I pull my Blood On The Dance Floor shirt over my stomach, smoothing out the wrinkles with the palms of my hands. This is the third day in a row I've worn this shirt without washing it because my mum denied my use of the washing machine, the reason being she wanted me to wear something different today. Although, unplugging the washer isn't going to make me wear a tank top that spills my fat over it.
Okay, so I might wear this shirt too often, maybe like every day. But in my defense it's the only shirt I like in my wardrobe, and its kind of the only shirt that fits me. I'm lucky that my favorite shirt is the only one that fits over my massive stomach, but at the same time it's not the best thing in the world. This is because I can hear the people talking about me in the halls, grossed out that I'm wearing the same shirt yet again. I try to wash it frequently though, the proof is easily shown on the faded black and the lint balls stuck around the hem of the fabric.
Although, it's not my fault I don't have any other clothes to wear except black capris tights and my Blood On The Dance Floor shirt; blame that on my mother. Mom never misses an opportunity to potentially "help" me lose weight, like..ever. She constantly sends me hints throughout the few minutes I see her each day when I've not locked myself up in my room, whether it be buying me clothes two sizes too small or even halving my plate at dinner so I'll eat less.
It depresses me actually, it's sad that my own mother is ashamed of me because I am the reason her perfect reputation at the country club is at risk. I am that thing holding her back from being co-president of the club filled with snobby, rich bastards even though it's actually herself that kills her own chances. If she wasn't so judgmental about every single little thing that isn't absolutely perfect, she would've been the damn owner of the club by now. Who cares though, because it's all my fault that she's not there yet and she will forever try to change me for her own happiness.
This whole epidemic has gotten to a point where I try to avoid my parents as much as I possibly can. I am frequently making excuses that I'm tired or going out with friends, but I don't even have any friends. Literally not a single friend. I'm too fat to have friends, or that's how I see it I guess.
I hate the way I am, and by that I mean I despise it more than I could ever fathom. I get told by people to love the way I am and to be confident being a big, beautiful woman, but they're all skinny and perfect. These people have no idea what it's like to feel as if you are carrying a whole other person around with you all day. They don't have a single clue how it feels to have the wind pretty much knocked out of you just from walking down the driveway to catch the bus. I can't even describe how much it angers me that these beautiful, skinny, perfect people have the audacity to tell me to feel confident when they haven't lived a single day in my shoes.
It bothers me so much because nobody even knows how I feel. They don't know how tired I am of the stares I receive as I practically drag my fat down the school hallways. They don't understand how disgusting I feel that same night when I lock the door of my room and fall onto my bed which screams under my weight. Its so hard to explain but you know how everyday you wake up and it's just another everlasting day of feeling ugly and hopeless, but then you get that one rare day when you look in the mirror and go "hey, I don't look half bad," which makes you feel kind of confident? Yeah, well I don't have those days, ever. That kind of scares me.
My frizzy hair is pulled back in a pony tail at the bottom of my head. I breathe in before gathering enough courage to walk downstairs to face my mother. I have no idea what she's going to pull on me today, and that's what terrifies me. I don't know if I have the energy to spend yet another morning arguing with her about myself because she has sucked every bit of confidence I have ever held onto out of me. Not that there was much to begin with.
Spraying a bit of perfume on myself to cover the smell of an unwashed shirt, I pull my top down a little farther to hide the fat that falls over my pants. I give myself a tiny inner pep talk that rarely ever works before grabbing my stuff and heading down for breakfast.
That's if mom even lets me eat.
Yes its short but so is my temper so don't push it punk
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