A sad girl

  May 16; 5:31 PM

Lately, I think a lot about the past.

It’s like I’m trying to figure out where I went wrong. Maybe if I take enough steps back, I’ll be able to fix myself. I know that’s not how things are supposed to work, but I hope.

So far, I have managed to trace back the beginnings of…whatever to elementary school.

Grade six: too tall and badly postured, a bit chubby, glass-wearing, pedantic and completely bewildered by the concept of “femininity.”  I didn’t have a lot of friends (what a surprise!).

At 13 I had already developed many anxious habits. Nail-biting, avoidance, flighty eyes, an inability to speak in public without stuttering or getting a mini panic attack. Worst of all, I pulled my hair out.

It was all fine, until the hairstylist pointed out my balding scalp to my mother, who in turn pointed it out to the doctor. We all agreed it was a nervous habit done unconsciously.

That was a lie. In fact, I was keenly aware every time I pulled out a strand of hair. The sharp, stinging pain. The itchy feeling afterwards. The slight relief from the tightness in my chest, if only for a little while. But lying felt safer.

Fast forward to grade 10: I still bit my nails, stuttered, hunched over…but I had at least gotten over the hair pulling. For the most part (no bald spot was visible). I developed another bad habit, however. Making myself throw up.

For months, I did it, until I was no longer chubby and everyone complimented me on how good I looked. I did it so often than whenever I actually ate a meal, I began to feel nausea, and my teeth aching afterwards.

I had to stop because the blood vessels around my eyes kept bursting, and little bruises were speckled all over my face.

Fast Forward yet again, to grade 12: No longer self-inducing vomit, I had turned to over-eating. Sugar fixes helped me through the stupor I felt. Apathy had engulfed whatever interests I had, but with enough sugar…I could get through the day.

My self esteem began plummeting down as people commented on the obvious weight gain. No longer was I bulimia-slender. Oh, no, now I was getting chubby again, and that was concerning.

That made me resent everybody a lot. How could they see me gain weight but not suspect that something was wrong?

Instead, they told me I was mature. Settled. Happy. Intelligent.

All fucking lies.

Finally, second year of University: I decided to get help. But nothing I have ever tried has helped me. I feel as if it has made me worse. And so I am left retracing steps and wishing that if maybe I had done something different, I would be happy. Maybe if I hadn’t pulled out my hair. Or bitten my nails. Or gained weight. Or stuck my fingers down my throat.

And I understand that’s not how it works. Everything I have written here is symptom, not disease. But sometimes, it’s hard to tell them apart, and I just want to get better, and I can delude myself by thinking that if I reminiscence long enough, something will click inside me and I will be whole.