"You should never wear sweatpants. Like, ever."

/

One summer in my early teens, I attended a co-ed sleep-away camp for the first time. I didn't have a ton of friends at home, so I was thrilled when the coolest kids at camp somehow deemed me worthy enough to be in their elite inner circle. 

It was the early 2000s, and midriff-bearing tops with Juicy Couture sweatpants were super popular. Protected by a cluster of popular friends, I strutted around camp like I owned the place, shrouding my long, gangly legs in sweatpants and mini tank tops. I felt free and beautiful and cool. 

There was one guy at camp who I had a crush on, but I was too shy to do anything. At that point, I had never had a boyfriend or kissed anyone. I got his AIM screen name, and once camp was over I started talking to him online. Maybe it was my newfound confidence that came with my brief stint as a popular girl, or maybe it was the safety of my computer screen, but I got up the courage to ask him what he thought about me. 

It took him a while to get it out, but eventually he told me, "You should never wear sweatpants. Like, ever." 

Apparently he and the rest of the guys all decided that I should not be allowed to wear sweatpants because they looked wrong on me with my long legs. 

I wish I could say that after that moment, I realized what a loser this guy was, and how dare he have the audacity to think he had the authority to tell me what I could and couldn't wear. 

But as a shy kid who just wanted to fit in, I felt like I had done something wrong, like I had failed. I felt ashamed. I stopped wearing sweatpants.

"The ugliest face I've ever seen."

/

I'm sitting in history and these two guys who I consider my friends sit behind me.

While we're all doing our classwork, the two guys start talking, and eventually I start listening. Then they start talking about me. One of them says, "You know, she has an okay body, but the ugliest face I've seen. " His friend agrees, and the bell rings for lunch.

I slowly pack my things up and go to the bathroom for lunch and just sit in a stall because I can't face anyone.

This happened in 7th grade. I'm now a senior in college, and I will never forget this day.

"You sound like a dying cat."

/

In fifth grade, I started taking choir class. On the first day, our teacher taught us how to sing high notes. I was really excited to be learning this, because I loved singing and had never taken formal lessons, and my singing voice was naturally lower and I always wanted to learn how to sing higher. 

After a few weeks of choir, I was so excited to share my improving singing skills with my friends. During one of our regular 5th grade academic classes, I gathered a bunch of friends in the back of the classroom at our cubbies to show them what I had learned in choir. 

All of a sudden, our teacher yelled to the back of the classroom in an irritated tone, "Whoever is making that horrible noise, please stop! You sound like a dying cat!"

It was clear from her tone that she thought that whoever was making the noise was doing it to be annoying and irritating.

I stopped taking choir after 5th grade, and have never taken the signing lessons that I had always wanted.

Writing this now is actually really helpful for me. Now after all these years, I might actually pursue singing lessons.

"You're not going to contribute to the conversation anyway because you're so quiet."

/

My group of best friends in elementary school consisted of three of us. Once we got to middle school, our friend circle expanded, but I remained a very shy person. My "best friend" would always sit next to me at the long lunch table, turning her back completely to me, while she faced the rest of the group and I sat on the end alone with her back in my face.

She would do this any time we were in a big group. Even at my own 13th birthday party. I had invited a bunch of kids I was too shy to actually talk to. Everyone sat in a cluster with their chairs to talk, and she stuck her chair right in front of mine to block me from the group.

One day, I finally got up the courage to tell her to stop doing this. I guess a tiny piece of me still believed that she wasn't aware of what she was doing, that my best friend couldn't be that unnecessarily cruel on purpose. 

After I confronted her, she said, "I could stop doing it, but you're not going to contribute to the conversation anyway because you're so quiet, so it's pointless."

She never stopped. 

We are grown up now and haven't seen or spoken to each other in decades. I am much stronger now, and have acknowledged that I never deserved to be a victim of her sadistic acts of micro-cruelty. And that she was a completely miserable human being.

But nevertheless, the way she made me feel during adolescence will always stick with me.

"I love how tiny and adorable you are!"

/

"I love how tiny and adorable you are!"

Growing up, I would hear countless compliments on how small and petite I was. 

When puberty hit, anorexia took over. Because as a shy girl, my small size was the only thing people ever noticed about me.

Now "recovered," I hate myself even more.

"You sound like an evil witch."

/

My friends and everyone else always loved my laugh. They would tell me that it was unique and that it made them want to laugh, too. 

I remember sitting in the classroom with my friends, doing our work. We had a substitute teacher that day, so it was just fun stuff.

At one point I was laughing so hard that my friends were laughing with me. Then the substitute teacher interrupted and said, "That's your real laugh? You sound like an evil witch. Don't laugh."

The rest of the day I was completely quiet. She was the first person to hate my laugh.

"Your feelings are completely valid."

/

"Did your dad ever tell you to play a different instrument?"

He said it casually, glancing at the large double bass resting like a faithful bloodhound beneath my feet. 

I was so shocked and irritated that I had no reply. Why do I need to play a different instrument? Why do I need my dad's approval? 

What stuck with me wasn't just what he said. It was what my dad, my then-boyfriend, and his father said to me. 

"You're overreacting." 

"He's just trying to be friendly." 

"It's not that big a deal." 

Anytime I mentioned in front of that boyfriend, he would get angry and say, "You're still upset about that? Just let it go." I stopped talking about it with him. I stopped mentioning it to anyone, but the comment lingered in the back of my brain every time I went out to a gig with my bass.

What also stuck with me was the complete relief when I finally felt safe enough to bring it up with one of my professors. When she heard it, all she said was, "Your feelings are completely valid. What that man said was wrong, and he shouldn't have said it." 

There was no argument. No trying to explain. Just complete acceptance and understanding.

"The reason you can't dive is because of your back fat"

/

The summer I turned 12 years old, I spent a lot of time at the local swimming pool. There was always something so calming about the water, whether it was the pool, the lake, the river. Playing in and being surrounded by water made me so comfortable. Being that comfortable was not a luxury I often had in my life, so I was especially thankful for these "retreats." 

I had been working on perfecting my dive for a week or two, trying hard to keep up with those who made it look so effortless. I was so proud of the progress I had been making.

Then a boy I had a mild crush on said to me "The reason you can't dive is because of your back fat," and he laughed.

I was crushed. I had never even realized I had back fat. But as I twisted around and examined my body in the mirror, I did have a slight roll on each side, below my bra line. 

I've had body image issues ever since, struggling with bouts of bulimia among other things.

To this day, when I look in the mirror as I dress, I am reminded of my imperfection, the cruel laughter at my expense.

I think of all the times over the past 15 years that I've silently agreed with him as I disapprovingly gazed at my flaws. And I'm kind of pissed about it, now as I end this story. How much of my self talk I've allowed to echo his voice since that day.

No more. 

"I knew you were promiscuous..."

/

When I was sixteen I tried to tell my (alcoholic) mom that I had been raped four years prior. I don't know how I wanted her to respond, but I needed her to know. 

As she lay on the couch, I spilled my guts about the older guy that took advantage of me years ago. 

After I finish my story all she had to say was, "I knew you were promiscuous, but I didn't know it started that young." 

She then proceeded to fall back asleep.