"You're f*cking disgusting."

One day on my way to school when I was eight years old, I was cornered by a very large 6th grader and his friends. He pushed me up against a brick wall, lifted my shirt, and squeezed my chubby stomach and little fleshy "man boobs." 

He said, "You're so fat. You're f*ckin' disgusting."

As my shirt dropped and the tears started, he wiped his hands on the front of my shirt. 

What stuck with me wasn't necessarily what he said; it was the look he gave when he wiped his hands on my shirt, and the laughs of his friends. 

The absolute humiliation I felt and the sudden awareness that I was "fat and disgusting" is something that has haunted my up until this day. I became a closet, compulsive eater and had bulimic tendencies. I topped out in 2007 at over 520 pounds. 

And even to this day, after a 300+ pound weight loss, I still hear his voice and see his face. Even though I have some recovery under my belt now, I still can't talk to people because I still think I'm disgusting, and don't want to burden them.
 

"Nobody cares."

When I was in first grade, there was a girl who liked to tease me in a rather simple but hurtful way. I was a very talkative child, but every time I said something, she said to me, "Nobody cares." 

Eventually I stopped being talkative and became a quiet child. Now I am a quiet 20 year old struggling to talk to people, with barely any friends.

To top this all, my parents say I'm a very boring person. They don't believe in mental illnesses or disorders that I could have, so they just tell me to get over myself.

I just honestly think that nobody cares.

"I guess I did screw up minorly."

Ever since I can remember, I had difficulties in school, and I was always really socially awkward. Starting in second grade, I was severely teased for being different. 

My second grade teacher was so supportive and kind, and he advocated that I get tested to find out why I was different from everyone else. But after I was tested, my mother, who I refer to as "Birthgiver" made sure I never found out the results. 

I used to come home in tears, begging to know why I was so different, and she would say things like, "What did you do to them first to make them tease you?" "You're lazy and don't apply yourself." "The only way I can get through to you is by hitting you." "You need to stop being such a baby." 

By high school, I finally just stopped asking why I was different. Stopped telling her in detail about how cruel kids were to me. I just started saying "I'm fine," and, "School was fine."

I started dating someone at age 19, got married and divorced, and didn't speak to my birthgiver for eight years. 

When I finally reached out to her, I hoped that she had realized her faults in our relationship.  Instead of taking accountability for what she did, she just said. "Oh, yeah, I guess I did screw up minorly by not telling you that you have autism."

That has always stuck with me. If I had known I had autism sooner, and she had gotten me some additional help from outside school, maybe I wouldn't have struggled for so long.
 

"Suck your stomach in."

When I was in 5th grade, we took a class trip to Canada. 

While we all walked around a beautiful mansion/ castle, my best friend's mom looked at me and said, "Suck your stomach in. In a year you will lose some inches off, and you won't look as fat."

Smart

When I was in school, teachers didn't know about dyslexia, ADHD, or PTSD. They didn't understand my stutter, so I stopped talking, and just did the best I could to keep up and not get noticed by my teachers anymore. 

They did notice. All through my youth I was told I was "stupid," "deliberately acting dumb," and "failing tests on purpose." I was told I would never graduate. I got lumped in with the bad crowd, and wore my "dumbness" with pride. Until I met my 8th grade math teacher. 

Math was always my worst subject. Dyslexia turns timed multiplication tests into an instant panic attack. My former math teachers told me that they let me pass their classes just so they wouldn't have to deal with me again.
 
But this one teacher. He kept me after class and helped me with homework. He walked me through tests so I would slow down enough to finish them. And then one day, out of the blue, he told me I was smart, and that my brain just worked too fast for anyone else to keep up.

In all of my 15 years, nobody had ever called me smart. 

With that one little comment, I started passing classes. I ended up graduating not only high school, but college, too. My stutter slowed, and now, years later, I still truly believe that I'm smart.  

That one math teacher that took time out of his overworked days to tell the dumb kid she was smart. That's what stuck with me.
 

"Why is Pooh black?"

Junior year of high school, we put on Winnie the Pooh as our spring play, and we performed the show at all of the local elementary schools. 

Our cast was mostly black, as is the population of our town. When we brought the play to schools that were also mostly black, the children adored us. We were big, fuzzy rock stars! 

However, when we brought it to the suburban and private elementary schools, the little kids were fearful of us. They would ask their teacher, "Why is Pooh black?"

My cast-mates were uncomfortable. The kids didn't laugh very much. Our director blamed it on low cast energy, but we knew him too well to know that he was just trying to ignore the obvious. Those kids didn't see themselves represented for probably the first time in their lives, and they didn't know how to deal with it. I learned a lot about racism and media representation that day.

Now whenever I hear someone complaining about a fictional character being non-white, I always think back to those little suburban kids, confused at their lack of representation for the first time and not knowing how to handle it. Except the people I'm referring to are grown adults with access to plenty of white characters to relate to.
 

"You need this."

Growing up, I was never really big, but compared to my 5'4 120 pound mother, I was enormous. 

For Christmas in 5th grade, I received a beautiful box wrapped in red paper from my parents. I excitedly opened it in front of my entire family. It was the Richard Simmons Deal-a-Meal diet program. I was absolutely humiliated. My mother's only explanation was, "You need this." 

I look back on my childhood and I can remember the comments from them about how big my arms were and how fat I looked in my clothes. I remember my mom saying once that she didn't understand why I was so fat because I didn't eat any more than she did. These things stuck with me. I don't think my parents intentionally tried to hurt me, but their words are burned into my soul. 

I'm now 33 years old with a 10 year old daughter of my own. I go out of my way to build up my daughter and to let her know that she is perfect just the way she is.

"What IS it?"

As a kid, I had short hair, played sports, and was routinely mistaken for a boy. We moved when I was 10, and I started a new school. I kept wearing androgynous clothes and flattening sports bras. I was self-conscious not only of being the new kid with no friends, but of being one of the only kids wearing a bra. I had short, short hair and "boy clothes," but breasts. 

It wasn't until high school that I started dressing girlier and growing my hair out. In homeroom one day, a male classmate gave me an unsolicited compliment on my new look. 

He went on to describe how my appearance used to freak him out because he couldn't tell what I was. The clincher, though, that stuck with me? "I remember when you moved here...I was like, 'Is it a guy or a chick? What IS it?'"

I replied with a sarcastic joke, but in reality, most sentient beings probably wouldn't like being labelled as "it."

"You may not be the prettiest girls in the world..."

"You may not be the prettiest girls in the world..."

My mother said this to my sister and me at the ripe old ages of nine and ten, during a "heartfelt" conversation. Those words have stuck with me for over 30 years. 

From that moment on, I never believed it when anyone told me I was cute, pretty, beautiful or gorgeous. I believed that all those people were obviously lying, because my mother said differently. 

My mom apologizes to this day, and she insists that her words came out wrong. And I believe her, because she is often removing her foot from her mouth after unintentionally saying something harmful. I've tried to let it go, but those words are so deeply engrained in me that I fear they can't be erased. 

I've purposely tried to tell my children how handsome and beautiful they are, but I think that my negative outlook of myself has rubbed off on them. Neither one of them see their beauty. I HATE that.

Gorilla

When I was about 8, I was hanging out with my friend who was about four years older than I was.

All of a sudden, she looked down and said,  "Oh my God, you look like a f*cking gorilla with those hairy arms!" and broke into hysterical laughter.

I'm 16 now, and so self conscious about it that I won't leave my house without making sure most of my arms are covered.