I am quiet. I am shy. But don’t you dare think for a minute that that means I have no voice. I am short, and I don’t speak unless called on, but don’t you dare think that that means that I am any less of a person. I have a voice, and I will be heard. I was forgotten on the bus because I was too quiet, too small, too shy. I am afraid to look people in the eye, to walk past a male without feeling in danger. I have been shoved, pushed, squished, and squashed! So I am fed up, and trust me, you don’t want to make me mad.

I am 14, I am a female, and I have a voice! I have opinions, and you **** well better listen! I will have opinions about my life, and I will have a say in the matter. You can try to put me down, but I’m already short! You wanna know why us short people have such fiery tempers? It’s because we are closer to hell. And we will give it to you too.

Don’t you dare tell me that I can’t. I can do anything, and I will do it better than you ever could. I was captain of my baseball team for 5 years. Yes, that’s right boys, I, the quiet, nerdy, small girl bossed your ***** around on the field.

My step-father insists I have no voice. Now, as I’ve said before, you know I do. My step-father insists that I am too young, my step-father insists, that I, know nothing. I want to yell, I want to scream out: “YES I DO!” But my mother insists I stay quiet. My mother insists that I should submit to his whims, my mother insists that I must behave for him, to not anger him, DO NOT ANGER THE BEAST! This is what I am taught every day!

Don’t you dare make him mad, don’t you dare have opinions, don’t you dare have a say. Because you are a 5’4, 14 year old female, raised by a single mother and a ***** donor. Because you come from the bottom of the heap, so why should you? Because you are bullied, because you are quiet, shy, short, nerdy, and you want to have a voice.

Hello. Most of you don’t even know who I am, but you see me every day. I am the girl that you ask to help with your homework, the “ Who knows the answer to number 11?” girl. But even the ones that know my name don’t really know me. Not even my closest friends. They don’t know the anxiety, the pressure, the constant fear of what might happen if I don’t pass in this test? How is my sister doing? Are they treating her right? If I fail this, will my future change? What about boys? Actually, no. Not going there. Because I am the smart girl who gives them the answers because I don’t feel like challenging the social ladder. Because I am a simple girl with a perfect life, right? Wrong. We all have problems, and I am willing to bet that some of you know where I am coming from. And maybe some of you have had it harder than me.

And that is why I put it all in. I smile, but it’s not in my eyes. I laugh, but does anyone hear how hollow my voice is? I get good grades, and when I don’t, it’s a big deal. I got a lower grade in my French class, and the class laughed. I scored an 88. Think about that. I am always pushed to do the right thing, do good in school, make a life for yourself. I HAD to get all above 95’s in Middle School. I HAD to make honor roll. My mother was counting on me as the perfect twin.

But what about me? How am I doing? Fine, fine, fine. That’s all that is ever said. All anyone hears. And if we are going to be honest with ourselves, all anyone cares about. Because no one wants to deal with that icky, nasty thing we label “The Truth”. That’s right folks. Because not everyone who looks okay is. Because not everyone who laughs isn’t crying on the inside. And not everyone one who smiles isn’t lying.

Now when you look down the halls of this school, how do you see people? Popular, football player, cheerleader, gamer geek, fat, gay, lesbian, emo, cutter, punk, teacher’s pet, and even the occasional ew freshmen. But no one know’s that their thoughts, they aren’t just in their minds. All thoughts find a way out. And these thoughts of yours that called us geek, nerd, teacher’s pet. We know them. We hear them. And they become our thoughts.

No one wants to hear this. There’s this voice in my head telling me I might pass out.... now! What if I mess this up? Will my teacher judge me? What about my friends? Are they going to like me, or leave me? My sister, her friends, how are they going to take this? Oh God, what if? But what happens when... Will they.... And someone will understand this feeling inside. The feeling of absolute dread. The feeling that you are going to die.

Welcome to the world of anxiety. The world of never ending worries, the realm of reliving nightmares that you haven’t had yet. The place where your worst fears become a reality. Anxiety is where you worry about things that haven’t happened yet, where people talk behind your back without ever saying a word. This is my world. What is yours?

I cannot look at myself in the mirror. Staring back are huge thighs, massive shoulders, a bulging stomach. Staring back are two disgusting eyes, horrible plain hair that can only be contained in an elastic. Staring back are two hips who cannot fit into a pair of skinny jeans my mother wore when pregnant. Staring back are calves that resemble toothpicks one moment, and guitar cases the next. Staring back are ankles that cannot be distinguished from the guitar cases. Staring back is someone I do not know.
I have not seen myself in the mirror in years. Instead, all I can see is this disgust, fat, hatred, loathing. All I can see is the time when I had to wait for a store clerk to find a size 14 dress, not put out in front to maintain their perfect size ideals. All I can see is the number of boys who have asked me out, only to say “April Fool’s!” or go laughing back to their friends. All I can see is the look of disgust on my father’s face the first time I wore a leotard for dance, and then proceeded to tell me that I had better watch that buddha belly.
I realize that I have never been looking in a mirror. I have never looked in one. I have seen only what I have been told. I can see only ******* because some teenage boy decided that my smile at work was a “please, **** me.” I can only see thick, thunder thighs because someone on the bus thought it funny to run his hands up and down them. When I was 9. I see linebacker shoulders because I was called a boy from kindergarten until second grade when I started to finally look like a girl, whatever that means. I am called mother because my arms are not perfectly toned and stay in place when I move them around.
I am wondering when it went out of style to not see bones sticking out. I wonder when my body no longer was my body. I am wondering how a mirror could be turned into a portal to hell, showing you the worst possible things, and none of the good. I am wondering why I cannot look into a mirror without wanting to *****. I am wondering who told me to do this. I am wondering when this all started.
I look into a mirror, and I cannot see anything besides what I am told is me. I am told that I look fat in these jeans, and that I also look fat in those jeans. I am told that that dress makes me look pregnant. I am told that I should be grateful when any boy stares at me, as if I am a piece of meat. Whenever I walk down the street, I am not on parade for you. I am not a cat, do not call to me like one.
I was 9 the first time an old man tried to flip my skirt at a dance recital. Telling me to show a bit more leg when I hadn’t even hit puberty. I was 10 the first time that the word ***** came flying from an open car window. Walking alone, terrified of what might happen if those boys came back. I was 11 the first time that a boy commented on the size of my thighs, telling me he would like to be between them, with me having no clue what he was talking about. I was 12 the first time a boy groped my chest. At a Christian camp, while the boy was 15. I was 13 the first time that my *** was smacked as I walked down the hallway. I never found out who did it. I was 14 the first time that I boy tried to get me into his car to blow him. There were no repercussions when I reported this, except for me loosing friends. I am 15, and I have gotten so used to the sound of grown men hooting at me as I walk down the street that I sometimes forget not to take it as a complement.
I cannot look myself in the mirror and not see any of this from the past. Instead, all I see is the past. I see how years have torn at me, breaking the mirror, fixing it, putting the pieces back in the wrong places. I look in the mirror and I try to see the good. I stand in front of that broken mirror and admire the legs that can lift 400 lbs with ease. I look in the mirror and I see hands that can play bass guitar, baseball. I see arms that can lift my mother. I see a girl, not a boy, not an it, not a toy for you to play around with. I see eyes whose stare has made grown men tremble. I see a girl who was thrown into the fire, and then made into it.

When you were old enough to walk, you were either given a Barbie doll or a Tea Set. Because you were a little girl, and apparently, since you are a girl who has just been given life herself, you should be in charge of a life. From the time we were able to run, you were given tutus and ballet shoes. Because a girl should be graceful and quiet, poised and elegant. "Look at this pretty doll, Suzie!" and "Why are you always getting into such messes!" are things that should never coexist in a little girl's life.

What happened to being who you want to be? I want to mosh to Green Day, not learn how to play Clair de Lune on a piano. What happened to those days when you could run around and not care who saw you?

Because now your life revolves around: "Does this shirt match these jeans?" and "I wonder if he'll look at me if I wear more make-up?" I long for a life where I was never raised to believe that being a little girl meant looking beautiful for someone else. I want to live a life where I can look stunning in a band tee and skinnys, and not give a **** what anyone thinks.

Because what happened? You grew up and met the world. And the world ate you and spit you back out.

Red. The color of anger. Red. The color of passion. Red. The color of fierceness. The only color I think of when I see you. Those words seem to make so much sense together, passionate, fierce anger. The color of your words spitting out in quick succession at me, telling me to grow up. When you read a book, authors will often say “And suddenly he saw red.” Maybe there is a reason behind it. Red. The color of anger. Red. The color of passion. Red. The color of fierceness.

Red, the sound of you stumbling home drunk. Red, the shuddering of the house as you yell. Red, the smooth way your lies flow through my ears. Red is all I can think of! Because every other color has been drained out of my life. I used to see rainbows around every corner, believe in those Disney Princess sparkles. But that is all gone. All gone because you have killed all of the happiness in my life, taken all of the color, all of the surprise until there is nothing left but red.

You made sure that there were only ever two possibilities in my life. Red, the color you chose, or a life with no color at all. I was raised on “If violence is not the answer, you’re not using enough of it”. I never blamed you as I watched the colors slowly seep away one by one, I only ever blamed myself. I thought I deserved to live in this bleak, lifeless world.

I want all of my colors back, so I can see beauty in my blue eyes, instead of a dull gray, the blonde highlights in my hair instead of a dingy brown. To be able to see wonder and light in everything around me, the sparkle in my friends eyes as she rants about this new band. But all I can see is anger, hurt, Red. I want to forget, I want to live, but how can I live when there are no more colors in this world?

So now Red stands for different things. Red, the first color in the rainbow, Red, my mother’s favorite color, and Red, the start of seeing beauty again.

My dad. The words that sear a hole through my heart. The words that I focus on when I need to be angry. It’s funny how those two little words can change your day, change your week, change your life. When I was a little girl, there was nothing I loved more than hearing my dad’s boots stomp through the door. I never would have guessed that those same boots would be yelling, storming, bashing through our house, tearing it apart like a row boat in a tsunami.
You taught me how to swim, but never how to stay afloat in the sea of your lies. You were my sun, but the sun, it WILL burn you. Don’t look at it too long because you WILL go blind. Your words and lies the harmful rays, slowing killing me with kindness and light.
You showered me with gifts to hide the truth. One new book for a hidden pack of cigarettes, a trip out to eat for your 12-pack of liquor. But I was too young. Too naive to realize that my world that you built was slowing falling apart, crumbling down around me, and I was in your path of destruction.
Years later I would come to realize the reason for your lies. You never wanted me. I was the disappointment with a big red FAILURE painted on my forehead. You wanted a boy. Never a girl, and twin girls at that. This was the reason you pushed me to do baseball, have all boy friends. I was the girl you never wanted, so you tried to change me. And I let you. That was the biggest mistake of my life.
I will never get back the life I had before, one free of panic attacks, social anxiety, nightmares (on the good nights), and self esteem lower that the waist bands of some boys’ pants. You wanted to change me, and oh, did you! You ******* me up for life. So I hope you are proud of yourself. You transformed a little girl who worshipped the ground you walked on into a depressed and emotionally compromised teen. You took my dreams and you ran them over with that truck that you cared so much more about than me.
There should be no reason for me to fear whenever someone talks to me, touches me, or goes in for a hug. I should not fear high-fives or fist-bumps. And yet, here I am, scared to death of what that person is going to do to hurt me. I would like to thank you for taking that trust away from me.
So before you start to make a false past about someone again, think about what you did to me. I was your daughter, you my father. Now you are just a distant memory of a lost childhood and a nightmare of my life. You are not my father. You are the man who gave me life, and then took it away just as fast.