Crescent Moon

Imsecurities

Ever since I was—id say about eight, I've been hyper aware of my insecurities, being a heavyset, broke, and no ones first or last choice because of my "ugly features" took a humongous toll on the way I view myself. I cut myself out of society, my family and "peers" helped make it easier for me to do so; I was always the one being made fun of in a group, before I turned eight, I thought it was all in good fun and never let it affect me until it eventually and inevitably got worse.

Going into a higher grade with kids getting more and more ruthless and judgmental—soaking in their parents behavior, mean jokes turned into harsh laughter, tripping, pulling hair, not being included, punching, name calling, clothing ripping— and even spitting! You'd think the children would be more severely punished but they weren't, they always somehow lied their way out of it, leaving me as the one who started it—the bully.

Eventually, my parents started to believe that there was more to it than me being the bully—that this was deliberate and cruel. Of course the school did nothing about it because there was no 'proof' of the bullying occurring, and that it would be left as nothing but an accusation. So the defamation and harassment continued all the way up to the end of freshman year— when Brie decided to take me in because of my family's situation. Ever since I turned nine, I had isolated myself from everyone and became the "observer" the one who see's everything everyone does.

Of course, that didn't help the burning anxiety that I have, the main punchline was always about my weight, and how fat my double chin was. So being me, I obsessed over it, I always stood in front of my tiny bathroom mirror looking at how awful I looked. I was riddled in acne and my hair was dry and brittle—it could never grow out properly.

I looked like a disaster and my growing depression made it harder to care for myself, which of course, made my acne way worse, so I always had acne scars and new bumps appearing one after the other. My body was never really a concern until pubescent boys entered the picture. They always went for the skinny girls going through puberty early, and shamed the girls with no curve, so you can imagine how bad it was for me, being chubby plus no curve angered them for some reason—it made them angry and they grew disgusted just looking at me. I never understood why they cared so much, why they needed a girl with a models body.

As I grew more and more isolated, I tried to ignore all the stares of disgust and judgement so I could focus on things such as school work and myself. I was sort of successful in ignoring the bad things, but not really, I could still feel the stares and the laughs every where I went, it was my own personal hell being out in public. Even being around cousins and aunts were terrible, I couldn't catch a break.

Apparently I have something called 'resting bitch face.' So I always look like I have an attitude, so I always have to prepare myself for all the what's your problem's and why are you so angry all the time's. Its a real hassle, my mothers side is made up of nothing but stuck up bougie narcissists who think you have a problem with them, same with my fathers side but leave out the bougie. My family never likes to help my parents and I with our situation—they don't have to but having a helping hand would have really been nice, I wouldn't have gone to school looking like a sack of potatoes if we had a bit more help.

Being alone all the time helped me focus on school, I was always top of my class and always did my homework, so that left me a lot more time to myself—more than the average child. I used that time to at least try and focus on good hygiene—if I was going to be fat and ugly I might as well have good skin, good breath, and healthy hair. I always avoid mirrors and reflective surfaces as to not trigger myself, I'm scared that I may not see an improvement and it'll spiral me into a depression that's difficult to get out of.

I often times catch a few inevitable glances at my thighs that look fat and when adjusting my shirt, fabric would feel uncomfortable against my stomach and arms; uncomfortable and frightening—frightening because it feels as if I've made zero progress, frightening because I feel like that insecure little girl again, left alone with her own thoughts and insecurities.