One

Thirty. When I pictured myself at thirty, I don’t remember what I expected to see. Somehow I don’t think this was it. A rundown shell of a woman one third the person and twice the size she used to be. Mother of three ungrateful children which she bore way too young. Married to the most evil bastard on the planet. Driving a secondhand headache that can’t even merge into traffic at a safe speed. Living in a three bedroom shanty that’s in danger of either falling down or being snatched away for back taxes. A girl, interrupted - on a collision course with destiny and veering wildly out of control. Without a thing to my name, but piles of wasted years and heaps of broken dreams.

Thirty. What a fuckin’ joke.

High school. Ninth grade. Nineteen ninety something. That’s a crucial year in a girl’s life. How you are perceived by your peers can make or break you at this age. It broke me - into more pieces than I could ever pick up. Parents and other powers that be when you’re that age will lay some bullshit on you about how sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you - if you’re gullible enough to believe them. It’s easier for an adult to shake off not being accepted by their peers. They can find a new set pretty readily. It’s not that easy for a teenager.

Oh, yeah, words can hurt you. Both the spoken and the unspoken kind. Sometimes they hurt so bad that you wish someone would go ahead and beat the hell out of you because you’re sure it would hurt less. The effects of the neglect and blatant disregard you experience as a fat chick in high school doesn’t fade into the shadows of adulthood. Sure, they hide in some dark corner of your soul. Although you won’t know exactly what they are when they surface, you’ll still be wishing for sticks and stones when they do. The abuse manifests itself in other forms in adulthood - like making you unable to make eye contact with people for fear that they will make fun of you. Or make you fear uttering your maiden name, lest someone recognize it and remember who you are. Are, not were - because, deep inside, you still are that fat chick neglected by an entire school. You have no self esteem left to realize who you’ve become. Yeah, words do hurt. The wounds inflicted by words don’t ever heal. They fester and flare up later.

So I was conditioned to believe I was basically less than shit on the soles of their shoes in high school. Nobody even spoke to me or dared to eat lunch with me, much less invite me places. No dances, parties, or prom for me. After suffering at the hands of my peers my freshman year, I sought acceptance elsewhere. At the time I didn’t realize how terribly sad it was that I had to go four cities and one county away to find someone who liked me. I wanted a boyfriend so I found one. I didn’t care that he was no good and getting worse. He accepted me and brought with him a whole new circle of people who did, too. They did know me. They hadn’t been conditioned. I could be anybody I wanted to be. For once in my life I was a part of something. I had friends. I belonged. I took to this newfound acceptance like a fish to water. When you’re sixteen it’s all about your friends, your image, and what feels good at the time. And, baby - I was feeling good. I was normal. I was complete. I had a life that wasn’t imagined anymore. They say all good things must come to an end and I could hear the stroke of midnight in the distance.