Overcoming.

There was always this awful “my life is over. my life is over. I hate my life. my life is over. I want to hide in my room forever” feeling that would enter my stomach when I had to get up for ninth grade in the morning. 

I was used to the comments behind my back. The, “she has such a terrible body?” or “Why does she never brush her hair?” or “She has a really unfortunate looking face.” I was different and I am still different. I appreciate my quirks. I appreciate who I was back then, and who I am to this day. I was sexually bullied when I started my ninth grade year of high school, and as a result I did everything I could to make myself as small as possible. 

When I was taking the trash out after the job my mother forced me to find, I was pinned against the back of the building and raped by a coworker. He was previously fired for being unstable. I punched him as hard as a could in the back of the eye. He immediately stopped and yelled “you fat fucking bitch. You fat fucking bitch. I just needed to get off on something. You fat fucking ugly disgusting bitch.” I ran as fast as I could to my car. I didn’t even turn around. I didn’t cry until I was home weeping silently into my pillow. 

If I had been smaller, maybe he wouldn’t have seen me. I could have scampered away like a tiny mouse, hidden and safe. My mission from that moment forward, was to become as physically small as I possibly could be without dying. 

I started taking drugs (I would prefer not to mention the names of them) so that I could starve myself. His words rang over and over in my head. I wanted people to stop noticing me, and by becoming as tiny as possible I full heartedly believed that this would be how I would avoid ever getting myself into such a terrifying situation again. 

I lost thirty five pounds. I started losing my hair, my vision, and my heartbeat. I still heard his words. I didn’t care that the pretty and normal girls at my school stared at me in the hallway and made very blatant comments about my looks. I was so ashamed. I was so scared. I would jump at any opportunity to miss school. I just wanted to live in my room until I died. The sooner I died, the sooner I could remove myself from the miserable world I was living in. 

I met K. at the end of my ninth grade year. I was still overwhelmingly anorexic, suicidal, depressed, and terrified to live. I had been hospitalized twice, and missed a month of school due to the inpatient eating disorder recovery program that my mother had made me attend. I had to repeat my ninth grade year of high school, due to all the classes I had failed. I planned on ending my life before this could even happen. Then I met K. 

I was at the hospital, waiting for my mom to pick me up after my after care program. I had never admitted to anyone the reason for my eating disorder. My experience with rape and the terror that came with being seen. 

K. was in the same group as me, and she was recovering from an exercise eating disorder. She was 100 times better than me. She had an incredible voice, laugh, and personality. K. was in such a solid place in life. I only wished that I could be dead. I didn’t want to recover or find the happiness and peace she had found within herself. 

I was so dizzy. I hardly remember it, but the next thing you know my mother, Dr., and K. were standing over me. I was thrown right back into the hospital. 

I was on a feeding tube and lying in bed, when this girl K. entered my room casually. She started talking to me about the rumor going around that Jennifer Anniston and Brad Pitt were getting back together. She started talking to me about how she was going to start her own nail painting business at the hospital. She asked me what my favorite color was, and I could hardly open my mouth to respond “yellow”.

The next day I was physically feeling a little better. It was hard thinking about how my life currently was compared to the normal pretty girls at my school. They were probably going to fun parties, and kissing cute boys. I lay here in a hospital bed. I wasn’t kissing anyone. 

K. came into my room with yellow nail polish. I hated that she wanted to paint my nails, but I will admit it felt nice having someone other than my mom or the nurse to talk to. She did most of the talking, while I sat there not even able to smile or laugh at her try hard jokes. I realized how hard she was trying to make me feel better, almost immediately. 

We began becoming friends. I started to tell her how I used to ride horses and dive. I told her about my older sister, my mom, my dad, and our golden doodle. I told her about how hard school was, and how I had hardly a single friend. I told her about how much I loved the ocean and marine biology. I found out that K. was in her twenties, and worked in the PR industry, and was just about to go back to work after finishing her recovery. She loved Vogue, Cosmo, Her Campus...stuff like that. Not exactly my thing, but her energy and enthusiasm was impressive. I enjoyed listening to her. 

I guess one day I just felt like talking. Really talking. I wasn’t feeling particularly depressed or anxious. I was feeling like I wanted to be K. I finally wanted to be that person who picked themselves up and started fresh. I told her everything from the story of my rape, to my theory about being small and safe, to the bullies at school. She listened calmly. She really looked me in the eyes and listened to me. 

K. convinced me to join a PTSD group therapy that was focused specifically on victims of rape and sexual abuse. This is where I first heard the term Sexual Bullying. I talked it out. I literally talked more than I had ever talked before- more than I even knew I could say. 

I finished treatment. Was I 100 percent cured? Nope. Am I today? Nope. There are days when I feel completely cured. When I feel complete happiness. When I feel emotionally and physically healthy and stable. There are also days when I feel 70 percent cured. 40 percent cured. Then back to 100 percent. The days of feeling 10 percent “okay” are gone. I would rate my life an 8.5 out of 10. K. is one of my best friends, almost five years after my recovery. I am an open book and this is the story I wanted to share.