A Captive of My Own Memories

Fatty.

Fatass.

Lardass.

Crisco.

Fatty, fatty two by four can’t get through the bathroom door…

Don’t you think you need to go on a diet?

You need to eat some more. Have some more dumplings.

Fat, stupid

Fat, lazy

Fatfatfatfat

It all seemed to run together eventually—the hateful, hurtful comments about my younger body. I was maybe 8 years old when they started. I was a normal-sized child going through hormonal changes that made my belly rounder just like any other girl my age. A girl who needed love and affirmation just like any other as well but who didn’t get it. Instead, the name-calling, the commentary, the diet comments, the hurt were an everyday occurrence that caused self-doubt and self-hatred so strong I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror for any length of time.

That became my identity—a lazy, stupid fatass—even though it was quite far from the truth now that I know better. At the time, it couldn’t be helped. At the time, I only knew how other people saw me and the people around me who were supposed to care about me most, who were supposed to love me unconditionally thought that I was a lazy stupid fatass. So that’s who I was.

In many ways, that’s who I still am.

That self-image kept me captive throughout my teens and early adulthood and still comes back to haunt me on bad days, in weak moments, when I feel especially vulnerable. No matter how hard I work on self-love, I will always be that little girl with tears spilling down her cheeks over the word-daggers thrown her way time and time again, bound to those early experiences, a prisoner of that pain no matter how hard I push forward. I’ve worked hard to develop an identity that is the sum of who I am and not based on those hurtful names. I have a healthy (healthier) self-image these days and have worked on accepting myself as I am and understanding that I don’t have to fit in a size 2 jeans to be “normal.”

but still

When I look in the mirror, it happens like a movie montage of the past circulating hurtful comments around my brain pushing a flood of auditory memories into my train of thought toppling over everything rational and positive in the way, and I turn away. When I get a compliment, I doubt its sincerity. I hide. I withdraw. I stay home. I look down and avoid eye contact. I put on my best resting bitch face and rejoice in never having to talk to people.

And I regret.

I’m tired of regretting, of being captive to the memories of people whose opinions stopped mattering to me years ago. I promise myself over and over again that it’s going to end, and I’ll see myself clearly instead of through this painful, carnival-mirror lens. But the promises are always broken.

One day. Maybe one day I’ll be completely free.

Check out the rest of the confessions today over at More than Cheese and Beer. This has been part of the host prompt she does every Sunday inviting other bloggers to join up based on that day's topic. Check out her Facebook page every Wednesday for the prompts and link up with us (via her page) on Sundays. 

And as always...thanks for reading my deepest thoughts without judgment.