6 years old. Standing in front of the mirror.
The tears came, hot, furious, fast.
Why?
Simply because I hated everything I saw.
Simply because of those disgusting rolls of fat on my thighs, my arms.
And my face.... indescribably, incomparably ugly.
From every angle, every bit of me was the most disgusting, horrible thing I had ever seen.
Even smiling was ugly on me.
First, the tugging at the hair, the frustration that had been balled up for so long unwinding.
The irrepressible, hot lava of self-hatred bubbling up, making it's way to the top.
Pinching, punching, scratching, hitting myself.
Every part of me deserves to be hurt.
I'm disgusting.
I hate myself.
Today in school, my friend said this to me, "omg I feel like pinching your cheeks"
And I was like, "Why?"
"Because you're so chubby and cute!"
I feel like I never want to eat again.
Who would have known?
That innocent, first, irreversible step into "self-hatred",
That childish form of "self-harm"
Would grow; evolve, into something so much more,
Till I actually became one of the "weirdos", "the cutters"?
I want to go back in time, hold her hands still, comfort her, dry her tears, and tell her she is the most beautiful little girl in the world.
Maybe.
Just maybe,
I would be fine now.
Maybe.
Just maybe,
I would be with my group of friends, posing for the camera, making silly faces, stuffing my face with pizza and chips, going out all the time. One of the outspoken ones, one of the ones always speaking up in class.
Instead of being the one sitting to the side, missing out on gatherings; fun, just to avoid the camera, the food, the pressure of having to act normal.
Instead of being the one keeping quiet although I know the answers, just because my own voice disgusts me.
I am. I am afraid. Afraid I won't get better, afraid of being forever having to flail among the tangled, treacherous, venomous weeds; the vines of hatred and anger, strewn along the road of "abnormality", "self-harm", "eating disorders". The constant, never-ending quest for perfection; where everything seems to cut so deep, but the knife itself is the source of comfort. When straying off the path is always just temporary, where the voices in my head will always lure me back. Afraid that I will forever walk in this direction, down the road I refuse to get off, fear to let go off. Where I know I am slowly killing pieces of myself, know so well, but keep going.
No, I am not ready to get better. Neither do I want to get better.
Why am I so afraid of happiness?
