This everything is pleasure. Pleasure that makes me feel sexual, a benign sexuality that hugs me and not just fucks me. This pleasure makes me feel wanted, attractive, accepted, secure, funny enough, lovable enough, good enough. It’s everything that I’ve wanted since the first time I was ever called fat. From that day on, I felt like the most disgusting and unworthy ‘fat’ kid’ walking. My mind was sullied.
Kids are not innocent. They’re assholes because their parents are assholes. They come to school to bring down and to be brought down. Screw learning. All I learned, and took with me from elementary school, was that I was an overweight, semi-flamboyant he-has-to-be-a-gay-kid kid because he hung out with all the girls. And it carried on to middle school where all the guys and girls are on edge because either a) Their dicks (or wieners) are not big enough or b) their boobies aren’t growing as fast as the boobs of the future M.I.L.F. who gets caught giving a blowjob in high school to some sleazy semi-hard guy in the main men’s bathroom. I mean who the fuck gives head to a semi-hard douche bag in the main bathroom? Go to the desolate ones near the science wing.
What’s the atomic number for capital T Trauma again? High school was when trauma began. All these little (dirty) thoughts of ED started to gush into my blood stream and latch on to white blood cells and mutate on to even bigger and more self-destructive thoughts. It only took two years after graduation for ED to make its grand entrance into my life and the lives of the people around me. In my immaculate vision of myself, I wanted to be skinny.
Let’s not forget about home, A.K.A. the Spooky House. To be honest here, parents sometimes do the best they can. And sometimes they don’t. My parents know they fucked up somewhere and through my wannabe happy glare, I know that they know. I don’t need to tell them that they are part of the cynical equation of why and what ushered me (their son) into the hands of my eating disorder. ED. Serena and Joe, Pauline and Juliet, whatever I call this life-threatening situation, I find myself in their arms every single day. I would go to school, face the assholes, be an asshole and then get on the Blow Pop bus that dropped me off at home with all the negative affirmations that I would be spanked with at school. Don’t get me wrong, my parents weren’t physically or mentally abusive (that much). There was a sense of never-ending criticism that origami-ed me during high school, and especially after graduating.
They would say I was overweight, obese, and stay out of the kitchen, stop drinking soda, exercise more, stop eating. This wasn’t 7th Heaven. Words trump everything sometimes. I know that when I become a parent someday, my kids will know that they are loved. And that they are beautiful. Every single day. The house that I will build for them will be a haven for them, a safe place. My parents and I burned that miserable, unsteady bridge. It gave me splinters every single time I crossed it. No matter how safe I thought I was.
I get it though. My parents didn’t mean any harm even though that’s what they caused. But we’re good now.