"Hey, so I'm sorry about the other night."

I can't remember anything about our night together. I just remember waking up in my dorm room, covered in bruises, my lamp on the floor with the shade crushed in, clothes scattered on my floor, and me, alone in my room, knowing that I had not been alone the night before. 

It took me almost 30 minutes to remember the last place I had been: a frat house that I frequented with my friends. We had gone there the night before to play beer pong with brothers at the frat. I had partnered up with a guy I knew, but did not know well. The last thing I could recall was his face hovering over mine in the darkness of my room.

The next day, I did not know what to do. My friends laughed it off as yet another one of my escapades. I was shaken, but managed to get through the day okay. Until I got a message at 2:39 AM the next night from that guy. That guy. It simply said:

"Hey, so I'm sorry about the other night. I was a little more aggressive than I normally am, so I apologize."

My heart raced. I wanted to vomit. I heard a roaring in my ears. 

I still don't know what exactly happened that night. I never asked. I don't really want to know. But I remember the bruises, and I remember the fear. I remember the single, simple apology that said so much and yet told me so little about what happened.

Acceptance

Ever since I was little, I dreamed of going to college. Learning and knowledge have always intrigued me, and my parents never went to college. I was determined to be the first in our family. 

I spent the entire summer of my junior year applying for scholarships and to universities all over the US. I received a letter back from my first choice college, saying that I had been accepted!! 

I ran inside to tell my family. When I told my father the good news, he said, "It's not a hard college to get into." 

My heart shattered. I had worked so hard to get into my first pick, and when I did, he wasn't even phased. That's the moment that really stuck with me.
 

My First Halter Top

I've struggled with my weight for my entire 28 years of life. I've gone through phases of being very overweight to losing nearly 75 lbs at one point after college. But since the age of 13, I've never managed to be thinner than a size 12. I was constantly teased for being the 'fat girl' in school, but during the summer of my 13th year, I was actually beginning to feel more comfortable in my new, more womanly body. My weight had distributed more evenly to my breasts and butt, I'd grown into my extremely large head, and I'd developed a nice golden brown tan that year from spending a lot of time at the pool at summer camp. 

I remember first seeing the halter top on the rack at K-Mart. It was a cotton spandex material with a built-in bra, and the colors were a mix of neon pink, blue, purple, and green. It looked like tops I'd seen my skinny friends wear. All the colors met in a starburst on the front of the shirt then shot out with iridescent sparkles throughout. "This is a really cool shirt," I thought to my 13-year-old self and showed it to my mother. My mom had me try it on and said it looked nice on me and that it wasn't too revealing for my age. Happy to see my recent self-confidence, she bought it for me to wear on our upcoming family vacation to Myrtle Beach, SC.

I remember being very nervous to wear the shirt in public. As much as I liked it, I'd never exposed that much of my back and shoulders outside of wearing a bathing suit. Even then, I was often known to swim with a t-shirt covering my swimsuit. Didn't only skinny girls get to wear those kind of shirts in public? That's what I'd thought for so long and I was losing my nerve to put it on. As our vacation drew to a close, it was our last night at the beach and my mom encouraged me to put on my "new pretty shirt" for our last dinner out as a family. 

I got myself ready, pairing the shirt with a denim skirt, sandals, sparkly lipgloss, and a tiny bit of blush and mascara I borrowed from my mom. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, "I actually look kind of normal!" I felt pretty. My tanned skin glowed golden brown and my light brown hair had lightened with the saltwater and sun. My dad also commented how grown up I looked in the shirt, wondering where his little girl had gone. 

We headed to dinner and I climbed into the back of our Ford Thunderbird. On our way to the restaurant, we drove down the Myrtle Beach strip. I sat behind my dad in the driver's seat and watched the cars come toward us on the opposite side of the road, some filled with families like ours and some filled with obnoxious college kids on summer vacation, drunkenly dancing in the car. 

We ended up sitting in slow moving traffic for some time. I looked to my left and saw a handsome young blonde guy, driving a black pickup truck, coming toward us. His friend was in the truck with him and as our car passed his, I looked up at him. Our eyes met for just a second and my first instinct was to smile at him. 

I smiled at a cute guy in my new halter top, full of confidence. A woman unleashed. 
But what happened next would shape the way I felt about myself, and how I thought men viewed me, for quite some time after. 

When I smiled at him, he looked down at me from his truck, and even though our windows were rolled up to preserve the air conditioning, I watched him mouth these exact words down at me, "Don't you smile at me, you fat bitch!"

As he drove away, laughing with his friend, I felt so exposed and wanted to be wearing anything but my new halter top. 

My parents were deep in conversation and had not seen the boy make fun of me, and I was too embarrassed to bring it to their attention. 

As we pulled up to the restaurant, I didn't want to get out of the car. I spent all of dinner upset, barely touching my food, and self conscious that everyone was staring at the fat girl in the shirt she shouldn't be wearing.

It would be several years before I had the courage to wear another halter top or something similar in public. The shirt I once loved so much, laid shining in the bottom of my dresser, until one day I finally threw it out. All because some stupid college guy on vacation decided to make fun of a 13-year-old girl coming into her own. 

To this day, I think of him when I wear something that makes my upper body feel exposed.
 

"My heart broke for you."

I was 19 years old, and I had completely broken down. Again. The world around me that I thought I knew was crumbling to pieces. 

"You're worthless. You're good for nothing. You're worthless." 

These words rang over and over through my empty mind. 

I had just begun my third semester in college, and in every class, I found myself writing my suicide letter. The date would be the anniversary of my dad's suicide. Halloween. Might as well make it dramatic. 

The week before Halloween, I showed a therapist my letter. I convinced him that I wasn't serious. That it was all a joke.

He let me walk out in this state. 

When Halloween came, I got drunk. I ran up this street, with no shoes, no jacket, no dignity. Three cops stopped and asked me what I was doing, if I'd come off my meds, if I needed to go to the hospital. I walked away. 

A woman got out of her car and asked me if I was all right, asked if I wanted food. I ran away. I was shaking, sweating, biting back my last tears. In my mind, I wasn't allowed to cry. This was what I deserved. 

I started to walk out in front of a car. 

The car came to a stop, and someone got out. It was the same lady from before. She rushed out of the car, threw her jacket on me, and held me as a cried. 

She said, "When I saw you, my heart broke for you." 

She gave me new life. 

She gave me a seed of hope to plant. 

Today, I am 22 years old. After various hospital stays, various treatments, I am still on the path to recovery.

To this very day, I still hold her words close to my heart. Every time I dream about ending the suffering I endure every day, I envision that angel who saved me. 

I remember her holding me as I cried. 

I remember how truly promising life can be even when the room is dim.
 

Then, one day.

One day, when I was in the first grade, I was playing on the playground at school. I was never very outgoing and I didn't have a lot of friends. A second grade boy came over to me. He looked at me and said, "You aren't pretty." 

As a child, my first instinct was to say, "Yes I am! My momma told me I am!" 

With that, he quickly lashed out with, "Well, she lied." 

As I grew older, his words stuck with me. They took a bigger toll on my self confidence than I would like to admit. Something so seemingly small that happened to me as a child in the first grade impacted me for the next ten years. 

Then, one day when I was a camp counselor, I met a boy who told me he loved me. I thought I was sitting among the stars. No one outside of my family had ever told me they loved me before. For the first time since first grade, I felt like I was pretty enough. Like I was wanted.

Time went on and so did the relationship. Then one day, he spoke four words that cut me deep. "I don't love you."

I felt unwanted, unlovable. I was depressed for the longest time. 

Eventually I figured out how to enjoy just being me. I loved being myself again.

Then, one day, I met an amazing man with a great personality, and equally great looks. I was a second semester freshman in college. I quickly learned about him: his past, his family, his likes and dislikes, his dreams. He made me feel loved, wanted, and important. I loved him more than I ever thought I could love someone. And for the first time in a while, I knew I was good enough. Life seemed to fall into place. We talked about marriage, children, and growing old together. 

Then, one day as we were Skyping, he dropped his head in silence. Then he uttered the words I thought he would never say. "I don't think we're going to work. I don't love you". 

I was more than devastated. I was so heartbroken, I couldn't even cry. It was almost like my heart broke into two pieces, and then a million more. I could feel my heart shatter like glass in my chest. 

Days went by and I tried to hide the pain, but the nights were long. Often times I cried myself to sleep, other times I fell asleep from the pure exhaustion of crying so hard the night before. 

Weeks went by and I still missed him, but the tears stopped. Slowly but surely, I started to be me again. 

With the help of my best friend, I realized I was depending too much on others making me happy, that I had forgotten how to make myself happy. 

Now I am happily single. I enjoy every day. I'm going to take life by the horns. I'm going to keep knowing that I am pretty, I am wanted, and I am loved. 

Then, one day, I'll get make someone else feel the same way.

"College?!"

As a kid I always knew that college was the end game of going to school. You do well in school so that you can get into college. It was an assumption I had. 

Then one day when I was about 7, my college dropout mom said to me, "College?!" Followed by hysterical laughter. "You won't ever go to college! There's no way we could ever help you pay for it. And good luck paying for it yourself!" 

I've struggled in school since then. But not because it was hard. I always tested well. I just never put in any effort. I wasn't going to be a doctor or a lawyer, so why did it matter? I just wanted to be a mechanic or a construction worker after that. That was what everyone in my family did that had dropped out of high school, and they had their own lives, nice trucks, houses. I just wanted to quit school and get to it. I felt like I was wasting time there ever since my mom made those comments.

But I had to stay because my family wanted me to have a high school diploma. 

The same people that told me I could never go to college.
 

"Boys can't be sexually assaulted by girls."

When I was in high school I struggled with my sexuality. I never dated, never 'experimented.' My freshman year a female friend of mine asked me out, but I declined because I didn't have feelings like that for her. She said okay, and we continued to be friends.

Before the end of the year she sexually assaulted me, at the school, when nobody was around. When I tried to tell people, they dismissed me and said that I was lying because she wasn't attractive and I was ashamed. And many people said, "Boys can't be sexually assaulted by girls."

Years later I moved across the country and began to move past the trauma of being assaulted. A girl who was acquainted with my roommate came to our apartment and told me that she thought I was attractive. I removed myself from the situation and went to bed, the reminder of what happened last time made me sick. 

Then she forced herself into my bed and I was sexually assaulted again. She said I couldn't tell anyone because they wouldn't believe me anyway.

That will never leave me. 

And even now that I am in a happy, loving relationship I still get a spike of fear when someone reveals that they find me attractive.
 

It will not define me.

I'm a singer, actress and artist with a passion for theater. I majored in Musical Theater for 3 semesters, all while minoring in Studio Art, being an Honors student, maintaining a 4.0 GPA, and earning a reputation as the most hardworking and respectful student in my class. I was sure I had found my calling in life. 

Imagine my shock when, after confidently performing at Evaluation, I was discreetly taken to my professor's office and told that I didn't pass, and I wouldn't be allowed to continue my major. 

Because of my anxiety issues. 

Because of the bites on my arms from panic attacks. 

Because they thought I was too damaged-goods to survive in the industry. 

Well guess what? 

I just performed in Hamlet, and an expert authority on Shakespeare in the audience said it was, "The best college production of [ANYTHING they] had ever seen," and called it "professional." 

Oh, and don't get get me started on the number of famous actors who suffer every day from anxiety and mental disorder and still kick ass. 

So, yes, as long as I live I will never forget the moment my professor I looked up to told me I couldn't do it. Yes, it will haunt me for years to come.

But with God as my witness, it will not define me.

"Damn, you're amazing."

For years, since I was a kid, I was ridiculed. Having been overweight and friendless for a long time, I was always the girl in the corner. The girl that never participated in group activities, the girl that never left her house, or always chose to stay in the classroom rather than going out to the playground.

When I was diagnosed with anxiety, nothing changed. Except that a few people started to know who I was because of sudden panic attacks I would get in class.

My parents were always gone, and they didn't even have a clue as to what was happening. And when they found out, they didn't care. They blamed me and told me to get over it, saying, "Life only gets worse."

The years passed and I began to grow close to one boy. Let's call him T. He made me feel in a way happy. The relationship was completely platonic. I started to get terrified that he would grow tired and leave me when I was finally feeling happy. So I began pushing him away. We stopped talking.

I currently attend a university, one I intentionally picked to get away from familiar faces. Except, there was one familiar face. And I didn't mind so much that it was T.

The first semester of college is always the difficult one, some people told me. They weren't wrong. But T made it manageable. One night, when I was alone in my dorm, I borrowed my roommate's scale, fearing I had gained the "Freshman 15." I was right. 

I broke my full length mirror. I cried. I bled. I had an anxiety attack and I trashed all of my food that was in the fridge. 

Someone knocked on the door, and I gathered myself the best I could and quietly announced that I was studying. When I heard a familiar voice say, "Are you decent for me to enter?" I wanted to scream. I was lying on the ground, a hot mess, and didn't want to see anyone.

I replied, "Yeah, but–." I forgot that my door was unlocked, and he stepped inside.

He sat down and held me. He told me something nobody has ever said before.

"Life is not an easy journey, and it sure as hell is not meant to be beautiful all the time. But you are f*cking amazing and strong, because I know you're going to stand up, take a shower and tomorrow you're gonna walk outside and smile at everyone. Damn, you're amazing." 

I started crying, of course, because what he said was more than truth. It was my life for years. Something nobody ever noticed, but I screamed for someone to see. 
 

"You should try to look more like her."

Freshman year of college, my extended family came over to our house for the Passover Seder. I had definitely gained the Freshman 15, but I didn't really feel bad about it or give it much thought. 

I was standing and talking to my younger cousin, who is rail thin. My great aunt came over to us, tried to pinch my cousin's stomach but couldn't, then turned to me and said, "Oh, sweetie, doesn't your cousin look great? You should try to look more like her."

I immediately excused myself to go into another room, and completely broke down and cried. My cousin, who is one of my best friends to this day, came in to find me. She told me how awful that experience had been, and assured me that our aunt was insane. 

I still think about that moment often. At every family gathering I become extremely self-conscious, just waiting for the criticism to come.