A fat girl's Thanksgiving is being told to pass on the pumpkin pie
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is being scrutinized over everything you ingest
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is being met with questions no matter what you eat or don't eat
"Have some more potatoes, Sarah"
"Haven't you had enough yet?"
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is a double standard wrapped up
In a pretty floral bow
Just like the cornucopia in the table's center.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is a broken tradition fixated not on giving thanks
But on her every movement in regards to her plate
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is only eating half her helping
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is throwing up each and every bite of it
Into a porcelain garbage bin exactly thirteen minutes later
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is perfecting a purge
Stand up and lean
Time it just right
Dry heave first.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is the second to last time she sees her grandpa
And she cannot even focus on family
Because this disease has intertwined itself into the crevices of her mind
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is her worst nightmare and her favorite holiday
For she is constantly under surveillance
But no one questions her habits that day
So she is free to be sick as often as she likes.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is counting every calorie
Knowing exactly how much she needs to compensate for every particle of food
Polluting her system.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is shoving things into her body
And immediately wanting them out
While having the means to get rid of them.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving has always been shared with her alter ego,
Bulimia.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving has always been a paradox
Hopefully this year she will be able to go alone.

To my future husband
Please be kind to my children and me.
Yes, this is another obligatory essay
About growing up in a home with daddy problems.
This is another poorly written anthem
About wiping the tear stains from my baby sister's soft cheeks
She was a naive ten
I was a vulnerable thirteen
And I told her he didn't mean it
When I honestly wasn't sure what he meant that day.
Protecting her became my duty
Because he wouldn't do it.
And my mom seemed to be his string puppet.
So please, be compassionate to that younger sibling
And lift the burden off the elder one
Who, no matter the force at which the blade is thrown,
Will always jump in front of it to save the baby.
Please understand that their mom has baggage
I have been used by more men than I can count on one hand
And defiled in the worst way by two.
Please be gentle
Understand that having *** with the lights on
Will only drag me into the pit
From which I have just recently emerged.
Understand that I will only be able to see my older cousin's face
And suddenly will once again be a helpless seven year-old child
Reaching for love and protection
Only to be met with disappointment.
Understand that I will look at the rolls on my body
And instantaneously be ashamed
Because I have been told by my own father that this body is not worthy of acceptance
And my eating disorder increased the intensity of that voice twelve fold.
Please, when I am drowning
Do not walk away
When your seventeen year-old daughter asks where you are going
Don't say
"Just out."
With so much hostility and contention in your voice
That it may have well been a brick breaking the surface of her skin.
For then, she will begin to detach from you
The glue that formed your loving bond when she was little
Will begin to break and fall away
She will start doing homework at Starbucks
Just to get away from this incinerator home
That burns her flesh to ash every time she walks through the door
She will begin meeting up with ex-boyfriends
Not because she really wants to sleep with them
But because she needs somewhere to run
Even if the place to fall is not soft.
She will think she is pregnant
And will know clearly who the father is
But will tell you something different
If it ever turns out to be her reality.
She will become so angry with you
That she scratches your name on her wrists and inner thighs
Tallies up each time you have called her
Fat, slutty, ******* up
Each time you have rejected her
And when she is recovering from this vice
She will not blame you
Because you do not deserve the satisfaction of knowing you hurt her so intensely.
So, to my future husband
Wherever you may be
Please just promise me one thing:
You will not be like my father.

What did it feel like when you passed out?
Blackout, spinning in endless spirals
Chasing some shadow that appeared to be there
But wasn't.
There was a shallow depth
Ears silently rings
Irony making perfect sense
Just like the pure soot in my lungs.

What does it feel like to talk to your parents?
Like soft noise.
My dad spews static from his mechanical mouth
Words warped by the Republican Party and Fox News
As well as his religion.
Words that have tried to oppress me
Calling me a ****
Telling me I am fat
And that ignites the fire.
Lighter fluid poured into my mouth
And boy, do I have flames to spit at him.

What did it feel like when your cousin touched you?
Broken.
His hands were broken
As they didn't know what to do
And yet they did it anyway.
His words were broken
"It's just a game"
Were the tectonic plates that slid against each other
Causing an earth quake.
My heart was broken
As it had been molded for the first time
By a man who would never love me
By someone sick and selfish.

What did it feel like, cutting and purging?
Like dragging jagged metal
Across soft skin
Like diving into a lake full of sweat
With a body covered in cuts
Like a snake meeting the back of my throat
Allowing me to dry heave until
My thoughts, my anger, my control
Find their way back out of my body.
Like a jealous spirit ripping my sanctity from my being
Leaving me on the cold, porcelain tiles
Or on the bottom of the bathtub
Wrapped in a blanket, shaking
Or worse yet, naked
Forced to face myself
Alone.

What does it feel like to find people who care?
Better than you can imagine.
It's like people believe in you
Even when it is clear you are going to stumble
Even when you have to learn to walk all over again
Knowing there are people who will be beside you
As you relearn to understand yourself
Is beautiful.
It reminds you that humanity
Even through all it's evil properties
Is beautiful.

What does it feel like to recover?*
Liberating
As though the chains and shackles that imprisoned you
For nearly a decade
Over half your life
Have been cut or burned off
And you are dancing in the very place
You used to wish you would die.
It reminds you that the human race is not
The only thing beautiful
But that you are as well.

I sit in my seventh grade health class
*** ed freshman year
My twelfth grade english class
And they talk about ****.
They talk about it like it's an idea
A textbook definition
A rare shadow of society
That doesn't happen to real people
At least not people you know.
They act like there is only one way it happens
It's either a creepy forty year-old man who comes into your bedroom uninvited
Over and over again.
Or, as you grow up,
A boyfriend or date with whom you are, in their opinion,
'Stupid' enough to get drunk with
Passed out on a bed
Your clothes are like weights that anchor your heavy soul.
Maybe my form of abuse was different
As I was in his bed
Which felt more like a coffin full of spiders
As spirits plucked every last bit of life from me
Like guitar strings.
He was not a crusty old man with years of experience molesting children
He was my beloved fourteen year-old cousin
Who had struggled with Aspbergers his whole life.
I had looked up to him regardless.
How could I hate someone who was sick?
How could I hate someone who may or may not have
Understood the severity of what he was doing?
He only molested me once
But it molded my impressionable mind
Like silly putty
From then on I only fell for men
Who had bloodstained hands
And crooked smiles.
It is no wonder that at sixteen
Even after I had dealt with the aftermath of his hurricane
Another boy took advantage of me
And left me seldom sleeping.
It is no wonder that I did not recognize his abuse right away
Or that even though I knew he had wronged me
I would not call it assault.
It is no wonder that instead of press charges or tell my parents
I chose to avoid it
Confiding in my therapist only because I was backed into a corner
Treading quicksand all the while.
The harder you fight, the faster you sink.
After I told about my molestation at fourteen
My parents, although they were extremely supportive,
Told me to keep it quiet
Not to tell everyone.
Their intentions were exceptional
But they made me believe I had something to be ashamed of
When I realized this wasn't the case
I screamed at the top of my lungs
Shouted across the valleys
I was going to be heard
And when I joined forced with others who
Had dealt with similar events
Our ashes piled together
Created a smoke signal so vibrant, so immense
That people had to intentionally avert their eyes in order not to notice it.
We are not the bruises of society
For you to poke and **** at
To see how much our wounds hurt.
We are not for your corrupt education system
Your industry
That you can choose to use for your campaign
Just when our stories are marketable.
These stories do not all look the same
Different chapters
Different pages
Different font styles.
My story is mine
And I do not get to pick and choose
Take my assault off the shelf just when it looks pristine and proper
I live with this everyday
And just as burn victims still have marks that remind them
Of the incident
I still have pieces of me
That struggle with this event on a daily basis.
But I choose to use it in a way that makes me whole.
I cannot change the story
But I can change the ending
And I accept the fact that it will never be a porcelain doll
But it is my battle scar to show as I please
I am a survivor
That is my bragging right
And no one else's shame.

"Hi, my name is Sarah, and I haven't purged in almost four months."
That's what I tell group therapy sessions
Or online support groups
When it comes to my eating disorder.
Even better is when I talk about my cutting
How it's been two years since I gave way to the knife
Plenty of "oohs" and "ahs" and, my personal favorite,
"You're so strong"
Even though I still think about the sensation
Almost every day.

What I really am told
And sometimes even think myself
More frequently than not is
"My name is Sarah
The lying, conniving resident **** of my house"
Or
"My name is Sarah
Fat girl, so pretty if she'd just lose the weight
No longer ******, disappointing her family one day at a time"
"My name is Sarah
Just another basket case, pregnancy scare
One, two, maybe three times
How stupid can she be?"
"My name is Sarah
Child abuse survivor
Or is the appropriate terminology 'victim'?
Isn't she over it yet?"

That voice and the one that calls me
Strong, when the other calls me fat
Passionate, when the other calls me obnoxious
Potential, when the other calls me hopeless
Are constantly at war
Bloodshed is the goal.
Devil versus angel
Compete to be the main influence in my life

While really,
The only thing that I can say for certain is
"My name is Sarah
The human being."
And that is perfectly fine with me.

Red stop light blends into grey clouds
Looking around, faces blend one into the next
Just as their stories do.
While individual
Here,
We are all the same.
Stuck in traffic.

I have broken something some would call
Sacred
It feels as though I am moving
But like quicksand holds my feet in place
Where are you, my love?
Are you that far away?
Breathing becomes intentional
And suddenly, I am stopped.
Stuck in traffic.

The quicksand I mentioned earlier
It's beautiful, yet horrifying
I can suddenly think about all my mistakes
But I am too entrapped to fix them.
The golden ocean surrounds my body
Tugging me down, letting me watch
As my fate is reduced to an idea.
Once again, forever
Stuck in traffic.

I believe that I can save myself,
Maybe, just maybe
If I get down far enough
Crawl out on my knees
I'll be ****** and scathed
But I truly think I can succeed, right?
Not a chance.
I already am well aware
That I am eternally and unequivocally
Stuck in traffic.

More things flash before my eyes.
Do I look okay?
Am I the fat girl that was staring in the mirror
Tearing apart her appearance
Just fifteen minutes earlier?
Now, none of that seems to matter
As I am dealing with the extreme effects of being
Stuck in traffic.

Now,
Do I really exist?
Is my being a fact or opinion?
Suddenly I feel
As though I am not here at all.
If no one sees me
Am I invisible?
My thoughts, spinning the wheels
Have caught up with my body and are
Stuck in traffic.

Speaking of broken bodies
Seven years old was the most dreadful.
Full of shame from the way he touched me
He led me to believe I could trust him
But that trust was not mine to harbor.
Funny how when you're about to die
These memories implant themselves in your brain
Things you think about while
Stuck in traffic.

It's a miracle I am even thinking at all.
Considering in these dire situations
My mind tends to slip
And I stumble and fall with it.
Shards of glass hit my face
But I am the one who crashed and burned.
At least I am no longer
Stuck in traffic.

Seventeen.
I start doing homework at coffee shops and Applebee's
I cannot tolerate my father's *******
But for the first time in my life
I am able to revive myself from the frustration he fills me with.
Each time his biting comments pierce my skin I say:
"College eight months"
"College seven months"
"College six months..."
By telling myself that coming home has become optional
I am able to smile and gently whisper
"Yes, Dad."

Sixteen.
One of the two times I can remember compassion from my father.
A heartbroken me watched my grandpa deteriorate
Just ten days after I had entered recovery
From a bad bout of bulimia relapse.
Dad actually hugged me
Even cried with me
When grandfather died.
But for the other 360 days of the year that did not include that week
Even when my friend committed suicide
My father did not meet me with kindness.

Sixteen.
My battle with bulimia
Was mine to wage alone.
When my parents got the call
They were more worried about my wastefulness
Food isn't cheap, you know.
Daddy continued to bash my weight
And I continued to spiral downward
Until I decided I was worth more.

Sixteen.
Had I told you a boy had taken advantage of me
I would have just been a **** once again.
After all, I led him on
After all, my shirt was fairly tight
After all, my friends told me it was my fault.
I know you would have considered me blameworthy
I sure thought I was.

Fifteen.
One handful of pills
And a crimson message on my arm
Lands me in intensive therapy.
I sit there
Telling myself I am not like the other suicidal kids around here
I'm not ****** up
I just ****** up.
Sick of listening to people tell me why I did it
The most frequent was my experiences with molestation
Just because some pervert touched me
Doesn't mean I'd go off the deep end.

Fifteen.
You didn't care
About my drinking, my cutting, my anything
Until you heard my plans to end it all.
You called me a ****
When you found out I had slept with my ex.
You permeated **** culture by telling me not to discuss my abuse
With anyone but my counselor.
You didn't mean to,
But you did.

Fourteen.
The other time I remember compassion.
You heard that I had been horribly violated
By your cousin.
It curdled your blood
As well it should
And you told me we'd get through it.
Fortunately,
It was never yours to get through.
You tried your best to help me
But to no avail.

Fourteen.
Lost my virginity
With a strong chance of unwanted pregnancy
That was thankfully inaccurate.
Started drinking
Taught myself how to throw up
Tarnished your perfect image
Of Daddy's little girl.

Thirteen.
Middle school ends
But my battle with eating disorders
And my dysfunctional relationship with food
Gains speed.
My then boyfriend described my dietary patterns to you
Before he was scared to death of your rage for him.
Where are you Dad?

Twelve.

Eleven.
I cut myself for the first time
And obsessive thoughts about food began to litter my mind
Depression and anxiety
First showed their ugly faces this year.

Ten.

Nine.
You told me I was fat again
So I began storing things in my room
Whole bags of junk food
I would have miniature thanksgiving feasts
Because eating in front of you was horrifying.

Nine.
Got a phone call from my fourth grade teacher
Who was in earshot of me telling my friends I was fat
My mom cried that day
Although she has a lot to do with my self-image.
But still
Don't let her pick up your mess.

Eight.
Humiliated me in Wendy's
For not ordering a kid's item.
Children are like elephants
We really don't forget.

Seven.
He touched me
And I didn't know what to make of it.
I thought this was truly just a game
You could not have protected me, Dad
He is the one at fault
No one else is.

Six.

Five.
You told me for the first time
That eating a bagel would make me fatter.
The first time I remember being skinned with comments
About my weight.

Four.

Three.
My perfect sister was born
As she entered the world
I was suddenly no longer good
No longer skinny
No longer pretty.
She would become acceptable by society's standards
And I never would.

Two.

One.

Zero.
Do you ever wonder what your parents imagined for you
When your mother was pregnant?
I do
And I don't think they imagined
A counter culture, feminist
Resident fat girl.
I was defined before I was
And I redefined my expectations.