My fingers
grew long,
my stomach
bulged
through its skin,
making stretches
that scared
and embarrassed me.

My belly button
became a constant
source of worry,
the slight jiggle in
my thighs,
was a
tsunami
destroying
everything I worked for.

I ran in place
and felt
my lungs
collapse,
I stopped stargazing
and ended up
inside,
watching too much TV.

I resisted learning,
I taught myself
to hate the mirror
(or at least the girl
inside it)
and I felt
pushed around
when no one
was telling me
what to do.

The world I lived in
became
scarily unreal,
and all my phobias
caged me
inside my house,
and away from
the nature
I used to love so much.

I cut off as little hair
as possible,
and saved the scraps,
secretly
trying
to glue them
back on.

I made selfish
wishes
and thought
that if
I could have
one thing,
it would be
that girl’s body,
this girl’s hair,
that small,
straight nose,
those whitened teeth
and a smile
to go with them.

I pulled pins
across my arms
and let the scratches
scab,
feeling them
beneath the fabric
of my itchy clothes.

I contemplated
how easy
it would be
as I took an Advil
for cramps,
and scared myself
into crying
for hours,
silent,
alone,
talking to myself,
making myself crazy.

I told myself
that I wasn’t
lying,
over
and
over,
trying
silently
to make it
not
ironic.

I rambled in class,
and felt like
no one cared as I
talked about how afraid
I was.

I put on as much makeup
as I dared,
and was told
I was beautiful.
But deep
inside,
my self esteem
sunk
lower
and
lower
with each passing week.

The weekends held solace,
held
the opportunity
for me
to be alone with myself,
to paint my nails
and fluff my hair,
and feel perfect.

But then
Mondays
came,
and I was forced
to laugh
to smile
to tell the best jokes
I could,
and understand, as my classmates
made me cringe inside.

I dragged myself from class,
crawled to the bathroom,
and sobbed silently
into my hands,
as next door
they recited
math problems.

I surreptitiously
stole a
thumb tack
during study hall,
and scarred up my legs,
made my skin sting,
being careful
not to draw
blood.

Grease pooled in my pores
and I
squeezed so hard
I bruised myself,
trying to make
the blisters go away.

I spent my money
on TV shows,
pretty clothes,
jewelry,
and only felt
special
when someone
complimented me on them.

I squirreled away candy,
and gorged myself
late at night,
stuffing the wrappers
behind my bed,
so no one would see.

I faked
a stomach ache
to stay home from school,
because
he
was
there;
ready
to call me emotionless,
and cold hearted,
as I tried not to
burst into tears.

I tried to connect
myself
to the world,
and when
I failed,
I had to resist the
temptation
to hurt myself,
to kill myself,
to close myself off
completely.

I relished the
days where my friends
were happy enough
to listen
to my
problems,
and waited through
the months
where they took
turns needing
my help.

I wished I
was pregnant,
so I could
drop out
of high school
and be too busy
making sure
my baby was alright
to notice how
miserable I was.

I dreamed about
the people
closest to me
dying,
and woke
up
feeling knotted inside.

I guzzled bottles of
water,
choking,
spluttering,
trying to keep
the bile down.

I smelled the softness
of my family,
and wanted desperately
to scream for
mommy and daddy,
so they could
cradle me in
their warmth,
and make me feel heard.

I watched
my best friend
scar up his
own
wrists,
and made myself a promise
that I would
never
cause that kind of pain
to the ones that loved me
again.

I saw the Band-Aids,
I saw the blood,
and I tried desperately
to believe they were
mistakes,
or old,
from years ago.

I fell in love
with a boy
and then a girl,
and realized
how well I had been
avoiding myself.

I cried for how lost I was,
and then
dried my
own tears.

I hated
her ex-boyfriends
for what
they did to her,
what they said to her,
but I never
did anything
to stop them.

My closest friends
made new friends,
or reconnected
with old ones,
and I felt betrayed,
more alone
than ever,
trapped inside
my skin,
with no way
to make new people see me.

I wished I was
born to
a different family,
wished I was more
interesting,
less invisible
all the time.

I felt myself losing
the war I was fighting,
and watched
as my almost brother
lost his real brother,
and then his
father,
and then
his grandmother.

I wondered what
it would be like
if I ran away.

I thought of the fear
that would engulf my family,
and friends,
and felt a sense
of satisfaction.
I didn’t want
to love them
anymore.

But then the next
disaster would strike,
and I would
pick up
the pieces,
and lose another
piece of myself,
trying to warm up
the hands, feet,
and soul
of the people I couldn’t
help loving.

I watched old movies,
and new ones,
and got trapped
in the reels as they spun,
encased
for a couple of hours
in the spinning joy
of fiction.

I read as many
books as I had
time for,
but TV was a quicker
escape,
so I let
myself
get
addicted.

I waited with
anticipation
for Christmas
and birthdays,
and when they came,
I felt less connected
than ever,
so disappointed was I
by the lack of beauty
and perfection.

I listened to my parents’
voices rise,
and curled
into a ball,
hands pressed
to my ears,
rocking myself,
trying not to scream.

I called my friends,
and they
didn’t hear the tears
in my voice.
I told them
I was scared,
and they
said
that it would
be alright,
that I would be fine.

Inside,
I laughed at their belief in me.
They knew nothing,
they certainly
didn’t know me.
But I let them think
they had helped me,
and sent them off
to deal with
their own trauma.

I felt crazy,
schizophrenic,
and I wished I could
just break down
and go to a mental hospital,
so I wouldn’t
have to spend so much
time and energy
keeping
myself
together.

I tried to write books,
and they stopped
cold
after ten pages.

I lost my dreams
of fighting
through my writing
and I
listened as the people
around me
were praised,
and I,
getting just as much as them,
craved more.

I felt lazy,
tried to
make myself
stop watching TV,
start
getting out of the house more,
get reconnected
with my old friends,
start eating healthier,
start exercising more.

I portrayed outward
optimism,
and inside
I expected the worst
every time
the phone rang.

I called myself a mess,
I listened to no one’s
advice,
I thought
that nothing could
be done,
I wrote pleas for help
in my poetry,
but no one
understood.

I cried more and more,
and sought desperately
for more CDs to listen to.

I tried to grow up
my styles and tastes,
but I always felt
ten
steps
behind
everyone else.

When I laughed,
I felt sad,
because I knew
that it wouldn’t last.

When my beautiful friends
cried to me,
called themselves ugly,
I felt helpless
and desperate,
knowing how hard
it was to feel truly
perfect
in this world of
supermodels and
touch-ups.

Day by day,
everything
was a challenge,
everything was
terrible,
and the struggle
keeps going,
the war is not
yet over,
not even close.

I have homework
to do,
and a routine to live;
circles to be circled,
boxes to be checked.

Nothing is ever finished,
but
happiness does exist.

Small pockets,
here and there,
little bubbles of air
that fill themselves
with pure
and utter
joy.

I have learned this,
through ym years
of
terror.

And now the snow falls,
and I feel like dancing,
because there’s music playing,
and my troubles
still exist,
but today
they are ridiculopus,
as I stare at them
from a distance.

Maybe someday
I’ll write a full book,
but until then
I
have
to
make
mistakes,
I
have
to
screw
up
sometimes.

So here, this is a promise I’m glad to make:

I will
never
give up
on me
(no matter how much harder
these endless years get).

I'll always be there,
pulling myself up,
even if
I
have
nothing
but the
power
of my own
laughter
and tears
to keep me going.