Content warning: this article deals with disordered eating and mental health, and may be triggering for some readers.
“HEY PIG! ARE YOU SERIOUSLY GOING TO EAT THAT?!”
My ribs contracted as they tried desperately to gather air. Time was suspended. I had always suspected that words had the powerful ability to alter reality. Now I knew.
I was a 17-year-old girl walking along the street alone, enjoying an ice cream when a group of boys pulled up beside me in a car and yelled those fateful words.
They snorted and grunted, hanging out of the windows, making pig noises.
“SEE YA FATTY!” they yelled, gleefully laughing as they drove away.
I thought of these words every day for years.
I often wonder if those boys have even given it a second thought since that day. If they did I imagine it would be with a shake of the head, a smirk. A slight blush of the cheek at the embarrassment, a chuckle at the indiscretions of their youth.
Oh the fun they had! Boys being boys!
But really, I doubt they even remember it.
Ironically, those words about my heaviness had rendered me weightless. I was mid-air, mid-moment. I was the roots of a tree desperately reaching, seeking solace back in the earth.
This comment was the starter pistol that began my race to vanish. To shrink. To be small and insignificant. To never again be still enough or large enough to become a target.
Those thoughtless insults thrown at me burrowed under my skin. They nestled and entrenched themselves and hollowed out all the softness I had. They created a deceptive dialogue that would be repeated so often and became so ingrained, it could only be truth.