Ever since I was little, I was used to being bigger than kids my age. Having learned to read before I had even started kindergarten, I was able to start my life early as a full-time student in the first grade. My mother and I approached one of the faculty members as she strolled past us, and we asked where we should go. The woman looked at us and asked, “What are you, third grade?” I said nothing, so my mother answered, “No, first grade.” But we didn’t miss the look of doubt on her face. I made it to my classroom and the rest of the day passed as did the years. But I never forgot that first sign that I have never been what most people thought I was.
Over the years since that small incident, I have been met with not only the same disbelief displayed by that teacher over a decade ago, but also by curiosity. A few people were confused by how tall I was. In elementary school, when playing house, I was always made the part of the evil step-mother or the scary ogre. Most of the times, though, I was usually avoided and unwanted, the others mocking every word I said. But that’s another story for another dayThe best reactions were from those who felt the need to walk up to me, look up at me, and state, “You’re tall.” The conversation would proceed in a predictable manner. “Do you play basketball and/or volleyball?” “No.” “Well, why not? You should.” “Um, I’m not that good.” “But you’re so tall.
Fortunately, as the years passed, conversations like that decreased, probably because my peers grew more sensitive, or perhaps because I grew more intimidating. But comments about my weight still existed. And fortunately, more for my well-being, if not my self-esteem, I had to learn how to take every remark as a joke. No matter how hard I tried, though, the jokes often bothered me, because even though I sometimes felt like a giant or a freak, I had no tough skin. I don’t think I noticed that these words were really taking a toll on my self-esteem until about the 8th grade. It was pointed out to me by someone who I had known for years, and considered a friend. A few simple words and everything went downhill.
”Well, at least I don’t have a pot belly.”
I’m not sure exactly what my reply to that was, but I know the comment was shattering to my self-esteem almost instantly. I spent days wearing saran wrap around my mid-section, in hopes that my stomach wouldn’t hang over the waist of my jeans. I ate less and less each day, turning down my favorite foods for an air diet. Later that year, my grandmother came from Venezuela, bringing along her food-filled culture and active lifestyle. She even commented on my weight, saying I could lose a few pounds and that by hiking my jeans up to my belly button would hide my un-sightly muffin top. And I’ve done that ever since.
The summer between 8th and 9th grade, I grew a few inches, stretching out what once was a short stack of fat. I shed some pounds along the way and by the middle of 9th grade, I felt tall, beautiful, and depressed. The severity of this depression lasted all the way until the middle of my junior year in high school. Sophomore year, I participated in sports–specifically volleyball, which I was no good at–and was taught quicker, taboo ways to shed pounds. I befriended a senior who taught me the ways of binging and purging. The only times I ate were after volleyball practices and I indulged in high carb foods—mostly pastas—and then purged them afterwards, when family was out of earshot. This disease, this addiction, it’s something that never leaves you. Once it consumes you, no matter how far you almost make it out, you will always end up being sucked back in.
Something, though, my junior year, almost completely saved me.
Maybe it was being involved in choir full of amazing people where I was able to express all my emotions out in song, or maybe it was when I read that article that told me that I wasn’t alone, that there were millions of women going through the same issues I was every day. Maybe it was going to that concert where the musician spoke of these issues that helped open my eyes to the truth that, I, just one person, with every little action that I make, can make a difference. This I believe; that even though the words of long ago come back to taunt me, especially after long unsuccessful-feeling days, I can rise above the already established system and change men and women’s views on their bodies and translate my knowledge into actions and make a change.
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