It didn’t take long for my body to swell into a thing beyond my control. I was eight or nine when it started. When I learned what ‘fat’ meant as it spat itself out of someone’s mouth and rolled it’s girth in my direction. That was the summer of 2012. I remember that summer well. My mom and (ex) step-dad were arguing every day. My mom decided to send me to live with my aunt in the “Res”. Also known as Quinault, Washington so she could focus on the house in flames before her self. That was when I experienced my first ‘feel’ of anger, sadness, and loneliness all in one. I quickly learned how to gorge though that feeling. I arrived home at the end of August, plump with all my grief. I came back home a week before school started. By 11, I was towered over by all of my peers. I stood first in the girls line each morning. My skin erupted in angry signs of puberty across my forehead and cheeks. I learned what it meant to carry yourself in a body that had to be guarded.
When you’re young and people replace words like “beautiful” and “enough” with “potential” and “good reader” it’s a long trek towards what was not taught. You sit in front of many mirrors.
You straighten your back.
And take deep breaths.
And you sigh,
and squeeze,
and tug,
and swell,
and poke.
Afterwards, you’re a hot air balloon. Your body is in need of warmth you only ever had when someone gave it to you. The whole of you curled into yourself.
I spent many lunches in my teacher’s classroom, alone; my face burning from from the cruelty of the children. I switched schools almost every year, which wasn’t easy at first. After the third school I got used to being the outcast. I sat alone during recess. Of course, I was bullied because I didn’t have friends. I learned the little tunes the girls would sing while playing with the jump ropes. I began singing them to myself. I slowly started shutting people out. I slouched my shoulders, bent my spine and made my voice softer. Like a dog whistle, I hoped no one could hear me. Here, but not quite. I morphed into a subhuman.
       As I got older I carried these feelings of unworthiness everywhere. I fell into the arms of lesser people because they were open. I thought they were my friends. I never thought arms would be there for me to pick from. The images of models didn't look like me. They didn't fill their dresses the way I filled mine. They weren't as short as me. They didn't look as developed as me.
I remember my first boyfriend. His name was Max. We were only eleven. I remember him kissing me for the first time outside during a wet, chilly, Spring afternoon. I remember spitting into a flowerpot afterwards while he turned his head. It didn't feel right. He didn't even ask if I wanted it. Everything went his way. I remember him constantly hurting my feelings and me being the one apologizing for his actions. At this point in time I felt as if I was being held onto by hands that wouldn't hold me up even on my brightest day. Max and I broke up over a note I gave to him saying, "You are rude. I do not like U. We can not B friends."  Max and I haven't talked since.
I didn't start to feel beautiful until after middle school. But some days I'd stretch my legs into the right pair of skinny jeans or drape a silk dress over my head and see a glimmer of the kind of beautiful I could be. It was only when I retired the life long school uniforms and dress codes for good and gained permanent anatomy over my body that things began to shift in my life. I started being able to decide what it was I wanted to put on my body. How I wanted to navigate through my life. What I wanted the image reflecting my inner world to be. I claimed my body for good and in doing so I released the reins people once used to tether it into place.
It started slowly. Light pink Chapstick spread carefully over my pout. Painted nails. Jewelry. Mascara. Then one day I took the scissors and cut off the final bit of the safety blanket I had left. I bloomed into the beautiful and strong woman I am today.