Monster in my Mind

Chapter three

That's a little bit of a back story of my laugh out loud shitty fantastic terrible life. I said that I wasn't always blonde. Here's a flashback to yesterday, the start of my mini transformation.

Alarms always suck, but I set mine as a cat meowing so it is somewhat joyous but gives me horrible "I want to punch something" vibes as well. The persistent meowing started at about way too fucking early and ended when I mustered up the energy to turn off my alarm and get out of bed. I look at my phone. Wonderful. 6:00am never felt so terrible. I shuffled out of my bed and immediately removed my bra and underwear. I put them in the dirty laundry and reached underneath my low sitting dresser. My hand was greeted by the pleasant cool kiss of glass, and I tugged the scale out from its hiding place. This sucker costed me an arm and a leg, but I wanted something that was precise. Something that wouldn't lie to me, not even a little bit. I stepped onto the scale. 113.5. This is not terrible. This is a manageable number that I should be happy with. I try to convince myself that this is true, but my brain is thinking otherwise and is not afraid to voice its thoughts. More. More weight. 113.5 might as well be 1,135. If you want to try to be perfect you have to keep striving for the perfect weight, and this means not settling for a "manageable" number. I gently put the truth telling scale back into its home, surrounded by dust bunnies and maybe a sock or two that I don't care about enough to pick up. I get to the floor on my carpet and start doing push-ups, crunches, flutter kicks, this leg thing that helps get rid of thigh fat and this arm toning thing that gets rid of arm jiggle. I don't know how long this goes on for, but I'm addicted to it. I'll tell myself that this will be a quick morning workout to get myself woken up and to punish myself for whatever I didn't lose, but those reasons are shoved under the rug and silenced once I start working out. It's like I get a high from it and just lose track of time. When I am out of breath and dizzy I stop to get some water. I chug a bottle fast to make myself full and this is my breakfast. I look over at my phone. 7:30. An hour and a half workout isn't bad at all. I smile. I grab my robe and wrap it around myself. Walking to my closet, I find a band shirt and ripped skinny jeans. Picking out some under garments finished my wardrobe and I open the door to the bathroom, knocking to make sure that my brother who I share the bathroom with isn't in there. I turn the heat up on the water because despite working out I feel freezing cold in here. Air conditioners are both a blessing and a curse. Popping myself into the shower after setting everything on the sink was my daily routine. This is all my morning routine. Weigh myself, feel bad, work out, take a shower, start day.

Thoughts in the shower always get heavy for me. I can't stop thinking about school. It's something that has gotten me so nervous to the point of no sleep at night and whenever I eat it goes straight through me or I puke it up. Not fun, but I'm not complaining about that part. I cannot stop stressing out. What if it's like my last school, where the people and the words were harsh whenever spoken to me? Sure I had friends, but were they really my friends? The cheer leading squad that my mom forced me to be on has a bunch of girls that are stick thin and 110% better looking than me. They are the reason I am good at fake ass conversing, because they have perfected it. It's weird to think that I'm a cheerleader when I just don't like people that much. I get nervous. So nervous. It's not that it's hard to talk to people, it's that the second I'm around any life form, I instantly try too hard to please it. As much as I hate it, I'm like a puppy dog exposing it's belly saying don't hurt me. I try to say the right things and compliment people and it's horrible. I always mess it up, too. No matter how many times I'm reassured that the conversation went well, I always find the bad things about it and focus on those and it eats me up and then I am convinced everyone hates me. This is why socializing is hard for me. As I'm rinsing the conditioner out of my waist long hair, an idea comes to me. Words don't always make the people like you. First impressions do. I smile and get excited at this mini revelation. Well of course I already know this. How I look is very important to me, obviously. But what if there was more I could be doing? I jump out of the shower and dry myself off, trying not to look in the mirror. Trying not to look at myself. But it happens anyways.

Fat. So much of it. I look like Chancho from Nacho Libre. A little stuffed taquito. Horrible. Terrible. My hair looks darker when wet, and the muddy brown was knotted down my back, tickling my butt. Too big. I pinch my arm, and my fingers almost get lost in the amount of fat consuming them. Panic rises up in my chest and my eyes start to water. But I work so hard. My mind brings front my shower revelation and the panic goes down slightly. This is why you need to try harder. Find the things that need fixing on your body. I take a shaky breath and look in the mirror again. My face. I've worn foundation, but never much more makeup than that. That should get fixed. I'll buy makeup. A lot of it. I move my eyes down to my chest. My boobs have always been quite large, due to genetics. My mom even got a breast reduction surgery. They are about a size 32D. Not big enough. I put on the list to get padded push-up bras and chicken cutlets. I look at my waist. This is what I've hated the most. It's so big and my stomach is so wide. I hate this most of all, besides my thighs which are so large that I'm amazed sometimes that I can move normally. I make a note to get a waist trainer or a corset or something. I've never understood why people want big butts. I've always focused on being small and if butt weight has to go then it has to go. Boobs are different though, but if I lose them with my diet and exercise, then I don't really care. Legs. There's nothing I can do except work out and limit calories. There are old scars on the top of my legs. Big long ugly scars from the times where I broke down and couldn't deal with myself. The freshest addition to my art gallery was a long pink one that I got last week when i got into a fight with my family. I add to the list that maybe I could do fake nails, too. Then I look back at my hair. And I know what I want to do.