What I Was To Him
Of course, I wrote this with someone specific in mind. If you read this and someone comes to mind, know that they aren’t worth hurting yourself. They wouldn’t want this for you.
When I was 190lbs, he barely looked at me. His eyes would move immediately over the space I occupied and to someone or something else. I was nothing to him.
When I was 170lbs, he glanced at me. Raised an eyebrow as I yanked my jeans up for the 6th time because I hadn’t yet had time to buy a pair that fitted my slowly changing frame, smiled a tiny smile as I grinned in embarrassment and said “I need to get new jeans”. I was curious to him.
When I was 160lbs, he looked at me properly. Stared at my profile as I sat next to him in class, watched in confusion as my cheekbones remained high on my face when months before they were drowned in the fat above my smile. I was changing to him.
When I was 140lbs, he stared at me. As I walked into his house surrounded by friends, sporting jeans that fitted and a brave attempt at a crop top, one that I was only half afraid to let ride up. I was an option to him.
When I was 130lbs, he smiled at me. It was as I swept into the classroom late, and he turned as though he had been waiting for me, and grinned as I brushed my hair back from my face and smiled in return, half shy and half elated. I was pretty to him.
When I was 120lbs, he kissed me. Under a canopy at a party, his lips slick with beer I couldn’t drink for fear of the calories, his hands gentle and sure as they pulled my new body against his. I was sexy to him.
When I was 110lbs, he expressed his worry for me. Explained that my elbows were bony and it hurt to have me in his lap, however much he wanted me to sit there. I was a worry for him.
When I was 105lbs, he tried to feed me. Laughed with pain in his eyes as he held a chip to my lips, only semi-playful when he told me to eat up, looked away sadly as I shook my head and pushed his hand away, sipping my Diet Poison and nudging closer to him. I was growing apart from him.
When I was 100lbs, he looked at me with terror. He would cradle my tiny wrists in his hands and link his fingers with mine as though they might snap, tell me he was scared for me and worried about me. I was a horror story to him.
When I was 90lbs, he saw what I really was. A body sick with toxins and a mind sick with self-hatred, a hoarse voice that begged him to stay by my hospital bedside, hands too weak and shaking to clasp his and eyes too blurred and desperate to return his gaze. I was repulsive to him.
(via depressionandkittens)
“Yesterday is heavy. Put it down”
- an anonymous six word story
(via depressionandkittens)
Sylvia Plath was right
About what?
“Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording —all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.”
(via rachyruth)
