I began running at the age of seven. It was not the typical way in which one would tersely lace their sneakers, and feel the wind fighting against their body that pulses with the beat of the foot kissing the trail. No. I began a road that was off the path. I was in search of something for which I never got, and still to this day am searching for. And I deeply regret ever leaving the trail, to which I do not know where I might have gone.
I did not understand my actions then, and it took me many years to realize the damage I had done to the little girl with the long curling brown locks, who even then had a sense of self deprecation that drove her actions in ways that deprived her of a childhood she never got...
I had a wild, fiery, energetic disposition. A girl who could not sit still, and could speak eloquently, while also speaking your ear off, but even for seven- I had a heart overflowing with compassion for those around her. I enjoyed chores, reading, going to classes, and taking in the world around me. Discovery was my drive... and what killed the cat. It is all too true. I also liked math and numbers... perhaps that explains why I had taken to the scale even at the age of six. I remember being weighed on the scale as a little girl- and the excitement in the numbers as they would swing day to day. I do not think I understood what the numbers meant then, but I did understand that adults would frequently associate little numbers with beauty, and big numbers with sadness. I never told anyone these things, but I knew this. Children absorb the things around them like sponges- but by the time we realize it, the damage is usually done. I was a picky eater, so by nature I never bought school lunch. It was a peanut butter sandwich with pretzels and cookies. I am not sure whether it was the texture of the sandwich, the thick peanut butter, or the subconscious insecurity of my stomach, which I even then knew was there and loathed, but I remember the first time I snuck my sandwich past the hall monitor, into the garbage can and sat and ate my pretzels and cookies alone. My small hands clutching the plastic, and fumbling with the zippers. My ability to concentrate in my reading classes diminished. I remember the concern of my teacher when she approached me one day because I was struggling with reading comprehension out of nowhere. I am sorry to myself. To her. To the little girl I put through, and begun an awful habit with so young, but every day I began tossing that sandwich. I was seven. I did not know it was restricting. That word was not even in my vocabulary. I did not know I was stuffing my stress to spell my words, or complete my math problems correctly by throwing away my lunch. The feeling of self worthlessness from being different from the others. For having my own thoughts. I wish I could tell her, and make her believe her intelligence did not make her less of a person, but would carry her so incredibly far, and was nothing to hide. I did not realize that by punishing myself through food for not being good enough I was heading down a dangerous trail... seven year olds do not think like that.
I wish I could say she woke up and saw her beauty and realized that there was nothing wrong with her, and began eating her food normally, and lived happily ever after realizing she was perfect in her imperfection. Ha. ha. ha. Nope. This little girl went through the same routine for the next two years until one third grade teacher finally noticed. I remember her offering to hold my lunchbox as I washed up- the anxiety knotting in my stomach as if I had done something wrong. Her look of concern as I walked out, and she asked me what was between the two pieces of bread- to which I had placed nothing, and the otherwise empty lunchbox. I remember the anger, and fear in my mom's voice when I came home from school that afternoon, and she told me she had received a call from school. And when I began eating lunch weekly in the counseling center. My "lunch dates." Those continued for awhile, but I never thought anything of it... I didn't know.
I didn't know that the way I called myself fat at age 11 was anything more than preteen self esteem issues, or that going all day without eating because I knew it was "pizza Tuesday," was not okay. I did not realize that I did not have to denigrate myself anytime I was not the smallest in the room, or that when bad things happened to me by guys who sexualized my body as a teenager- that it was them and not myself.
I wish I could hug this girl. The little girl who threw away her sandwiches, and did not think she was good enough. Who felt so lowly of herself when she was not "perfect." I wish I could explain to her that she was beautiful, and perfect just as she was, and could go on to take the world by storm. She did not and does not need to punish herself for things out of or her control. Or even for the things within her control. No one is going to get it right all the time. I look at the person in the mirror she has become, and I have said I see brokenness. I am learning that this is not the case. She has a few cracks at the seams, but breaking ground means growth. And growth means hope in all things.
I did not understand my actions then, and it took me many years to realize the damage I had done to the little girl with the long curling brown locks, who even then had a sense of self deprecation that drove her actions in ways that deprived her of a childhood she never got...
I had a wild, fiery, energetic disposition. A girl who could not sit still, and could speak eloquently, while also speaking your ear off, but even for seven- I had a heart overflowing with compassion for those around her. I enjoyed chores, reading, going to classes, and taking in the world around me. Discovery was my drive... and what killed the cat. It is all too true. I also liked math and numbers... perhaps that explains why I had taken to the scale even at the age of six. I remember being weighed on the scale as a little girl- and the excitement in the numbers as they would swing day to day. I do not think I understood what the numbers meant then, but I did understand that adults would frequently associate little numbers with beauty, and big numbers with sadness. I never told anyone these things, but I knew this. Children absorb the things around them like sponges- but by the time we realize it, the damage is usually done. I was a picky eater, so by nature I never bought school lunch. It was a peanut butter sandwich with pretzels and cookies. I am not sure whether it was the texture of the sandwich, the thick peanut butter, or the subconscious insecurity of my stomach, which I even then knew was there and loathed, but I remember the first time I snuck my sandwich past the hall monitor, into the garbage can and sat and ate my pretzels and cookies alone. My small hands clutching the plastic, and fumbling with the zippers. My ability to concentrate in my reading classes diminished. I remember the concern of my teacher when she approached me one day because I was struggling with reading comprehension out of nowhere. I am sorry to myself. To her. To the little girl I put through, and begun an awful habit with so young, but every day I began tossing that sandwich. I was seven. I did not know it was restricting. That word was not even in my vocabulary. I did not know I was stuffing my stress to spell my words, or complete my math problems correctly by throwing away my lunch. The feeling of self worthlessness from being different from the others. For having my own thoughts. I wish I could tell her, and make her believe her intelligence did not make her less of a person, but would carry her so incredibly far, and was nothing to hide. I did not realize that by punishing myself through food for not being good enough I was heading down a dangerous trail... seven year olds do not think like that.
I wish I could say she woke up and saw her beauty and realized that there was nothing wrong with her, and began eating her food normally, and lived happily ever after realizing she was perfect in her imperfection. Ha. ha. ha. Nope. This little girl went through the same routine for the next two years until one third grade teacher finally noticed. I remember her offering to hold my lunchbox as I washed up- the anxiety knotting in my stomach as if I had done something wrong. Her look of concern as I walked out, and she asked me what was between the two pieces of bread- to which I had placed nothing, and the otherwise empty lunchbox. I remember the anger, and fear in my mom's voice when I came home from school that afternoon, and she told me she had received a call from school. And when I began eating lunch weekly in the counseling center. My "lunch dates." Those continued for awhile, but I never thought anything of it... I didn't know.
I didn't know that the way I called myself fat at age 11 was anything more than preteen self esteem issues, or that going all day without eating because I knew it was "pizza Tuesday," was not okay. I did not realize that I did not have to denigrate myself anytime I was not the smallest in the room, or that when bad things happened to me by guys who sexualized my body as a teenager- that it was them and not myself.
I wish I could hug this girl. The little girl who threw away her sandwiches, and did not think she was good enough. Who felt so lowly of herself when she was not "perfect." I wish I could explain to her that she was beautiful, and perfect just as she was, and could go on to take the world by storm. She did not and does not need to punish herself for things out of or her control. Or even for the things within her control. No one is going to get it right all the time. I look at the person in the mirror she has become, and I have said I see brokenness. I am learning that this is not the case. She has a few cracks at the seams, but breaking ground means growth. And growth means hope in all things.
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