear why but it’s understandable. It must’ve been too personal. I asked her how it felt and why she kept doing it. She said it feels nice and it makes her feel alive. She loves the feeling of cold blade slitting through her wrists, she loves the way the blood comes out of her cuts. I was confused why.
Then one day, we had to go to her house to do a project. We finished it early and so we watched a movie and still, we have a lot of time left. Suddenly, she closed the door of her room and smiled at us.
“I’m gonna show you how I do my cuts.”
I was very curious. My other friend and I couldn’t say anymore since she already had the blade in her hands. She showed it to us closely, showed us how she pushed it against her skin, how the blood started coming out, and then she sliced it open.
She did more of it, my friend and I just watched. We were all young and we didn’t know it was bad. I didn’t think of stopping her, we didn’t do anything about it but watch. Watched as she smiles while harming herself.
It got to me soon. I was curious. I kept thinking how did it feel good when you hurt yourself? How do you feel alive by hurting and leaving a mark on yourself that you know will never leave?
I went to the nearest store with a twenty-peso bill in hand. I asked for a blade. They gave me one and I paid for it. I hid it from my grandparents as I went up the stairs and into my room.
I stared at it for a long time, playing with it in my hands. Twirling it around, feeling the sharpness against my fingers. It was really sharp and it already gave a small cut on my skin.
Slowly, I sank the blade into my wrists. It felt good. I smiled. Now I understand why my friend liked it. The pain felt good. Physical pain felt better than the mental and emotional torture I carry everyday. The physical pain made me happy.
It was so fucked up. I got addicted to it. I carved “FAT” on my arm since that’s what I was anyway. Everyday, I kept looking at the freshly-carved scar on my arm to remind me what I am. What I really am.
Fat.
It went on until I’m in 8th, 9th, 10th grade. Everyday I would have fresh cuts in my wrist and arm. It was hard to stop when the pain was addicting. But I kept track of myself. I really wanted to be clean already.
It went on until I’m in 8th, 9th, 10th grade. Everyday I would have fresh cuts in my wrist and arm. It was hard to stop when the pain was addicting. But I kept track of myself. I really wanted to be clean already.
Looking back at my 9th grade photos, I kept thinking this waa the healthiest I’ve been. My body was just right because I lost weight. But it was also the worst year of my mental health.
My old habits were back. I write suicide letters everyday, I kept on wanting to kill myself, I do more and deeper cuts than I usually do.
Still, I kept thinking I was fat and I should lose more weight. I was 55 kilograms, and my goal was to be 35 kilograms. I was 15 years old.
I wanted to die everyday. I loathe myself, I hate seeing myself, I kept thinking how I wasn’t good enough in anything. I’m a huge failure, I’m the most stupid in the family, and I’m the most worthless of them all.
My senior years in high school might be the healthiest years of my mental health. I was happy, I was doing good in school, I stopped cutting myself. There’s still the insecurity, of course, but it was milder than it usually is.
I still think I’m fat. The thought never went away. But during this time, I didnt care.
The last two years of me as a teen was probably the worst and the most exhausting yet.
My suicidal thoughts were back. I feel pressure everyday to the point where I don’t want to do anything anymore. I’m more scared to do things now than before. I’m scared of trying because I’m scared of failing. I’m fucking scared of living my life.
Not a single day passed where I never thought of killing myself. Just the mere thought of me dying was enough to comfort me. To take my last breath, my last grip, my last everything. I love thinking of it.
And yes, I’m still fat. And I’m more insecure now than I ever was.
This summer was the worst of it all, on top of all the gruel things happening in the world. Every single fucking day, I hear a comment about my weight, about my appearance, about how I should lose weight.
I’ve come to the point now where I eat once a day, sometimes nothing at all just to lose weight. Even when I do eat, I try to get it out of my system as fast as I could. I feel guilty for eating that I have to get it out immediately.
Still, I get called fat and was always told to lose weight.
Sometimes I just want to cry in front of them. Tell them this, tell them that I’m really fucking trying. But I know they wouldn’t understand. No one does.
I lost energy to do anything now. I hate writing, I hate making videos, I hate everything that I do. Whenever I do something, there’s a voice inside my head telling me to stop it because I’m ruining everything. Stop because I’m no use. Stop because I’m gonna fail anyway.
I’ve planned to go see a therapist multiple times already but it was too expensive. I don’t want to tell my parents because they wouldn’t understand. They would just say it will be a waste of money, that it’s all in my head and that I’m ungrateful for not being happy when I have all that I want.
It’s hard battling with my own mind everyday. It’s very tiring and I wish it would just stop. I want to rest. I want to rest forever. I want it all to stop.
When I was a kid, I’ve always thought I’d never reach the age 20. Maybe I was right though. I still got a few months left to make it true.
All these thoughts were gathered by a single non-harmful sentence: “Go say hi to them.”
Say hi to them and fat? Hear their comments about my weight, my ugly face, and make me feel insecure? Say hi to them and let them pick on me and push me down even farther that I won’t be able to get up.
Until now that I’m typing this, I can hear their voices making rude comments about me. Insulting me. Badmouthing me.
And then they wonder why I lock myself in my room during family gatherings :)
