Lard with Bones (IGN: criz223)

[Chrismaster2]

Lard with Bones [ some random writing - recount of childhood]



   The mirror, the constant reminder of the past, present, and future, the reminder of the self-loathing that shaped my being in youth, and continues to do so today. Time spent trying to pump the lungs of others with their wishes and whims, time spent trying to be good enough for them, but I'd never be-I was obese. Big as a barrel, with the insides of a bucket of butter, I was always harassed for being different, for being the fat one, but I didn't just tolerate the humiliation. Thus I was always in fights, fights to try to validate myself as an individual, fights to try to communicate that I was a person, an emotionally susceptible child, just like them.   
       At the end of the day though, when I looked at my body as I removed my garb, when I looked in the mirror as I walked past it going to the shower, and when I vigorously scrubbed away at the grime on my neck (which I didn't know until later to be a sign of diabetes, black markings on the neck), I still hated myself because I wasn't good enough. Who could live like this, living by the whims of peer perceptions?  Living with the fear of being weighed in gym class and for the other boys to hear the three digit number.
       I wasn't a person because I was just the botched sculpted boy, an automaton without a brain to think for myself, minimum conscience unless I was indulging in my sanctums of self-hatred, the bathroom where I'd have to look at myself, and the track, where I'd realize I was too fat to run, wheezing that likely invoking on others what a prodded-pig would sound like. I wasn't a person because I continuously walked the loop without the realization that I needed to shatter the pudgy walls that enclosed my life. It took me the entirety of elementary and middle school to realize this, but it wasn't even myself who sparked the need for change, it was the pediatrician who alarmed my very being by informing me my risk for diabetes was high, it was those who I'd saw as better than me- and my desire to be good enough for them.
      I knew since the time of jesters and cavalry what had to be done, I had to lose my excess flesh-but it was pathetically done for the wrong reason. I didn't do it because I wanted to love myself, I did it because I wanted to be accepted. I underwent a strict diet, and attempted to jog multiple miles each day-assuming I wasn't bathing in sweat and failing to breathe. For the average person it wouldn't have been too difficult, but for me it was grueling. Not being able to binge a bucket of ice-cream whenever available, not being able to enjoy fizzy drinks, and all of the disgust felt when my body shook as I ran. I had lost 95 pounds.
      In three months everything had changed. I went from a grease-ball to a skeleton, my bones protruded against my skin, my chest consisted of my ribs and minimal skin. My pants of the past now fit like skirts, my shirts of the past now fit like dresses, and the only muscle in my entire body was that in my legs. They weren't satisfied. My peers instead of applauding me or at least accepting me now that I had rid myself of what they previously harassed, instead shifted their focus on the left side of the spectrum. Unnatural anorexic skeleton, it was my new name; anorexic. Assuming I didn't work for the lost weight, assuming I didn't sacrifice for it, assuming I could've only lost the weight through bulimia, even when I clarified I didn't. What was it for? Caring what they thought of my body and I-living to be approved by others who would always judge me. Not for health, nor to love myself, but for the hope that others would approve of me once I changed.
     A snail wanting to be a mouse, the mouse wanting to be a cat, the cat wanting to be a leopard.      A body constantly watching the looking glass disgusted by incompatibility. A lifestyle that rots the very core of your heart from the aversion that lays deeply in the soil. A world cruel enough to host miserable souls that long for praise. A reality flickering between the innate disproportionate planes of approval and disapproval; such a repugnant world. Who can live like this?  And for how long? How long could one possibly last, and how long would it be possible for me to last?