Mar 2015
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.
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.
