Fatso
Fat
Sometime during school we get stuck with a nickname. Some are cute nicknames like Peaches, Butterfly, or Peanut. Some are funny: Possum, Cones, Smiley. However... some nicknames are really cruel. Some are like whips made specifically to punish a person for who they are... for how they look.
Ever since I was young I was called, “fatso.” In the beginning I laughed because they laughed. I thought that they were being silly, and hey I want to be silly, too. That glint was always in their eyes though. Always glittering with such intense animosity that I mistook it for friendship the first time it blinded me.
As I look in the mirror now, I see what they see. Blubber all around like a beached whale. Their taunts they follow me everywhere I go. No matter how far away I am. No matter how pathetically alone I am. They recite in my head, one after another.
This is our fat friend, if you piss us off we'll have her sit on you! Haha!
Oh wow, you're going to eat all that? No wonder you're so big.
Did they have to make extra special seats for your extra wide hips?
Always with a laugh. To keep from crying, to keep from bursting—I laughed, too. I didn't want them to know it hurt. I didn't want them to see the scars their words left behind. Kids can be so cruel and they don't even notice.
Jokes! They think it's all jokes and games but it isn't! Why can't they hear how mean they are? Why don't they notice the blade in their hands before they pat me on the back.
If they notice it hurts they try to give you their “just” fix-its.
Just eat less.
Just eat better.
Just exercise.
Just be skinny.
Just don't let it bother you.
Just run a little.
Just lose weight.
But when you try they hound you more. When you start exercising they laugh even harder. When you choose a salad over the hamburger they make jokes about how now all the lettuce is going to disappear from the cafeteria.
They see you trying, but to them you are already a failure. I can tell by how they whisper when I pass them in the halls.
“Yeah, the big one is trying to lose weight.”
“Again?! Wasn't she on a diet last year?”
“Yeah, and you seen how much weight she lost, right?”
“Hah, you mean how much weight she gained.”
I'll always be fat. Never good enough for a single complement. No praise is to be given to those who tip the scales. No love to be shared to those who have to shop for the “plus” size clothes. No matter the words I use to sugarcoat it. Fun-sized. More to love. Fluffy. I am fat. Looking down at the numbers make me sick. The harder I try the more the numbers go up.
The harder I try the larger my pants get.
The more round my thighs get.
The more my stomach bulges.
I just... want to be pretty. I want to be like the other girls. I want to wear clothing like the other girls. I want to be able to look down and see my toes, not the pudge of my belly! When walking in the halls I want to be able to walk by without people bumping into me and then they're like, “Watch where you're going you big lard!”
Squeezing my fingers through my extra skin makes my stomach churn. Disgusting. I feel so bloated. In a world full of porcelain I feel like the crack. The blemish. I am the mistake and I don't deserve to feel any different.
Every night before I go to bed. After I've laid down in my bed, and after the creaks of protest subside. I pray, “God, if you're real... please snuff me out like a big fat candle.” Then every morning, I awake as fat and as miserable as I was yesterday.
I look in the mirror. Things will change. Chewing on my parched lips, I nod. My eyes have already lost the glimmering hope I used to have. The mantra I say every morning is just as much a part of my routine as brushing my teeth, yet I know in the end nothing will change.
“Hey, Fatso, don't eat all the bacon.” My little brother says as I sit at the table. I don't even feel like eating breakfast, anymore.
Ever since I was young I was called, “fatso.” In the beginning I laughed because they laughed. I thought that they were being silly, and hey I want to be silly, too. That glint was always in their eyes though. Always glittering with such intense animosity that I mistook it for friendship the first time it blinded me.
As I look in the mirror now, I see what they see. Blubber all around like a beached whale. Their taunts they follow me everywhere I go. No matter how far away I am. No matter how pathetically alone I am. They recite in my head, one after another.
This is our fat friend, if you piss us off we'll have her sit on you! Haha!
Oh wow, you're going to eat all that? No wonder you're so big.
Did they have to make extra special seats for your extra wide hips?
Always with a laugh. To keep from crying, to keep from bursting—I laughed, too. I didn't want them to know it hurt. I didn't want them to see the scars their words left behind. Kids can be so cruel and they don't even notice.
Jokes! They think it's all jokes and games but it isn't! Why can't they hear how mean they are? Why don't they notice the blade in their hands before they pat me on the back.
If they notice it hurts they try to give you their “just” fix-its.
Just eat less.
Just eat better.
Just exercise.
Just be skinny.
Just don't let it bother you.
Just run a little.
Just lose weight.
But when you try they hound you more. When you start exercising they laugh even harder. When you choose a salad over the hamburger they make jokes about how now all the lettuce is going to disappear from the cafeteria.
They see you trying, but to them you are already a failure. I can tell by how they whisper when I pass them in the halls.
“Yeah, the big one is trying to lose weight.”
“Again?! Wasn't she on a diet last year?”
“Yeah, and you seen how much weight she lost, right?”
“Hah, you mean how much weight she gained.”
I'll always be fat. Never good enough for a single complement. No praise is to be given to those who tip the scales. No love to be shared to those who have to shop for the “plus” size clothes. No matter the words I use to sugarcoat it. Fun-sized. More to love. Fluffy. I am fat. Looking down at the numbers make me sick. The harder I try the more the numbers go up.
The harder I try the larger my pants get.
The more round my thighs get.
The more my stomach bulges.
I just... want to be pretty. I want to be like the other girls. I want to wear clothing like the other girls. I want to be able to look down and see my toes, not the pudge of my belly! When walking in the halls I want to be able to walk by without people bumping into me and then they're like, “Watch where you're going you big lard!”
Squeezing my fingers through my extra skin makes my stomach churn. Disgusting. I feel so bloated. In a world full of porcelain I feel like the crack. The blemish. I am the mistake and I don't deserve to feel any different.
Every night before I go to bed. After I've laid down in my bed, and after the creaks of protest subside. I pray, “God, if you're real... please snuff me out like a big fat candle.” Then every morning, I awake as fat and as miserable as I was yesterday.
I look in the mirror. Things will change. Chewing on my parched lips, I nod. My eyes have already lost the glimmering hope I used to have. The mantra I say every morning is just as much a part of my routine as brushing my teeth, yet I know in the end nothing will change.
“Hey, Fatso, don't eat all the bacon.” My little brother says as I sit at the table. I don't even feel like eating breakfast, anymore.