Beginning the Goodbyes

Okay. Here it goes. Let’s be real here, this was too much for Facebook.

Tomorrow will be my last day of high school classes and I’m honestly unsure how to feel about that. On one hand, I’m obviously excited, it would seem odd not to be. Finally, I will be off on my own, an adult, able to use my own free will to determine what I learn, where I learn, and when I learn. I will be my own person and no flawed and corrupted school district will be able to direct my life for me. On the other hand, everything listed above. I will be on my own, I will have to take charge of my own life decisions, I will no longer really have the choice to be passive. And all of that is honestly terrifying. I’ve been scared of all of this since probably sixth grade when I stayed up crying because I thought I wasn’t going to get to be a kid anymore. But the excitement weighs out the fear on that end, it has to. People have been making this transition for thousands of years and the vast majority have turned out alright in the grand scheme of things. No, what is really sad about this day is not what I must face, it is what I must leave behind.

Booker T. Washington High School for the Performing and Visual Arts is arguably the best decision I have ever made. These past four years have been nothing short of magical. The butterflies in my stomach have stuck around since that first day, first monologue, first performance, and don’t seem to be going anywhere now. I showed up on Flora Street in 2010 a timid, quiet kid who had figured out that everyone thought she was kind of obnoxious in middle school. Now, I don’t know where that kid is. Booker T. has taught me not to be afraid of myself or of anyone else. I can talk to strangers now and I can’t begin explain what an accomplishment that is. Booker T. has taught me that I have things to say and a voice to say things with. Booker T. has taught me to love myself because I’m the only self I’ve got and, hey, I’m not too shabby. And when I say that Booker T. has taught me these things, that has to include, not only my classes and teachers, but my friends.

I’m not sure I can write this next paragraph without tearing up a little bit. My friends. My ridiculous, wonderful, talented friends. Though we were a bit spread out freshman year, somehow we were a family by the end of 2012. What started as a “book club” that didn’t talk about books, became a friend group that couldn’t shut up about each other. We made a unit and even though we fight and disagree sometimes, it’s always over something so stupid it doesn’t make a difference in the end. My friends have made me the spastic know-it-all I am today and I love them for that. I couldn’t have found them anywhere else and I’m so grateful they found me. And beyond the group of “white theater girls and Nick”, I’ve got my boys. Boys, I’m not your mother, but I love you very much. Eat your vegetables and keep in touch. So even though we will literally be all over the map next year, we will still be a family and you will still be my Life Club. Aw shit, there it goes. I’m tearing up. Dammit. “Nice hands, Pete!” Okay better. Love you guys!

And I guess that seems a good a time as any to start wrapping it up. Although it’s hard to express out loud, I’ve got to start saying my goodbyes to the schedule I finish out tomorrow. Goodbyes to Betzen and Cowen and D’Avignon and Fairbear. Goodbyes to Ms. J and Brybry and Reitz and Lindsay. Goodbyes that will eventually lead me to awkward public tears that make me look a little bit like a squid. So I guess, to avoid the blockage of my airways when it comes time to verbalize my goodbyes, I’ll start now with a big broad hug of a goodbye.

Goodbye Booker T. it’s been grand. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Weight

Until my mother told me I was looking skinnier, I never thought I’d been anything different. I’d never counted the ridges of fat on my stomach when I was curled up on the shower floor. I’d never grasped at the lumps around my hips, thinking, “If just this bit could be pulled away, if just this lump would disappear”. I’d never worn oversized clothes and one-piece swimsuits to disguise myself and crossed my arms in front of my chest to pretend it wasn’t straining at the buttons on my blouse. I’d never avoided shopping entirely because the numbers on the tags made me feel guilty for choosing things that fit me. I’d never felt the way gravity tugged on my cheeks when I lay on my back, when I talked. I’d never stared at my friends in bitter, hungry envy because they could just be, without feeling their own masses in every heavy step.

But now I do. Now I feel all of it and I try and try to love myself and to celebrate every inch of myself, but it’s hard and sometimes I can’t. And every time my mother reminds me to go for a run, or to “maybe not eat that cupcake, if I am on a diet” I want to jump on a table and shout at her that I’m happy and I will eat the damn cupcake if I want to. I want to lie and tell her that I love my body because I don’t want anybody else to judge me as harshly as I judge myself. And every time my dear mother says that I look skinny I want to cry, not because I don’t want to look skinny or because she doesn’t mean it, but because it means that the last time she saw me I was something else. And because how is it any of her business?

I know every time that I look in the mirror or take my measurements that my weight doesn’t need to be a concern for me, but it is. It is because I have been surrounded by people who think it is okay to tell me that I look skinny rather than tell me I look nice or pretty or, god forbid, beautiful. And I hate that. I hate all of it because, frankly, I’m too busy to worry about my weight. I am too busy thinking about too many things and juggling grades and friends and daydreams and questions and everything else to think about the number that will appear when I stand on a scale.

Some stupid guy told a friend of mine that he thought I had “abnormally large boobs” and I know that it didn’t mean anything, but now I think about it every time I get dressed in the morning. I’d never thought about that before, I’ve never been so self-conscious as I was the afternoon I heard that. I’ve never felt so ashamed or so aware of my D-cups. And it’s really fucking stupid that I let some dumb thing some guy said stick around in my brain for so long, but I can’t forget it no matter how I hard I try. I can’t forget anything that people have said about me. And obviously that’s not a good way to think about yourself, but it’s impossible not to let those comments crowd around your reflection in the mirror.

So I do my best to push the comments out and focus on the things that I can control. So I eat whatever the hell I feel like (and most days that’s a salad and some days that’s a piece of pizza) and go for walks/runs when the weather is nice because it makes me happy.  And yes, I am terrified to put this giant block of text anywhere because it’s the truth and the truth it terrifying, but I will because who knows, maybe someone will care about it.

And yes, this is a personal reflection, but I think that problem is bigger than me. The weight problem haunts girls from the time the get to middle school, often before that. Because suddenly, what you look like matters more than who you are and baby fat isn’t cute anymore. And I know it has to be endlessly worse for girls who struggled with their weight in middle school, but I didn’t and that is what made it hard for me. I was, as awful as it sounds, too skinny in middle school and when I filled out I didn’t know how to handle it. It’s taken me three and a half years to figure out what I feel good in because I spent two and a half clinging to old clothes, trying to fit back into something that used to be too big. I guess that’s personal again, but I can’t have been the only one who dealt with this. The weight problem is a problem because nobody wants to talk about it and that makes it shameful. Girls feel shame for gaining weight, shame for losing weight, shame for worrying about weight in the first place. And that isn’t okay. It isn’t okay for anybody else to make themselves part of your body image. And I guess that’s what I’m trying to say with all of this.

So here I am. Paint a picture. 

36-30-39 

And if I had no other reason to post this, I just sucked in my stomach when taking those measurements.