2010-11-21 / 1:09 a.m.

I never explained it. I can't. I want to. I sit looking at this small white box with the blinking cursor and I listen to sad songs and I try to articulate what it was and what it is but I can't.
This hasn't been a bad life. Others would've made it where I couldn't. I fell. I'm sorry for being weak, but I fell and I fell hard. I felt it. I feel it.
I know. Fuck it. I was bullied. Millions have been. Millions will be.
You're a kid and you dread everything about you because other kids have found that one thing that hurts and they know it and they feel it and they thrive on it and they dig and pull and scratch because they know it hurts.
But it wasn't just the kids.

FAT.

That was it. End of the line. End of story. No matter what way you put it. Eloquent or ignorant.

I try to explain it but I don't even remember it. I feel it. I know the way it feels now and a fraction of how it felt then. Adults. Fucking fully grown adults who should've known better. Who should know better now. I was a target, and fully grown fucking adults pushed it too. I was punched. I was kicked. I was pummeled and I felt it. I fucking feel it still, you fucks. I was beat down in every way, shape and form and I can't begin to explain it to my best friends because I don't know how. I don't know why I'm so hurt, I don't even remember. It's an aura from being four years old and having a thirty year old woman pack stones inside a snowball and throw it at me with all her might.
It's that faint memory of sitting down at the end of a road after having my life ripped out of me and crying with more than everything I had. Some lady pushing a baby asking me if I was okay and me having the audacity to say that I was. Her having the idiocy to keep on going. What was I? Eight?
It's crying at the top of the stairs in my mothers arms. Sobbing. Unable to breathe. Eventually mustering up that same question.
"What makes me so different?"
My mother not knowing how to answer.
It's all this and more, so much more because I don't remember the specifics.
What's your earliest memory? Fuck. I lie. It's easier.

It's me coming home when I'm twenty-one years old and crying because I feel it to my core.

After twenty-one years, I get it. You know? I finally fucking get it. I am not good enough and I will never be good enough because I was fat and because I am fat and even if I weigh seventy pounds, I will always be fat because they told me and they showed me and I am beaten down and I hurt and there is no other way. I will always be this girl because there is no fucking other way.