Body Hatred

I learned to hate my body at a young age. I gained a few pounds in 3rd grade and was put on a diet. I was ignored in 4th and 5th grade. In Middle School I was molested twice. The first time it happened, I was walking with my class on my way back from lunch. A boy in the class passing us reached out, grabbed one of my developing breasts and yelled "Boob!" I didn't know how to react. I just fought back tears and felt dirty for a very long time. In 7th grade I was sitting on the bleachers during gym when this boy sat down behind me. He called other boys over to him and he would tell them to sit next to me. When they did, he would grab their hand and rub it all over my body. The boys would yell words of disgust and run off. I just sat there and cried. I was so shocked at what was happening that it didn't occur to me to move or to tell a teacher. For year I blamed myself for that day. I kept thinking "I should have moved," "I should have told somebody," "If I wasn't so fat and ugly it never would have happened in the first place." When I wasn't being made fun of or inappropriately touched I was invisible. I was just a thing that the popular boys and girls used to amuse themselves when they were bored. I lost weight going into High School but by then I felt my body was something that drew negative attention. I didn't think I deserved to be called beautiful. I still felt like a fat ass even though I was a very tiny person. I looked through my mom's Victoria Secret catalogs and hated myself for not having breasts like the models did (even though I was still a child), for not having small thighs like they did (even though I was wearing the smallest size of clothing they had). In 10th grade I basically started starving myself. I would eat a small bag of chips for lunch and nothing else for the rest of the day. I worked out when I got home from school and still felt disgusted when I looked in the mirror. I've always suffered with depression and self harm. If I became angry with myself, even at a young age, I would do something to harm my body. I would bite myself until it hurt too bad to continue. I would scratch my face with my nails or with a hard bristled brush. In 12th grade I started cutting. The first time I cut I used a safety pin, then I used scissors, then I found a razor blade and cherished it like my prized possession. I would carve words into my arm, crosses, rows of perfectly straight lines. I marveled at the way I would pull the blade across my skin and for a few seconds nothing. Then, blood would start flowing. I would let the blood drip down my arm, gathering into little beads on my fingertips. Sometimes I would lick it off, sometimes I would use it to draw pictures in my journal. It was always my body I punished, like it had done something wrong, let me down. Instead of loving my body for all the wonderful things it can do for me I've beaten it, carved it to pieces, pushed it to its limits just to feel the pain that it caused. I still have a problem with loving my body. Everywhere I look I see things telling me I'm too fat, too short, too brunette, too smart, too weird....well, fuck that. That's how I feel about all of the shit that has happened to me over my short life...that is how I feel about the people that have laughed at me, ignored me, called me names, acted like I wasn't good enough...Fuck it and fuck them.