I was a fat girl.
I was, am, maybe will always be a fat girl
But, that’s only because you labeled me that way
I could be 75 pounds, unable to lift the weight of my own head and you’ll still look at me and say “maybe you should eat less”, only after I’m dead would you even be able to force yourself to say the words “oh what a…beautiful girl”
The stigma that comes with having been fat is akin to the one you get when you’ve slept with too many guys, that label following you and following you and following you, amen.
A giant brand blazing across your skin as an apology for the way your are, “sorry this girl has too many stretch marks”, “this girl has had too many boyfriends”, “this girl is too tall/too short/too ugly”, but the worst sin being “she’s fat”
In highschool I gave in to that label and pushed myself to my limits to lose the weight, to be who I wanted to be, I would have more friends, I could date more guys, maybe I could fit in
Accustomed to sitting in class, head down, whispers claiming me, renaming me as the one who shouldn’t exist because being fat took me away and left a giant, ugly husk that everyone could gauge their own insecurities by
“At least I’m not like her”
But the saddest thing is when I met my goal I still couldn’t leave that place, and instead became invisible. The people who had poked fun at me, at my love handles, my double chin, my thunder thighs, looked through me as though I had died and was hanging around as a sad ghostly figure of the fat girl
A social pariah for being fat and then having the audacity to lose what made me, me.
Then came college where it was a whole new world and I shed that name but only for awhile because due to unforeseen circumstances I became depressed and ate my feelings and once again saw her, me, in the mirror filling out, hating herself, documenting each and every inch of ballooning self with the look of someone who is drowning
“Please, please help me”
Unable to face the shame and the once stigmatization of being the “fat girl” I tried to kill myself instead believing that if I did that I would be better off than no longer being a workable, sexual tool to humanity because who would want to fuck 300 pounds of quivering flesh, goodbye ghost girl
But, the heroine or the victim or the incredibly stupid insecure girl (whichever label you so choose) survived. And now I live my life facing people who tell me I “would prettier if…” and “you looked amazing when…” but I also know no matter what that I am a beautiful just girl and that if I want to claim myself as whoever I choose to be I can and I don’t have to carry the whole world’s criticism on my back because having boobs is hard enough.
Its been over a week since we last talked. It’s killing me. People I know ask about you, about us. And I know this sounds ridiculous, but saying your name feels like acid on my fucking tongue. Seeing that when my phone goes off and it isn’t you, feels like a punch directly into my ribcage. And knowing you’re perfectly okay without my existence in your life is most definitely an unbearable emptiness.
Lately all I do is sleep and talk to my best friend. Aside showering, because that feels like I’m washing you out of my system for a while. Bummer though, when I’m done, you’re still there. You’re in my veins.
I don’t eat a whole lot anymore. I’ve been determined to lose the weight I loathe so much. I’ve actually been exercising, the pain feels good. Because the pain reminds me that I’m still alive. At least that fills the emptiness for a while. But every time the pain subsides and the emptiness settles again, its worse.
This may seem a bit extreme. I know you’ve left me before. But, let me explain.
Two years, 4 months, and 16 days, and I think this is the end. This is where we say goodbye, and this is where we part ways. And that, my love, is the emptiness in my chest. That is the non-existent motivation. That is the acid on my tongue. That. That two years, 4 months, and 16 fucking days, is my sentence of pure misery. Because I am left with the memories. And I know you have them too, but I also know they don’t mean as much to you.
- ( via tea-and-marlboro )
Siempre hay una persona que te ayuda, te escucha y te sube el autoestima, que te hace sentir ¿bien?. Pero cuando el día sigue y te cruzas con otras personas que no son como vos, todo ese autoestima termina en el suelo. Ves chicas que la ropa le queda linda, reciben miradas mientras vos sos la de atras, la que es criticada y hace que nada de lo que le dicen le importa mientras contiene las lágrimas para que no se den cuenta que de verdad te molesta. Esa soy yo.