Saturday, February 18, 2017

"Never look down on anyone, unless you're helping them up." ~ Jesse Jackson

I am a good person.

I am not perfect, believe me, I am far from perfect. But no one is perfect. And I strongly believe that no individual human being is better than any other individual human being. We are all the same, just trying our best in this broken, divided, depressing world, not knowing what the hell we're really doing, but faking it the best we can. Because adulting is hard. 

We try our best. Because:

The only person you should try to be better than is the person you were yesterday. 

However, I find myself feeling... jealous (for lack of a better term) of other women because they are able to have the one thing I cannot: more children.

So many of my friends, ex friends, people I'm friends with online {but not really friends with,} and a few drug addicts I know, are able to have 2, 3, 4 kids, just popping one out after another, no problem. I have moments when I wish I were able to get pregnant that easily, but then apart of me believes that my son is my little miracle. Maybe he is the only child I am supposed to have because he is going to do great things and change the world. 

And even though girls talk incessantly, and never shut up (I used to babysit my niece when she was 2-3, and OMG she never stopped talking!) I've always wanted a little girl. My little Skyelar Violet, with her blonde hair just like her brother, and her hazel/green eyes just like her Daddy. My husband and I tried for 2 years to get pregnant. But I have ovarian cysts, and he was a tank driver for the USMC, which supposedly means there is a 50/50 chance he's sterile. 

And ... I'm not good at many things, but I am a good mother. And I love my son more than my own life. If he needed two kidneys, he could have both of mine. 

What makes me so angry is when someone I know, who isn't a good mother, is able to have kids like it's no big deal. They're all Fertile Myrtle's. 
And when I say "isn't a good mother," I mean ... they are incredibly selfish. These women are not the type of people who put their kids needs before their own; they are self obsessed, and use their kids like accessories. Like a chihuahua in a purse they carry around, except it's a baby, and they fish for compliments on how cute their baby is... because we all know that's the only thing that matters about kids. As long as they're cute... 

And yes, we all believe our kids are cute, and they usually are, but teaching our kids important knowledge {before they start school} is vital to how they will do in school. As early as possible, it's so important to teach them letters and colors and numbers and, if you speak two languages, TEACH THEM BOTH! Speak everything you say to them in both languages. I read to Dylan all the time when he was little, as did his Grandparents, and when he was 3 years old, he came into my room with "Harold and the Purple Crayon" and he started reading it to me. Fluidly.  I couldn't believe how good of a reader he was before he even started Pre-school.

Now that I am going to be 33, and my son is almost 12, I've lost the urge to have another baby. Or maybe I've just lost hope that it could ever happen... I have moments when I want another one, and moments where I'm like, "Nope! No more diapers, no more temper tantrums, no more lack of sleep, no more 3am bottle feedings, no more messes, no more CRYING, ETC."  

But it does hurt how ... sad things happen to good people. To good mothers. And there isn't anything that can be done about it. 

I am not better than you. There are times when a person has more knowledge about a specific subject than you do, for example, I know nothing about cars. But my husband does. So, when I have any type of car trouble, I ask him about it and he checks it out and fixes it, or tells me there's nothing wrong. But that's not being BETTER than a person, that's just HAVING KNOWLEDGE in a specific subject that other people may not. 

I know how to write. But I don't talk very well. I get nervous, and stumble over my words and sometimes stutter, but with writing, you can always go back and edit what you've wrote. 

There is no backspace button on verbal words. 

I am lucky. I was able to have one amazing kid, and I try to be the best mom I can be for him. And for almost 6 years now, I've had a step-son, who's had a difficult beginning, and needs a stable female role model in his life. He's lived with us for 16 months now. Things are getting better, but he is starting go to through puberty, so the next few years are going to be SO MUCH FUN! Gotta love that teenage attitude... 

But I am grateful for everything in my life. I am so lucky to have such an amazing husband and great kids. 

I wish I could help others. I wish there were a way for me to reach out to someone who needs help, without being mocked. How do you help a person who doesn't understand the concept of compassion? How do you tell them you want to help them, you want to lift them up? I genuinely want to support this person and make them see just now capable they are despite of their flaws, their problems, their history. 

But... I don't think she would ever let me help her. And I worry if she did, it wouldn't mean a thing to her. 

I am a good person. But I am not better than anyone. 

I just want to be better than I was yesterday. 

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

"Oy with the poodles already... " ~ Lorelai Gilmore

When I was 17, a senior in high school, I started watching a TV show called “Gilmore girls.”  You might be familiar with it. It's become pretty popular thanks to Netflix and the revival that came out on November 25, 2016. I remember the day I started watching it. I remember the very first episode I ever watched.

It was October 9, 2001. I had just turned 17 eleven days prior, and I was determined to do good in school that year. But that's how every school year started for me--a fresh start, not failing, or barley passing, anything, and I had the chance to start off with good grades. So, one Tuesday morning, a friend of mine asked me if she could come over that night to watch "Dawson's Creek" on my TV since she lived with her Dad, and he only had satellite TV, and for some reason, they didn't get the WB (which is now the CW). Or maybe it was "One Tree Hill", I can't remember, but I said, “Sure, that's fine. I have to write a paper for PIG (Participation In Government) tonight, but you can hang out in my room and watch it.” 

So, around 7:45 that night, she showed up at my door, and I showed her to my room so she could watch her show, and I went back into my moms room, because that's where the computer was so I could type and print my paper.

Not long after, my friend peered into my moms bedroom and said, “I was wrong. Tonight was "Gilmore girls", not Dawson's Creek (or One Tree Hill).”

I said, “Oh, okay. Well, you can still watch it.”

And she was like, “No, I'm going to get going. I'll see you tomorrow.”

I said, “Okay. Later.”

She'd left the TV in my bedroom on, so once I finished my paper and printed it out, I went back into my bedroom, stuffed my paper into a folder and into my backpack, and plopped down on my bed, super proud of myself that I actually did my homework. 

Because I seriously never did homework. Like, ever.

The scene on my screen was of a woman with dark hair and blue eyes drinking a martini, with some guy with dark hair, at a restaurant having dinner, and the woman said something about the man being “eye candy,” and I thought, 'hey that's kinda funny.' So, I kept on watching.

At first, I thought the woman, whom I learned to be named Lorelai, was kind of a bitch. Granted, this was my opinion with no other background history in my head except for her complaining about her parents and how she was jealous of the guy's (who I learned to be Max) parents, and how much they cared about the fact that they were getting married.

The episode was almost over, there were maybe fifteen minutes left, but I learned quickly that her mother was Emily, and she could never keep a maid in the house in the 32 years Lorelai had been alive, and I found out that Lorelai had had a baby when she was sixteen. 

For some reason, maybe being a 17 year old myself, the idea of watching a TV show about a mother who had a child around my age was super appealing. Not because I wanted to have a baby that young, but I did have a super strong desire to have a baby in general. I always wanted to be a mother. Not at 17, but eventually. 
So, I continued watching “Gilmore girls,” and I remember thinking, this show isn't like any other show I've ever seen. The dialogue was super quick, and witty, and just fucking brilliant, and Lorelai and Rory (whose name I hated at first, and to this day, I cannot figure out how “Rory” is a nickname for “Lorelai”...) until I realized her name was actually Lorelai. I was torn on that—being a name snob myself, I liked that Lorelai named Rory after herself, because men do it all the time and I could see the feminist side to it, but also kind of disappointed that she had no originality and didn't name her something super awesome like Skye or Storm or Khaleesi.
I started watching "Gilmore girls" right at the beginning of season two. I had never seen season one until the DVD's were released on box-set a few years later, when I actually was pregnant with my son. It's been a staple in my life, something I watch when I'm sick or sad to help me feel better, something that taught me how to be, and how not to be, a mother, and something that my son and I have come to bond over, now that he is almost 12. 
These two fictional woman who drink massive amounts of coffee and talk faster than Donald Trump on cocaine, have played a major role in my life, in who has shaped me into the person I am today—the mother I am today. My relationship with my mother is similar to Lorelai's relationship with Emily, and my relationship with my son is a lot like Lorelai and Rory. I hope one day when he's older, we can be friends. I like him. He's a great, cool, smart, funny, sweet boy, who I hope one day will turn out to be a great, cool, smart, funny sweet man. People tell me I am a good mother. My mother tells me I am a way better mother than she ever was, and I love my mother, I really do, but she's right. My mother taught me how not to be a mother. And Lorelai Gilmore taught me how to be a mother. 
I was only 19 when I got pregnant. I was in college. I was young, not as young as Lorelai, but still pretty young. I was 20 when Dylan was born. 
I remember his father and I discussing baby names when I was pregnant, before we knew it was a boy. At the time, I wanted Skyelar Mackenzie for a girl, and Blake Alexander if it were a boy. My ex hated both names. He hated 'Blake' because he knew a Blake when he was a kid who gave him bad associations, and he hated 'Skyelar' because he thought it sounded too much like “snake”, which was weird and completely untrue, but whatever. So, he suggested, “Why not Lorelai?” And I did consider it for a while... even though my whole family was like, “NO! Skyelar is a gorgeous name for a girl, and Lorelai is stupid!” 

While I didn't think 'Lorelai' was a stupid name, I was still madly in love with the name 'Skyelar.' But, we found out it was a boy (which was my gut instinct the whole time, but I couldn't admit it in case I was wrong... because that would make me a bad mother, duh) and we eventually, after days of debating, agreed on “Dylan.” {The second time I suggested it. He said 'no' the first time.} 

I always thought 'Dylan' was the cool kid name, like Dylan McKay from the original “90210” played by Luke Perry. I used to sneak watching it sometimes, even though I was only 10 years old, but Dylan from 90210 was SO COOL. So, whenever I thought of a person named "Dylan", I automatically believe them to be "cool". 

I told Dylan this story, and I said, “If you were a girl, there's a good chance your name would have been Lorelai.”

And he said, “Cool.”

In 2007, when "Gilmore girls" ended, it was like my life came to an abrupt halt, because we didn't get the right ending. While finishing up Season 6, Amy Sherman-Palladino and her husband, Dan Palladino, the creators and head writers of the show, went to the Network and said they wanted two more seasons of "Gilmore girls", because they were sick of living on a one-season-at-a-time contract, and if the Network didn't agree, Amy and Dan would leave the show. The problem was, this was at the time when the WB and UPN were merging into one network; the CW. So, for whatever reason this new network had, they told Amy and Dan, "No. You have one more season." 

So, ASP and DP left the show. And season seven was a failed attempt at making a show seem like the show it was before without success. The writers tried, they really did, but NO ONE can write like Amy Sherman-Palladino. No One. Every episode of season seven, we all watched with a cringe and a universal feeling of, "It's just not the same." 

It was like in season one, when Rachel came to Stars Hollow for Luke and she decided to stay, and Luke didn't believe her at first, but Lorelai talked to him and he came around, and at the end of the episode, Rachel poured Lorelai and Rory a cup of coffee, and Rory was like, "Huh... does it taste different to you?" And Lorelai was like, "Yeah. It does." 




Season seven tastes like a really bad cup of coffee. And WE LOVE COFFEE! 

So, I began a vicious cycle. I'd watch my DVD's of "Gilmore girls" (I own all 7 seasons) all the time, on repeat, and when season 6 ended (I've only watched season 7 3 times... because I just can't do it.) I'd start over again with season one, and everything was good in the world again. And I did this for 9 years. Not non stop, there were times, I'd go weeks, even months, without watching it, but whenever there was nothing good on TV, or if we didn't currently have TV to watch because we were too broke to pay for cable, I came back to watching my "Gilmore girls" DVD. 

And then it came on Netflix. Even though I owned all of them, I was so excited for them to be on Netflix because that meant I didn't have to change the disc every 4 episodes! And I could watch it on my laptop and screen shot certain quotes (like above) with the captions on. It made my life easier. I could watch it anywhere, anytime, even on my iPhone! 

And because of Netflix, and all the beautiful millennials who started to watch the show for the first time, we got what we'd been dreaming of for 9 fucking years. We got a revival. 

When the news first leaked online, I didn't believe it at first because the internet has punked me before about a Gilmore revival. So, I waited until other people confirmed it, like ET or Netflix or Lauren Graham herself... and lo and behold, it wasn't a hoax. It was real.

"Gilmore girls" was coming back. And I fucking cried. I jumped up and down and squealed like a fifteen year old at a One Direction concert. I had never been more excited for anything in my entire life--and I had FRONT ROW tickets to John Mayer (for my 19th birthday) AND Backstreet Boys (my mother actually won them on the radio right before my 21st birthday). 

The woman who taught me how to be a mother was returning to, possibly, the greatest fictional small town ever created, Stars Hollow, and with it was the genius mastermind behind it all--Amy Sherman-Palladino. After all these years, we were finally getting the ending we were promised. We were finally getting the "last 4 words" Amy had planned from the very beginning. We were finally getting the CLOSURE we never got with season 7!  

The reason I am writing this ridiculously long blog post is because I've recently come to a big realization about why I couldn't ever stop watching the show. I'd watch it on repeat for years and never got sick of it, but I also never got any closure. But now that the revival has happened, and I've watched it a good 4 times, I have closure. And I haven't watched the show since. 

Don't get me wrong, I still love "Gilmore girls" and I'll always come around to watching it again. It's had such a positive impact on my life, and never fails to cheer me up when I'm sad or sick or having a bad day. But the almost obsessive need to watch it is gone. I'm finally able to move on! It's a weird feeling, and maybe I'm just completely insane for everything in this post, but that's who I am. I'm a Gilmore junkie, and I finally got the dose I've been jonesing for for 9 years.  So, thank you millennials and Netflix for making this dream of mine come true. I honestly never thought it would happen. How many TV shows get a second chance? All we ever hoped for was one movie, and we ended up with four. Even if the show doesn't come back for more in a few years (which I've heard talks of it being a possibility) I will still be content with what we got. It's a lot more than most, and I am forever grateful to finally know the last four words that dangled over my head for 16 years. 


Thursday, January 19, 2017

Venting

Shit that bothers the fuck out of me: December 30, 2016 My kid comes home from his Dad's and was opening presents. My kid opens his TV. Step-Kid: "Uhh is that TV bigger than mine?" ("Mine" is actually MY TV that MY mom gave ME for Christmas in 2014, but when we moved, I was NICE enough to give it to BOTH KIDS, but in reality, it ended up being "Step-Kids" because the spoiled little shit head can't share.) Husband: "No, it's the same size." I open up the box, and Husband helps me slide the TV out. Husband and I look at each other. It's actually a little smaller... We thought the TV was a 24 inch so that's what we got for My Kid; turns out other TV is a 27 inch. Oh, well. Step-Kid: (laughs) "It's looks smaller than mine." *MY KID: "Doesn't matter. At least I have a TV now."* RIGHT THERE is the difference between spoiled and GRATITUDE.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

I am Norma Bates


Norma: Honey, go inside the house. Hide. Hide.
I-I just... I was mad. Okay, baby?
{Scene cuts to upstairs bedroom}
(CLOTHING UNZIPS)
(SIGHS) Okay. Sam.
(DARK OMINOUS MUSIC)
(CLOTHING TEARS)
(SPITS)
(GRUNTING)
(PANTING AND GROANING)
(Norma's hand falls onto the floor, unknowingly, Norman is hiding under their bed. He reaches out to her, and she squeezes his little 7 year old hand as she's being raped.)
(DRAMATIC PIANO MUSIC)

Norman [as Norma] to Doctor Edwards: I don't want him to know these things. It will kill both of us. Please, Doctor, if you have a heart, don't make him remember these things.
(DRAMATIC MUSIC)

--------

Alex: What the hell? What the hell? What was that? What?

Norma: When I was, um, a teenager... It was a long time ago... um... I slept with my brother. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry to have to tell you this. Oh, it's horrible. I'm sorry. He's Dylan's father.

Alex: The guy that I had dinner with?

Norma: Caleb, yeah.

Alex: Norma, you... you were young. It... it was a mistake.

Norma: Mistake? It was not a mistake. It was a way of life. It happened for years. I loved him. Our home life was torture, and we were all we had. I finally tried to stop it, and, um, he got really upset and he raped me. You know how horrible it is to be raped by someone you love? (SNIFFLES) And I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. But I don't hate him enough to hurt him. And it's a mess because I don't know if part of why I hate Caleb so much is because I hate myself. (SNIFFLES) All in a day's work. (DRAMATIC MUSIC) So now you know who you're married to. And I should have told you before, but I've never loved anyone enough to feel obligated to be honest with them. And... And I just... It... it sucks. It sucks because I can't hide. And I want to, but I can't.



Monday, February 15, 2016

Biggest Pet Peeves Post

Biggest pet peeve - Tardiness. If you tell me you'll be here at 1pm, I expect you to be here at that time, I'll accept a 10-15 minute window, I'd even be okay if you were early, but if you are going to be late, and it's due to circumstances out of your control, at least call or TEXT me, so I can prepare. Waiting for anything, appointments, people, anything, gives me serious anxiety! 2nd biggest Pet Peeve -- When I tell someone "OMG I LOVE *insert whatever food or drink here*!" And they've never had it, so they try it and they say, "Oh, that IS good! I LOVE this!" And continue to eat/drink it. Then a month, or 2 months, or however long later, they tell me, "You know when you made that *insert food here*, I'm so sorry, but I have to admit, I hated it! OMG I'm so sorry, but it was BAD." ..... PLEASE *DO NOT* EVER DO THIS TO ME, EVER. Because I REMEMBER THIS SHIT. So, if I know you're coming over for dinner, or whatever, I'll remember the time you said you LOVED it, so I'll make it again, thinking you LOVED it, and then I make it, and find out you hated it, and I feel like A GIANT FUCKING TURD, and an IDIOT. Seriously, you don't have to like everything I like or make, so don't freaking LIE to me about it, to "spare my feelings", because THAT makes me feel EVEN WORSE! THANKS. #AnxietyProblems

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Diagnosis: Bipolar Disorder

At 31 years old, I have been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.


I've been given a new medication to help control my mood swings, and manic episodes. 



I am moving up to 300 mg in a couple of days, and I am honestly feeling more excited about it than I've ever been about taking pills before. 
Because it's fucking working. 
I cannot remember the last time I got through a day without feeling or thinking or believing that I should be dead, or want to die, or think everyone around secretly wishes I were dead. It's been most relieving to finally feel "normal", or at least some semblance of what normal is. 

I never realized my mood swings or "mania" was abnormal. I thought it was just how everyone was, including parents and family members. 


Now that I am aware that I have this illness, I might be able to stop it before it takes over. And I am praying to the universe that this medicine really does help me, too. I feel it helping so far, I just hope as I continue to go up in dosages, it becomes even more powerful over the broken synapses in my mind. 


So, for now, lets hope for the best, and not expect the worst... 







Tuesday, September 8, 2015

The Story of How Fatty Died

The summer of 1998, I spent all of my time alone in my bedroom. It was an awkward stage for me, I was almost fourteen years old, and would be entering my freshman year of High School in September. And I was fat.

Enormously, hideously, rotundly fat.

Standing at only five feet, two inches tall, weighing one hundred and eighty six pounds was not an easy way to live in America. The girls in my school were skinny, tall, leggy, wore size 2 jeans they bought at the mall, and I wore a pair of men's overalls my mother found at a thrift store. I wore them under my shirt, so no one knew they were actually overalls.

I was too fat to wear real jeans.

“Hey, Fatty, where's mom?”

“I don't know,” I told my older brother. “I didn't know she wasn't home.”

My brother had horrible acne. His face was covered in pimples for most of his teenage years. But not once did I ever make fun of him. Because I was fat, and I had no place to point out other people's flaws. That would make me a hypocrite. Doesn't mean anyone else wasn't afraid to.

I was still 13, old enough to stay home alone while my mom went to work every morning. I slept in, stayed up late, babysat for money to buy teen magazines with boy bands on the cover. I decorated my room with their pictures and posters. It was how I distracted myself from feeling hungry.

Because I was hungry.

The last few days of eighth grade were spend with me crying in the back of the classroom, with my head down at my desk, not bothering to pay attention to what was going on, and the teacher too involved in teaching to bother asking me what was wrong, or if I was okay. Not a single teacher asked why I was crying.

That was the day I vowed to stop being fat.

I used to daydream, every night before going to sleep, that I'd wake up the next morning and magically, I'd be thin. Not unhealthy or sickly so, just not fat anymore. That I would go shopping at the mall and be able to buy clothes from regular stores and I'd wear them to school and everyone would look at me and not know who I was at first, but then they'd all do a double take and their mouths would be on the floor, because I was skinny.

When you're 13, being skinny is all that matters.

So I stopped eating. Because I sure as shit wasn't about to go OUTSIDE where the PEOPLE were, where they could LOOK at me, and EXERCISE?! No. I didn't want anyone looking at me. I didn't even want to look at me.

[Even before I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder, I had anxiety disorder.]

My only option was to lock myself away in my room and not eat. And I did it. For a whole month, I didn't eat (almost) anything. After 3 days of drinking only water, I found myself feeling so famished and nauseous that I HAD to eat SOMETHING, or I was going to fall over. My mother made her “famous microwave quesadilla” which consisted of two soft tortilla shells, cheddar cheese, pulled apart deli turkey, salsa, and sour cream on the side. She put everything on a tortilla shell, put the other one on top and nuked it for about a minute. After placing it on the table in front of me, I hesitated. If I stop now, I won't lose anymore weight... But if I don't eat this, I could literally pass out or die.

So, I ate it.

Guilt consumed me as I devoured the quesadilla Mexico would kill you for calling that. But it was so good, I didn't care about the authenticity. It was probably the best thing I'd ever eaten in my entire life. It was gone after two minutes, and my mothers boyfriend, who sat next to me, made some snide remark about my weight and eating habits, and that was all I needed to get me started again.

I caved once. I ate once. Now, it's time to really do this.

I found myself in a cycle. I'd drink plenty of fluids to make sure I was hydrated, but only ate something once every few days.

Every year, my brother and I went to Niagara Falls with my Aunt, Cousin, and Grandmother, to go to Marine Land, and see the falls and walk around, and visit our favorite place; the Beef Baron. We always splurged and got the prime rib with a baked potato, and usually, for desert, I got the chocolate mousse.

Because I hadn't really eaten much, I decided to eat the meat. And boy, was that good. But I skipped desert.

My aunt looked at me, wide eyed, “You're not getting your chocolate mousse?” she asked, dumbfounded. “You always get the chocolate mousse!”

Tears swelled in my eyes because the guilt of eating anything had already consumed me, “I shouldn't have even eaten this.”

“Okay...”

No one asked me why I shouldn't have eaten the prime rib. Everyone else got their deserts while I sat with a cup of coffee and watched them eat, not jealous or angry, but sad and feeling like I just made the biggest mistake because I ate the meat.

When I got home, I found myself craving chocolate. One of the many obstacles of being a woman, and I bought a bag of the tiny Snickers and put it in my desk drawer. I ate maybe three of them before the guilt set in, but my craving for chocolate passed, so I put them away and went back to whatever it was I did to distract me from wanting to eat.

I don't remember how long it was before my mother found the bag, but one afternoon she was in my bedroom doing something and I was sitting on my bed, and she opened up my drawers and found the bag of Snickers.

WHAT is this?!”

I didn't know how to respond. Was she really asking me what a bag of Snickers was?

“You know, this is why you're so fat, young lady! Hiding candy in your room like this! This is NOT HEALTHY!”

Something inside of me snapped.

My mother, the witless wonder, had no idea I'd been starving myself for weeks, or I had already lost over twenty pounds, but she decided to find the one thing I did eat, and nailed me for it.

“MOM! I wasn't hiding them, I just put them in there. And I didn't even eat the chocolate mousse when we were in Niagara Falls! You can ask Aunt Dawn!” Tears fell down my face as she looked at me and back to the bag of candy.

“Well... I didn't know that.”

Of course you didn't. You never know anything.

I don't remember much after that, but she probably took the candy out of my room and put it somewhere in the kitchen.

I don't remember eating anymore of them afterward. But I might have.

It wasn't until school was approaching that my mother noticed my weight loss. I think the only reason she noticed was because I had a bit of a growth spurt that summer, going from five-foot-two, to five-foot-six. And I'd lost forty pounds.

It was the first time I ever remember going to the mall to buy new school clothes. We went to sears. Into the junior's section. I was terrified.

“None of this is going to fit me,” I kept saying. Logically, I knew I had lost weight and grown a lot in a short amount of time, but the fear of not being able to button the pants made my heart race, my breathing erratic, my fingers and face get tingly. I was so afraid of being disappointed. Of, even now, not being good enough. Fat people are just lazy, they aren't smart or funny or pretty or worthy of love, they are just horrible lazy people who do nothing but be lazy.

That was what I had instilled in my head my whole life, from everyone. My family, my schoolmates, my moms boyfriend, my brother, my mom...

Fat people were not equal to thin people. Fat people weren't even people. They were just things to mock, things to look down upon, things to make yourself feel better about yourself.

And I was afraid I was still fat.

I grabbed the biggest size they carried. It was a size 15 in juniors. I tried them on... and they fell down.

THEY. FELL. DOWN.

I stood in the dressing room and stared at myself in the mirror as I watched these pants fall down, and I cried. Silently, emotionally, joyfully, I fucking cried.

I took them off and went out to where my mother waited for me and said, “They're too big.” It came out sounding more like a question.

It was the first time in my life I'd ever said that.

I got the next size down; a 13.

I went in the dressing room and put them on.

They, too, were too big.

I jumped up and down, and squealed, and cried, and tossed the jeans over the top of the dressing room door, and cried, “THEY'RE TOO BIG!!”

Then, I said a phrase I never thought I'd ever say in my entire life, “Get me a smaller size.”

A SMALLER SIZE. SMALLER. In my head, I was screaming from a roof top, singing at the top of my lungs, “Iiiiiii'm nooooot FAAAAAT, ANYMOOOOOORE!” I had never felt so liberated in my entire life.

My mother tossed over the next size down in juniors; an 11.

I pulled them up and buttoned them closed, and they fit.

I was a size eleven.

I was no longer a women eighteen petite. I was officially a JUNIOR MISS SIZE ELEVEN (regular length).

I never wanted to be a size two. I think I would have been happy if I'd stayed an eleven, or went down to a nine. I was just so happy that I had finally been able to fit into normal clothes without feeling ashamed.

Open house for ninth graders was the evening before school started, and I wore my new clothes. My mother even took me to get my hair cut at a salon in the mall, and feeling like a brand new person, I was brave and got bangs. (Which in hindsight was a big mistake... Naturally wavy hair and bangs are a bad combo.) But the stylist trimmed my hair, cut my bangs, and straightened out my crazy wavy hair for me. When I put my glasses back on at the end, and looked at myself in the mirror, I felt amazing. I felt like I was finally the person who had been hiding underneath miles and miles of fat. I was finally me.

When I walked through the High School doors for the first time, smiling, with my head held high, no one recognized me. At first, anyway. I caught so many people doing double takes of me that night, it was as if my dream had finally come true.

I wasn't “Fatty” anymore.

I was finally me.

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This is what fat shaming does to people. It makes them feel like less of a human being because they have an eating disorder, or a low metabolism, or hereditary obesity, or are emotional eaters and are too afraid to exercise in fear of being mocked. This is what years of being fat shamed did to me. Medically speaking, I could have died. I was only thirteen years old. I didn't know if I really was getting enough water, or if starving myself was going to work or not. I did it because I needed people to stop seeing me as a fat person, but just as A PERSON. A girl, with a personality, and sense of humor, and a love of pop music, and wanted nothing more than to be loved. For years, I never felt worthy of anyone loving me, even my own family, all because I was fat. Because I didn't fit in with what society tells you is okay to look like, I felt alienated.

Looking back at that experience, and at myself today, I'm going to admit; not much has changed. My weight has fluctuated over the past seventeen years. I gained a bit of it back in High School, I lost a lot of it right before I started college, and I gained it back again after starting college. Then I had a baby, gain even more weight, and eventually moved back home and lost the weight again.

Now, I weigh more than I ever have before. But living in today's modern world, where we have all of this new information about people, fat and skinny, tall and short, black and white, we come together from everywhere in the world, and we talk about how this stuff really effects people.

Being a mother, I am afraid that my son will have weight problems. I feel like the only thing helping him now is that he's on ADHD medicine that is an appetite suppressant. I never want him to go through what I went through, or feel what I felt about myself. I want him to know that he is loved and special and important, regardless of his weight. Of course, I want him to be healthy, but if he ever did gain weight, I wouldn't stop loving him. Or make him feel bad about it. I'd try to educate him on the importance of being healthy and help him to make better lifestyle choices, and do it with him.

I really hope the day will come when we never have to worry about being bullied or abused. A day when we realize we're all human, with and without flaws, because there is no such thing as perfection.