Age 8. I would sit around the T.V. with the boys. We would wrestle, and play baseball in the park across the house. We would occasionally trip and scrap our knees and the soft palm of our hands. We would be covered in dirt and sweat at the end of a good summer day.

Girls. They would gossip and giggle. I could hear there loud whispers from across the hall. They were about me. I looked down at my outfit. blue ripped denim jeans, a white t-shirt that was a size too big, a Dogders cap sat upon my disheveled brown hair.

"Her hair is so ugly." I would grab my hair. What made it so ugly?

"Her face is so fat!" I would touch my cheeks. Are they really that big?

"Her eyes are disgusting." My eyes were glassed over with tears. I thought they were pretty?

"And her outfit, it's so yucky." I pulled at my t-shirt. What's wrong with my outfit?

"She's so ugly." I looked down at my shoes. Ashamed and hurt. Was I really that ugly?

I didn't know that the conversation I over heard would change me completely.

Age 10. I looked in the mirror. Bruises covered my arms from the tight grasp of my mother. A tear ran down my face. I had gotten her angry with me once again, and so she punished me. ?Was it because I was ugly? Am I not good enough? Is is because I'm fat? Or maybe my ugly hair? My ugly eyes? 

My innocent young self was already insecure before she knew how much she would hurt herself later in the future. He mind already pounding with the memory of two years ago when she had over heard the girls whispering loudly.

Age 12. Afraid, and unsure what the future might hold. She was small and vulnarable. Her mother was a beautiful owl only a few miles away. Once my gaurd was down she swooped in, and caught me in her long nails.
She toke advantage of my unmade mind, and made it her own. She manipulated it to her will. After waiting for so long she would finally be able to have the daughter that she dreamed for. The daughter that liked dresses. The daughter that would socialize with her own gender group. The daughter that liked dressing up. A daughter that was like her.

As she began to change me I would soon deny her and pursue myself. Maybe if I had stayed her puppet, I wouldn't have hurt so badly.

Age 13. Sitting on the disgutingly dirty toilet tears ran down my face. A blade sat to my right on the sink counter top. My face was buried in my hands. My red puffy face was unattractive as I stared in the mirror. Disgusting. Why does my face look so disgusting? ?Pimples were scattered across my forehead and the snot and tears only added to my disgust.

I looked over at the blade that I had only a few minutes ago got out of pencil sharpener. I snorted at the thought of using such a blade that helps me write those stupid sappy happy story.

I sat down once again. The cold top of the toilet stung at my bare thighs. The large thighs I had only proved how disgustingly fat I was, atleast that's what I had thought. I raised my left arm. I could see the blue veins peek through my skin. I shakily raised my right hand in which I gripped the blade for dear life. I looked at the blade, I took in my reflection. ?Why am I so ugly?? And without another second to think I had sliced just below my wrist.
Hatred consumed me. I slashed away not caring if I had accicedently swiped the blade over a cut twice. One for being ugly. Two for being fat. Three for having ugly eyes. Four for having ugly hair. Five for my ugly clothes. Six for being stupid. Seven for being naive. Eight for caring too much. Nine for that stupid smile. Ten for being you.
Age 13. School. The only other place I dreaded besides my families homes. The chitter chatter of the students. The giggles, the whispers, the rumours, the jugdemental students.

Cutting wouldn't have been enough to keep me away from that dreadful place. But if somehow I could convince my mother that I was sick I could stay home. I sat in front of the toilet. The dirty white rug below me contained dirt and was no longer white but an ugly beige.

I got up on my knees, hoping it would make it easier for the vomit to come up. I pulled my arm up to my face forcefully. I shook slightly. I gulped, nervous for the event that was about to happen. I shakily put one finger in my mouth. I kept pushing it further into my mouth until I no longer could. I gagged and quickly toke my finger out of my throat.

Not good enough.

I toke two fingers this time. I only heisetated for a second before I quickly shoved them down. this time it was much more effective. I was mostly gagging but it was more intense that before, and much more painful.
Not good enough.

I toke three fingers this time. I did the same as before, but without hesitation. This time I didn't take my fingers out until I knew for sure that I would vomit.

Good enough.

I was hunched over the toilet. My arms hugging my stomach almost begging it to stop. It would tense, and I would puke in the toilet bowl. It would then relax, letting my gaurd down, until it would unexpectadly tense once more and I would puke once more.

The acid burned the back of my throat with a feirce hate. When the substance touch my tounge I would gag further making my stomach tense more than before. The horrid smell of puke burned my nostrils.

?Maybe if I vomit enough I'll get skinnier. ?I wasn't going to get satisfied. No matter how much I would vomit, no matter how many times I would almost choke myself inorder to vomit, I wouldn't be satisfied with my weight.
After a couple months, I stopped eating meat. And before I knew it I had stopped eating completely.

Age 15. I still have a eating disorder. I still have anxiety. I still have depression. I still have the urge to cut. I still find things I don't find appealing. As everyday goes by I try to think of the positive side. I will look in the mirror and see things that I truely love about myself.

The child that I have will never go through what I had gone through alone. To have her a trustworthy, and loving person by her side. Because it's not your shape or form, it's not your hair, or your eyes, it's not how tall or short you are, and it's not the way you dress. It's how beautiful your soul is.