1995:
I love Mrs. Rice, my first grade teacher. We have a "Student of the Week," each week, where we fill out a poster that is displayed for your week. When it's my turn, I say I want to be a ballerina, my favorite color is blue, and I like to read. I fill in my age (6), eye color (green), hair color (brown), height, and lie about my weight. I wouldn't want anybody thinking I was fat.
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all day every day. it's relentless. it's never ever quiet.
"you're worthless" it whispers.
"just one more hour at the gym"
"trust me."
it wont stop. i sleep. all day. whats wrong? my dad asks. nothing, i say. go away. i want to be left alone. who knew i could be so tired? who knew it was possible to sleep so much? my mom comes home. i tell her i hate school. i dont want to go back. she gets mad. i get mad. i scream at her. open the windows, she says. so everyone can hear. i open the windows and scream louder. tell her she has no fucking idea. no one has any FUCKING idea. no one knows the secrecy, the sneaking, the scrapes on the knuckles, the bruises on the knees, the sobs i have choked out for hours all day just thinking about it. my room smells of despair. kleenex everywhere--the floor, the bed. i don't care. i look at pictures of better times, a better life. where did it go? did i realize it was slipping away? when was it finally gone? day by day, they say. each day counts. but it DOESN'T fucking count. NOTHING counts when you're a ticking fucking time bomb just waiting to explode. my throat is on fire. it's hard to talk. but i have nothing to say.
i remember sixth grade. they called me fat when they got mad at me. we would always get in fights. and they would always be so vicious, so cruel.
my brain is about to explode.
