growing up
My first negative thought about myself came from my first bully at 4 years old, i can’t remember her name, and she always called me a baby and blew raspberries at me and laughed when i fell. i think she pushed me over one time. i remember being bullied a little too well. i remember the shame, the humiliation, the dread of waking up every morning and facing the scary school full of scary people and their scary words. my first memory of hating my body also came from when i was 4 and in the shower, and i looked down, almost in tears, at my stomach. i called my mother into the bathroom and her voice sounded weird as she reassured me i was perfect and beautiful and had nothing to worry about- i realized a decade and a half later what i heard was devastation. skipping a grade takes a toll on a kid. i remember, even as a 5 year old, people felt like i was too much- too loud, too smart, too distracted, too annoying, too underdeveloped, too young. skipping a grade takes a toll on a kid. at six years old, my first best friend, carlos, decided being friends with a girl wasn’t cool anymore. i also got my first boyfriend that year. i broke up with him because he wanted to kiss me. at 8 years old, a girl named maria decided we should do what our parents do during the nighttime. at 9 i changed schools and met my next best friend, who ditched as quickly as i ditched that school when i turned 10. that’s when the bullying got worse. no one likes a middle schooler who’s 10 years old. at eleven i cried over everything, constantly. when i was 12 i met my lifelong best friend, who would, over time, hear all these stories and more. being 13 years old as a freshman is a horrific experience full of tears and wonder and soul-crushing emotions that make you want to lay in bed all day long with no real longing for anything, forcing yourself to enjoy anything in your life. i remember starving myself for the first time as a 14 year old while my friends begged me to eat, bribing me with my favorite foods. at 15 i felt like i didn’t belong with them, i was out of place and they only pretended to like me. i took the frustration out on my wrists. i remember it getting worse at 16, surviving off of celery sticks, ibuprofen, and iced coffee. it quickly became a hybrid of not just low self-esteem but a lack of control over everything going on in my life. i didn’t understand why boys were mean and why their words were scary. i didn’t understand why they didn’t love me the way i loved them. when i turned 17, i didn’t understand why they refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. i didn’t understand why my father hadn’t texted me in 6 months and it was still my fault. when i turned 18, my mother and i stopped being best friends. when i turned 19, i slowly started to love myself. when i turned 20, i rekindled my relationship with my parents. when i turned 21, i felt like me again. as i come on my last week before i turn 22, i realize i have no idea who i am yet, but as i look back on who i used to be, i know that it’s okay.
