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myaekingheart · 7 years

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So today (June 23rd) is my mom's longtime best friend's 50th birthday and so she ripped through the garage trying to find some old photos of the two of them to post on facebook but in the process, she found a ton of old photos of the three of us and I can honestly say that looking through all of them has been...an experience.

It's funny how when you're grown up, you seem to remember your childhood in hazy scenes, like a montage of perfectly stringed together but out of order moments and what you don't remember yourself is filled in with photographs. Looking through all of these old pictures dug up a lot of memories and, in the process, a lot of emotions. On one hand, there's obviously the nostalgia factor. I miss being a kid when everything seemed so simple and I didn't have a care in the world. But then I look at these pictures and I'm reminded that not everything was simple and that I wasn't careless. Sure, there's the good memories like Halloweens spent at Mickey's Not So Scary running around in princess dresses and the May Day parade from first grade where I got to wear a flower crown and dance with my friends. Those are the good memories I want to remember. There were definitely some not so good memories, though, as well, the majority of which relating to my experience with eating disorders. Looking back at myself from ten years down the line, I cannot stop cringing at how horrible I looked. I mean, for the most part anywhere from ages 6 to 15, about, were cringey as fuck just because I was an awkward, ugly, gangly kid but from about 7 to 11 were perhaps the worst possible years, overall, in regards to my appearance. Granted, things fluctuated and there were some morsels of time where I looked decent (like my ninth birthday after I cut my hair like Lucy Pevensie, which looked really cute on me and I think helped make my buck teeth, bulgy eyes, and skeleton figure far less unappealing) but for the most part, a lot of the pictures of myself from that time period are drowning in current seas of regret. To be blunt, I was always "the runt" of the litter even when I was a healthy weight. I was always small, the shortest in the class, the baby. When I got to be around age seven, however, things got a little extreme. Maybe I always had a weird relationship with food and I just can't remember the earlier days. My dad told me that when I was a kid, I never wanted to eat and that they would never force me because if they tried, I'd yell at them and throw a fit so they just let me eat whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I don't quite remember all that, but I do remember restricting myself at a very young age. I feel like I was relatively fine up until the time I turned seven, which I distinctly remember being a massive turning point in my life. I know I was bullied frequently as a kid, or at least frequently enough (my most vivid memories being that of this huge girl in third grade who'd shove me on the playground, threaten to beat me up, all around a very harassing and domineering kid). I made friends easily for a short while, though, like preschool through first grade I believe. When I got to second grade, though, something switched. There was a change, like the train slowed down and someone switched the tracks over. I'd come home from school moody every day, lashing out at my parents. I dropped all my "baby fat" and kind of went into this downward spiral to skeleton-hood. I had friends and I had enemies much like any other kid my age, one of which perhaps being my teacher who I remember being very strict and particular (she was the kind of person who made us use those rubber grips on our pencils that forced us to hold them a certain way and she'd get pissed at us if we took them off and held them how we wanted, which I understand was probably to help the kids who just held the entire thing in their fist but I never had that problem and her desperation to condition me to hold my pencil differently honestly put a lot of strain on my academics because it made writing far more difficult and made me insanely paranoid about her ridiculing me). From that point onward, it was just a downward spiral. Maybe she is the definitive source of all my self doubt and ridicule, like the starting point for everything else, the first peg knocked down, the first brick kicked from the wall which all the other bricks eventually were to fall from. I mean, obviously that wasn't the only thing. There was my parent's financial difficulties, living in a different house every year, that one time we got evicted and lived in a hotel for, like, a week, and being bullied among probably some other things but the more I think about it, the more I realize that perhaps she was the very first stone laid down on the foundation. Either way, all I know is that it wasn't until I was in her class that I started downfalling and my weight was no exception. I have very vivid memories regarding my weight and my eating habits from my childhood. I'm emetophobic. I always have been and I probably always will. That has played a huge role in my eating disorder even to this day. Yeah, I've got some body dysmorphia but I never thought I was fat and needed to lose weight. It was more like I never saw how badly I needed to gain it. I thought I was fine. I only ever remember having a few fleeting thoughts here and there but for the most part, I was fine. I thought I looked perfectly okay and acceptable. It wasn't me who had the problem. It was the people making clothes sizes too big, forcing me to pin my pants one or two inches at the side to keep them from falling down. I remember hiding behind a tree at recess the very first day of third grade because the pin on my jeans came undone and I couldn't refasten it and without it, my pants were falling all the way down to my ankles. I remember wearing size 2T skorts in 3rd and 4th grade because they fit me. I remember stepping on the scale one day at, like, nine years old and seeing 38 pounds staring back at me. I remember going to the doctor's office, being told not to eat snacks before dinner and to make sure I get three meals a day in, getting an x-ray done on my arm because they wanted to make sure I didn't have some sort of bone issue because that's literally all I was: bone. I remember laying in bed having panic attacks every single night of fifth grade with no fucking clue how to stop them. I remember throwing up. I never meant to, I never wanted to, but there were times when I did and they have all stuck with me to this day. At 20 years old, I remember them far more vividly than I should.

Age three, I'm in the backseat of my grandparent's car swerving down curvy highways late at night and feeling nauseous but having to hold it back because god forbid I vomit on the pristinely kept interior. We went to a hotel (I remember it being fancy) and I puked right outside the front doors. I remember the taste in my mouth sitting in the hotel's laundry room as my mom threw my pink Dora the Explorer t-shirt into the wash to get the vomit stains out. I still feel nauseated and panicked stepping foot in their car, which even after my grandfather's death still smells just as all of his cars always have: that distinct new car smell.

Age three again and this time I'm in my dad's big green van, the one he used to transport all his merchandise to and from craft shows. We were at a rest stop and I had eaten Trix yogurt that didn't sit well and I vomited into a plastic bag-- maybe it was a Disney bag? I don't even know. From that point onward, I've hardly ever eaten yogurt again and throughout the rest of my childhood, refused to unless it was frozen to the point of having to jab it with a spoon.

I'm eleven now and it's a few days after my birthday. I opted for an assortment of cheesecake instead of regular cake because I wanted to mix things up. It's 9:34pm and I Love Lucy is on, I don't remember which episode, and I'm sitting in the living room at a TV tray scarfing down a leftover piece of cheesecake that tastes strangely like coffee. It isn't until I go to bed that I start to feel it, that churning in my stomach so distinct to when I know I'm going to be sick. I screamed for my parents, on the verge of tears, terrified. I couldn't throw up. I couldn't throw up. I beg my dad to tell me a story, hoping that if I get lost in his words, I'll drift off to sleep and forget I even feel sick. But it doesn't work and I do get sick and I'm panicked and in tears and sweating and I can't breathe. I go to school the next day nervous, clinging to myself. There was some kind of outdoor event, maybe Jump Rope for Heart, and I remember passing up doing the hundred yard dash and telling my fifth grade teacher (who was an angel) that it was because I had gotten sick the night before. She praised me for coming out at all, as if getting out of bed and showing up at school itself was some miraculous feat.

Twelve years old and the most traumatic of them all. It's the day of a big standardized math test and I wake up feeling...off. Not the usual nervousness, but something different. I lay in bed procrastinating for as long as possible before my mom forces me out of bed to get ready. I keep telling her I don't feel well but her and I both know I need to go, I have no choice. I watch Full House while I try to eat a breakfast of blueberry mini muffins with strawberry cream cheese-- it was my go-to breakfast for a while. When I get to school, I'm sitting outside in the hallways with everyone else like we always did at the beginning of the day before classes started. I still felt sick but I tried to make the best of it. My friend was chatting aimlessly next to me and mentioned something about her Fig Newton breath and that was the end of it. I had the white sleeves of my Hannah Montana hoodie over my hands, and I coughed into my right one thinking nothing of it. When I looked back at the palm of my hand, something was amiss. Vomit. Before I knew it, I was spewing it everywhere. My other friend quickly grabbed my rolling backpack in one hand and my shoulder in the other and guided me down the hallway which I proceeded to trail vomit down all in front of probably 60 of my peers, the shit bursting from behind my hand which I had clasped over my mouth in an effort to try and contain it as much as possible. I remember the one teacher, who taught history and incorporated thespianism into it, opening the door to let everyone in for the start of the day as I barrelled past puking, and the look on his face-- an expression of shock and confusion and maybe fear or disgust, I don't quite remember which. By the time I made it to the clinic, it was finished and what was left was the aftermath. I remembered the nurse handing me this black sweater and pair of jeans to change into, probably from the lost and found, and I remember feeling unnerved at the thought of putting on someone else's clothes. I went into the bathroom and carefully wriggled out of my t-shirt, pink with turtles on it but now completely ruined, and staring quizzically at the full shower that was in there. The ride home I kept feeling like I was going to be sick again but fought back every urge. The minute I stepped inside the house, my mom guided me straight up the stairs to my bathroom and loaded me right into the tub, shampooing my hair and scrubbing my body down. I passed out on the couch for the entire duration of the morning along to the likes of Disney XD, and I remember waking up to an episode of American Dragon Jake Long and trying to force down some disgusting Subway sandwich for lunch (I never wanted anything on mine, though, so it was literally just a rubbery white roll loaded with mayo, some clammy turkey, and probably some slices of provolone). The only problem was that I couldn't eat. It was like my entire body was rejecting food and my throat would constrict whenever I tried to eat. The next day, I returned to school and my teacher brought donuts for everyone as celebration for finishing the standardized testing season. I remember staring at that glazed fucking donut, all that fried dough and sugar, and feeling so fucking sick. I couldn't eat but I needed to. The thing seemed like it was like 50 feet in diameter. Everyone was watching me. This one kid in my class was even egging me on like it was some kind of fucking keg party and I was the one forced to chug all the beer. All that pressure, that anxiety, to just fucking eat was overwhelming. In the end, I couldn't do it. I only got a couple bites in before I was finished. I was fucking humiliated. Even to this day, I'm sure that's how everyone remembers me: that girl who puked down the hallway. It's not exactly the kind of legacy I wanted to leave behind. No legacy whatsoever even would've been better than that.

I can't even begin to fathom what kind of rumors surfaced after that, but I can make some pretty valid estimates. They probably all figured I had an eating disorder. It was the only plausible explanation. I was so skinny and I never ate. I'm sure deep down they all fucking knew and even if they didn't, they probably had a feeling it was something along those lines.

There was one particular picture I came across that, out of all the other pictures we dug up tonight, took the cake for worst picture ever. It's a photograph of me from August 2007 at Universal, specifically the Marmaduke photo spot in Toon Lagoon. You know, the one where everything's sideways and you're supposed to grab onto the leash hanging down from the vertically inclined Marmaduke figurine and when you take the picture and turn it on it's side, it looks like he's dragging you through the air or whatever? It's a cute photo spot, I can't deny that, but nothing about my presence in the image is at all "cute." I'm in plaid board shorts, my clunky white sneakers, and a red and white Hawaiian print bikini top in all my nerdy anorexic glory. Seriously, I look absolutely disgusting. There is barely a square inch of fat on my entire body, all my bones are sticking out, my arms and legs are the size of toothpicks, you can see the imprint of my ribs, my feet look massive compared to my legs, my eyes are bulgy behind my oval wire frames, I've got massive buck teeth that don't fit my mouth. It's a miracle my pants are even staying up. I look like an absolute disaster and I can't even believe I had no fucking clue. I was completely oblivious to the fact that I was a walking bag of bones. I mean, I knew I was far too skinny as a child but looking at the pictures and seeing all that photographical evidence is even more haunting.

My childhood best friend came from a very Italian family and her mother would always whip up something in the kitchen for us to eat. Looking back, I swear she must've hated me because I'd take three bites and proclaim I was full. I remember the look on her face when I'd say I was finished, the expression of disappointment and insult that I wasn't eating her food. Granted, it probably wasn't just the Italian part. Surely anyone would shoot a glare like that at a girl who was stick thin and refused to eat. Either way, I should've just eaten the goddamn food in the first place. I remember after that time I got sick in fifth grade, I felt like eating after dark was a bad omen, as if the sunlight was going to protect me from a stomachache. If we hadn't had dinner yet and it was getting too late, I'd panic and refuse to eat if night had already fallen. Even after that was past, then my excuse was "I'm not supposed to be awake so I can't go downstairs and get a snack because then I'll get in trouble." As if getting a midnight snack was some sort of death sentence. My parents were never that strict and I'm sure they wouldn't be as mad at me if I was getting food in the middle of the night than they would be if they found me doing something else in the middle of the night, like sneaking out or smoking pot.

The worst part about all of this, I think, is how oblivious I was to the severity of my situation. Never did anyone look at me and tell me "I think you may have an eating disorder" or "I'm worried about you, I wish you'd eat" or something to that effect. I had no fucking clue how severely emaciated I was. I seriously thought I was fine and that's the killer. You think you're fine but you're not. You think you look normal when in reality you're sitting there with barely any meat on your bones shivering and feeling sick all the time. There's this one particular picture that my parents keep in a dog-bone-shaped frame on their nighstand of me as a kid holding one my aunt's poodles. It was probably at Eastertime because I'm in this cute little fuschia polka dot dress with frilly socks and Mary Janes. That picture has, for the longest time, been the definitive image of my "too skinny" childhood. My legs are literally nothing but bone and so are my arms. It's disgusting. But I had no fucking clue. I had no motherfucking clue. I look back at it all now and wonder how I ever even fucking survived. How I even had the energy to run around and play with my friends and go to theme parks and all that good shit. I can't even imagine now how I ever had the confidence and naivete to be the only one at a pool party comfortable enough with myself to stand in the middle of the room and just strip down meanwhile all the other girls were hiding in closets and behind dressers and laying on the floor behind the bed just so they could conceal their bodies from each other, as if seeing each other naked was illegal or something. I was probably the one who should've been hiding behind the dresser what with how sickly I looked but nope, I was totally down to just bare it all in front of everyone.

Looking back, I can't even fathom how anyone could've ever possibly thought I was cute or attractive like that. I've broken a few hearts back in my younger days (one of which probably not counting because he was before any of this started-- he was this preschooler at the academy I went to kindergarten at and every single time he'd see me, he'd run from wherever he was, even if he was in line, and kiss me) but now I can't even imagine how anyone would've thought I was even remotely attractive. The first example was this boy in my third grade class. He was a typical boy of the times, the kind who had one of those short sleeved button downs that was black with the flames on it. I remember at the very beginning of the year, he was head over heels in love with me. I remember one day near the end of class, I believe, when there weren't too many other people around, he took my hand in his and asked me on a date. We were fucking nine. I didn't like him back like that (or at least I don't think I did. How the fuck should I know? I was fucking nine) so we resorted to being just friends but honestly, even then, I can't even imagine how he or anyone else could've had a crush on me like that? Back then? When I was like that? Even in fourth grade, I had occasionally questioned whether my definitive elementary school crush liked me back. I was secretly super head over heels for him but had to hide it because he was the arch nemesis of my friend group but there were times when I swear he was flirting with me. He asked me in the library once what I was reading and I titled my head back to look at him and just busted out in uncontrollable laughter for a solid minute before awkwardly shrinking back down into my seat, and then there was the infamous "schwa" incident when we learning about that schwa thing in grammar and he and his best friend (the one who was telling me to chug on the donut day) kept whipping around and shouting "schwa" purposely making me laugh hysterically. There were signs, as far as I'm concerned, that it was possible but yet again, I look at myself back then and wonder holy shit how? How could he possibly have liked me back then even in the slightest looking the way I did? (Side note: I may have never gotten confirmation of whether he really did like me or not but I reunited with him a few years back in a college comm class and every class he'd sit at the same table as me and one time we had to pair up to share our essay plans or whatever and we were definitely flirting, no doubt about it, so at least there's that. Not that it matters now, though. If he wanted me, he should've snagged me while he had the chance 'cause I'm off the market now).

This ended up getting way longer and more ramble-y than I intended and by now it's nearly 5am and I've kind of lost track of the point. I guess the general summary here, though, is that digging up those old photos brought up a lot of old, some not-so-good memories of things and made me realize some things, as well. Feels weird making such a breakthrough in the middle of the night but oh well, whatever.

#long post is long #ramblings #delete later

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