She sits angled away from me, her head down. She doesn't speak.
"I thought-" She cuts me off, waving me away with her hand. "I know." she whispers. "I know what you thought. It's what everyone thought. But I couldn't stop." I have no words. I was proud of her, so proud for overcoming this, for taking control of her own life again. But I was wrong. I let out a long sigh and lean back. "Why?"
"You know why. I want to be skinny." I lift my head, stare her straight in the eyes. "You are skinny. You're gorgeous. Why can't you see that?" Her eyes, an electric blue, stare back. She blinks quickly, fighting back tears, and shakes her head. "I wish I were you. If I were, I'd carry a mirror around everywhere. You're so pretty" She forces a sad smile.
This shocks me. I quickly shake my head, "No. I'm all messed up on the inside." I stare back at her. We're opposites, my dark curls juxtaposing her straight blonde, her light blue eyes boring into my deep brown, and my chubby face studying her slender one.
She lowers her head, and pushes a piece of hair behind her ear. She raises her eyebrows in question and opens her mouth, ask if to speak, but stops herself. I know what she was going to ask, and instinctively I wrap my arms around myself, pressing close against my chest, hidden. I shake my head no, answering her unasked question. I have won my own battle, for now.
Later, I am at home, and her words echo through my mind. Suddenly, I am grasping, reaching. For reasons I don't understand, I shove food in my mouth. Without thinking, I eat. Ice cream appears, and I shovel it into my mouth. I realize I'm crying. I stop. I feel fat, bloated.
I push my finger into my stomach, and watch as the soft fat forms a dimple under it. I think of her, how dainty, how small, and I cry as I realize that she always sees this. She always feels fat. Blinded by the media's definition of beauty, night after night, she'll look at herself, and never feel good enough. So she cannot stop. Bulimia has won her battle.
I cry freely, for her, for me, for everyone with their own secret battle that they must fight. Eventually, the tears slow, and I wipe my eyes. I stand up and clean myself off. We might never be good enough, but we must never give up the fight.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A World on Fire
Outside the window, the sky is white.
The sky is perfect.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
It forms the perfect background against the trees. Emerald green, they blend together, like slender fingers reaching from the ground. There is one different. On the far right, it screams with color, flaming red and orange. Fire. In time, the others will catch its flame, burning as brightly as it does now. Frozen in time, it's on the edge. One flame. A row of green. Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
I met with the high school counselor for the first time today. My stomach dropped, and I hesitated outside her door. Yet again I swallowed down countless words, things I could never share. I paste on a smile and rehearse answers in my head. Things to make her nod her head, to make her not worry, to keep up the facade of the happy student.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
We began talking about basics. Simple things, grades, schoolwork. She asked me what I wanted to do after high school. I froze. The look on her face stunned me. She understood. She saw right through me. There was something different about her, and she challenged me to test her. To tell the truth. So I did. I choked out "musical theater". Her face hardened, out of habit, perhaps. After all, its so ambitious, so untouchable, and her job is to set realistic goals. Suddenly, the hardness melted. She looked curious, and nodded at me to continue.
It screams with color, flaming red and orange.
A dam broke then, and I sputtered out something about the high unemployment rates of actors and actresses. Her expression was unchanged, and I swelled slightly. "I can do it. I know I can. I'll be the one that makes it. I'll work hard at it, I swear. I belong onstage, I know it..." I trail off, ashamed, and wait for her to stop me. But she doesn't. "You will." Two words. That's it.
Frozen in time, it's on the edge.
I look up at her, and this time, it’s my face that asks to continue. “You will,” she repeats, “You speak with such passion, and you’re poised and well spoken. You’re going to succeed. I can tell.” I can tell that she’s confused by this, she’s making a promise that’s easily broken, but the doubt is soon gone. She is sure. And suddenly, so am I. I will. I wait now for my opening night, for the flames and excitement that will decide my future. I can sense something big approaching.
Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
The sky is perfect.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
It forms the perfect background against the trees. Emerald green, they blend together, like slender fingers reaching from the ground. There is one different. On the far right, it screams with color, flaming red and orange. Fire. In time, the others will catch its flame, burning as brightly as it does now. Frozen in time, it's on the edge. One flame. A row of green. Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
I met with the high school counselor for the first time today. My stomach dropped, and I hesitated outside her door. Yet again I swallowed down countless words, things I could never share. I paste on a smile and rehearse answers in my head. Things to make her nod her head, to make her not worry, to keep up the facade of the happy student.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
We began talking about basics. Simple things, grades, schoolwork. She asked me what I wanted to do after high school. I froze. The look on her face stunned me. She understood. She saw right through me. There was something different about her, and she challenged me to test her. To tell the truth. So I did. I choked out "musical theater". Her face hardened, out of habit, perhaps. After all, its so ambitious, so untouchable, and her job is to set realistic goals. Suddenly, the hardness melted. She looked curious, and nodded at me to continue.
It screams with color, flaming red and orange.
A dam broke then, and I sputtered out something about the high unemployment rates of actors and actresses. Her expression was unchanged, and I swelled slightly. "I can do it. I know I can. I'll be the one that makes it. I'll work hard at it, I swear. I belong onstage, I know it..." I trail off, ashamed, and wait for her to stop me. But she doesn't. "You will." Two words. That's it.
Frozen in time, it's on the edge.
I look up at her, and this time, it’s my face that asks to continue. “You will,” she repeats, “You speak with such passion, and you’re poised and well spoken. You’re going to succeed. I can tell.” I can tell that she’s confused by this, she’s making a promise that’s easily broken, but the doubt is soon gone. She is sure. And suddenly, so am I. I will. I wait now for my opening night, for the flames and excitement that will decide my future. I can sense something big approaching.
Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
C-
Dear Reader,
If we truly learn from our mistakes, then we should all have learned, correct?
Evidently not, as I make more mistakes then anyone, and yet I don't seem to learn anything from them. Our essays were graded today, dear reader. C-. She gave me a C-.
I do not lack in language, no, my "language is effective and rich". Nor is it mechanics, as I had "few errors" and "effective paragraphing". She told me, dear reader, that the structure of my writing was "sophisticated". But there, dear reader, is where the success ended.
My style lacked proper sense of audience or purpose. This, dear reader, explains why I am addressing you now, simply to bring out the irony of this accusation. My organization was "awkward" as well, and my focus "limited". However, dear reader, her most painful accusations were the following. I "lacked original ideas", had "little insight", and my voice was "awkward". Do you agree, dear reader?
Overall, I was simply "effective". Simply borderline. This, dear reader, is not good enough. I write to show, to tell, to teach, to learn. I write to free myself, to spill my soul all over the world. I write to capture thoughts, to put together pieces and find truth and meaning in life. Writing allows us to speak directly to a person's soul, which would not be possible otherwise. It's the reason for this blog, dear reader, and yet, I am only a C-.
In frustration, I ask you, how many more mistakes must I make before I can learn? How much more must I talk before I find my voice? How much more must I think before I can think for myself? How much more must I look before I can find profound insights? I ask you, reader, how much more? The answer, dear reader, does not exist. For people too often look at the world in the wrong way. Saying "I am learn from my mistakes" implies that there is a period for which I learn, and when that ends, I will know, and I will no longer make mistakes. This is not true. I will forever be learning, and even after I have learned, I will still be learning and making mistakes.
She is wrong, dear reader, for I already have a already learned some. My style may be weak, it may be cliche and awkward, but I am speaking to you now, am I not?
If we truly learn from our mistakes, then we should all have learned, correct?
Evidently not, as I make more mistakes then anyone, and yet I don't seem to learn anything from them. Our essays were graded today, dear reader. C-. She gave me a C-.
I do not lack in language, no, my "language is effective and rich". Nor is it mechanics, as I had "few errors" and "effective paragraphing". She told me, dear reader, that the structure of my writing was "sophisticated". But there, dear reader, is where the success ended.
My style lacked proper sense of audience or purpose. This, dear reader, explains why I am addressing you now, simply to bring out the irony of this accusation. My organization was "awkward" as well, and my focus "limited". However, dear reader, her most painful accusations were the following. I "lacked original ideas", had "little insight", and my voice was "awkward". Do you agree, dear reader?
Overall, I was simply "effective". Simply borderline. This, dear reader, is not good enough. I write to show, to tell, to teach, to learn. I write to free myself, to spill my soul all over the world. I write to capture thoughts, to put together pieces and find truth and meaning in life. Writing allows us to speak directly to a person's soul, which would not be possible otherwise. It's the reason for this blog, dear reader, and yet, I am only a C-.
In frustration, I ask you, how many more mistakes must I make before I can learn? How much more must I talk before I find my voice? How much more must I think before I can think for myself? How much more must I look before I can find profound insights? I ask you, reader, how much more? The answer, dear reader, does not exist. For people too often look at the world in the wrong way. Saying "I am learn from my mistakes" implies that there is a period for which I learn, and when that ends, I will know, and I will no longer make mistakes. This is not true. I will forever be learning, and even after I have learned, I will still be learning and making mistakes.
She is wrong, dear reader, for I already have a already learned some. My style may be weak, it may be cliche and awkward, but I am speaking to you now, am I not?
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