Growing up was hard for me, never feeling like I truly belonged anywhere. Of course my family loved me and gave me a good home, but there was always something just a little bit off. I remember the exact day everything changed. It was the first day of 8th grade. I had gotten my first period at the end of 7th grade and over the summer, puberty had NOT been kind. I got really bad acne, which made my whole face red and I couldn't even go a full day without oily hair, even if I showered that morning (I fit that greasy Italian stereotype perfectly). As a hormone-ridden teenage girl, I grew self-conscious. But the cherry on the sundae was that first day of 8th grade. In the new outfit my mom had gotten me with my new sneakers and long hair, from the moment I walked onto the bus that first day... my armpits started sweating... and 15 years later, they have yet to stop. This was the first day of what would be many many many years of hating my body and myself.
I was always a bit different, even from birth. I was born with a genetic metabolic disorder called Phenylketonuria (or PKU for short). Actually, I have a mild form of it known as Hyperphenylalanemia, but same basic principle... Instead of lacking the enzyme that breaks down phenylalanine (enzyme found in protein and artificial sweeteners - go ahead, look at the warning on the back of your pack of sugar-free gum. I'll wait..... you find it yet?... yep! I'm a phenylketonuric.), my enzyme that breaks down phenylalanine is slower than the average person's. Overall, this disorder really isn't a big deal, as long as it is caught at birth and a strict low-protein diet is enforced throughout development. If left untreated, the brain is damaged and children become retarded, for lack of a better word. (Thank you, baby Jesus, for being born in a time when all babies are screened at birth!) So growing up, my diet was always different than other kids'. I was jealous, essentially. My brother, who is only 18 months younger than I am, I was most jealous of. I remember, he could eat whatever he wanted. Scrambled eggs? A second helping of cereal with milk? Sure! And man oh man, if you saw how pathetic my sad little peanut butter and jelly sandwich was with the teensiest smear of pb compared to his? What was the point?! Thanks for the jelly sandwich, Mom! Eventually, when I was almost 7, my parents had another baby, a boy - and he had PKU just like me. But the damage had been done.
I was always hungry. Maybe it was the fact that protein is what keeps you full? Maybe it was that I wanted what I couldn't have? Either way, I began to love food. When this first started, I was young. I loved the fruits and veggies my parents got. We rarely had junk food in the house, but when we did, it was chips. My daddy likes chips. Sour cream and onion was my favorite. Or BBQ fritos... mmmmm :) They never lasted long, though, even though we had to ask for food in my house. We weren't allowed to help ourselves for a long time. Looking back now, though, maybe it was because of my PKU, but I thought it was just to be mean. I was always hungry! I wasn't fat, though. Maybe I was a little chubby in the midsection compared to some of my friends, but fat was a bit drastic.
My best friend lived across the street from me. She was 2 years younger than me in age, but 3 years younger than me in school and 1,000 lbs skinnier. I had a huge crush on her brother when we met, who was in my grade. He too was 1,000 lbs skinnier than me. Next to them, I looked like the beached whale that the boys in the neighborhood started calling me, even though I wasn't. There was one boy in my neighborhood in particular, you know - the one who ended up in juvie a handful of times even before high school... he was the one who started with the name-calling. All the boys thought it was hilarious. Even my nextdoor neighbors who had been my friends since we moved in... even my brother at one point. Apparently they didn't care that the "Pillsbury Dough Girl" had feelings. Unfortunately, I cared what these boys thought of me. Hell, I'd had a crush on one of them since second grade and worshipped the ground he walked on! I began to see what they saw. The fat slob of a girl who was best friends with the skin-and-bones girl who'd no doubt grow up to be a model (which she did actually dabble in a bit in high school). What would I be? Unfortunately at the time, I didn't realize I was the one in control.
I shouldn't have cared what those dumb ass boys thought. I had a pretty face and pretty blue eyes... my mom always told me I had lips to die for... so what if I was a little thick around the middle? But my mom wasn't fat. My cousin whom I've looked up to my whole life was a freakin' model herself. No one else I was close to in my family was chunky like I was except for one cousin, and her mom - my dad's sister. I take after my dad's side... the side we hardly saw except for maybe holidays, and even that stopped eventually. I just wasn't a dainty little girl. I wasn't a monster by any means, but I wasn't little. I was "healthy." But regardless of genetics and boys I lived near, I still had hope. So what if that stupid ass boy I was in love with thought the ground shook when I ran... there were lots of cute boys to admire in school, where my shithead neighbors thankfully weren't in my classes :)
However, needless to say, by the time 8th grade started, the groundwork had been laid out for me. Years of name-calling and feeling large could have been overcome, perhaps. But then, my own body betrayed me. Pimples and grease and sweaty (though, not smelly - thank GOD) armpits... and to top it off, my boobs were not growing in evenly. Are you fucking kidding me?! At this point, there's no esteem to be salvaged. 8th grade was a nightmare. Aside from one boy who had the hots for me since 7th grade and left an anonymous love note in my locker (and was later my boyfriend and first kiss when we were 16), I can't remember one good thing about my last year of middle school.
One year out of so many. One horrible year changed my whole world... and somehow I'm still affected by it. Maybe it's because I can still fill a bucket with the sweat my armpits produce in a day? Or the fact that my right tit will just never catch up to the left... There is a place deep inside me where I can't stand myself. I feel cheated. I feel cheated of positive reinforcement in my developing years... the years that help mold you into the adult you're going to be. Of course, there had been a few "oh you look beautiful!" 's... but there were so many more "Jen, are you sure you want to wear that?" 's or "Jen, are you sure you want to eat that?" 's. I did want to eat that... and I did want to wear that... but apparently I shouldn't. I couldn't trust myself. And for that, I didn't like myself.
I didn't trust a single instinct I had. I became silenced. Afraid of the words coming out of my mouth betraying me like my body did. In my mind, I could never be like the other girls in my class. Some were so confident and pretty in their tight shirts and baggy jeans. I wore a sweatshirt whenever I could to hide not only my lopsided boobs, but the giant wet stains under my arms, always bigger on the right side, as if to make up for my small boob and even things out. I got taller this year and looked less chubby in the midsection... not that anyone could tell in my hoodie. I wished I could disappear altogether.
Thankfully, I didn't. I had a lot to learn.
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