"On Wednesdays We [Don't Eat]"

Every time the same thing happens.  I enter the bathroom, head to a stall, latch the door.  I look around, down and up and then kneel down.  Tears hit the water hard like rain on the pavement.  I say a little prayer, "Heavenly Father...I love your creation.  Please forgive me for what I'm about to do." I let it all go.

I've had issues with food my whole life.  Things like:

"You could afford to skip a couple meals."

Have stuck in my mind since I was a little girl.  I am often haunted by the times in elementary school when we would line up by the door after a vigorous afternoon recess and the boys in my class would joke about how purely grotesque it would be if they ended up with someone like me as their girlfriend.  Memories of when a mean girl would get on the school bus, tell me about how she lost five pounds, laugh and then go to the back of the bus and sit with her other popular friends.

It's memories like these that go through my head every time I'm about to purge.  Yes...purge. Something that I have been doing since 2010 after an incident that occurred my senior year of high school.  I have to coach myself into thinking, "Okay, Rachael..your body sucks.  You can't stop eating when you're surrounded by your friends all the time..so puke. You're a fat ass, just do it.  Everything people have been telling you your whole life is true.  You're ugly. You're obese. You're an elephant.  You look awful so nothing you ever do will be worthwhile unless someone else thinks you look okay."

Rituals like this I have kept track of in a notebook since I started.  Making sure I didn't die or it got to the point where people would notice me leaving all the time, I logged in this notebook what times I would purge and I would also keep track of calories that I had consumed (in the roughest patch, not always).  In that rough patch, I would also allow myself to have two cut days.  Wednesdays and Fridays in which I didn't eat at all, but I made sure to stay hydrated and take vitamins, again so I "wouldn't die".

The hunger felt so good, the pain was my high.  I would think, "This must be what it feels like to be skinny and beautiful.  This is what it must feel like to belong and be wonderful.  If I keep doing this, people will love me."  Not eating would also give me an incomparable edge, an energy that felt like nothing else, it was wonderful.

Last night, I broke a three month no-purge streak.  I was so proud of myself after listening to advice from friends, professionals and reading countless articles and journals, I had stopped this dangerous habit.  But last night, I did it again.  I was provoked by a group of friends (not my friends) sitting on campus having a discussion about obesity in America, their strict diet and how people who are overweight are ruining the image of the Midwest and the United States as a whole.  One of the girls in the group stated that she couldn't believe that her "friends" were trying to feed her 17 year old sister candy when she's, "struggled with her weight her whole life."

I am not opposed to friends having discussions about health and well being, but they were pushing it just a little too far.  A PIECE OF CANDY. Apparently to this girl that's like when a shark can smell blood up to a mile away or something.

The message that is probably muddled in this odd blog post is this:  No one, unless they're a total ignorant asshole, is a complete disappointment to their NATION.  The thought that human beings could think that the appearance of a certain person is, "causing the problem" or are "disappointment" is far more disgusting than the rolls around their waist.  Though I still do not think that I am beautiful, or even close, which I thought before my elementary school terrors, I do think that everyone possesses beauty.

When I look at women and girls, the first thing that I look at is their face.  Are they smiling? Are they happy? What's behind that perfect bone structure or those gorgeous eyes?  Individuals that are smiling and happy and just...wonderful are so much more attractive no matter their size.  Though I can liberally dish this advice out to others, it is extremely difficult to lay that concrete message in my own mind, but I'm working on it.

I want to make last night's mistake an isolated incident, and it more than likely will be.   You know on TV and movies when you see a factory and they have to erase "100 days since the last accident"...well that's what happened in my mind and it was completely devastating.

If you or someone you know is suffering from what I like to call, a battle with food, please refer them to help.  Don't be afraid of tough love.  Tough love is better than no love at all.

As cliche and overused it sounds: You are wonderful, beautiful, the best, smart and kick ass. Don't forget that or I'll punch you. Okay, I won't punch you...but it'll make me sad. So don't!

"I don't really know what kind of girl I am..."

Juno paces up and down her parents' hallway as best friend Leah nervous, but calmly, encourages her to disclose with her father and step mom that she is pregnant.  Juno, begs for mercy and gives her shocked, but understanding parents the information.  Finally, her father looks at her and says, "Boy, June-bug, I thought you were the kind of girl who could tell what's what," then Juno looks to him, as the camera zooms in on her face, eyes welling up with tears and says, "I don't really know what kind of girl I am..."

No, I'm not pregnant, but this quote has always stayed in my mind ever since I first saw the movie Juno, one of my ALL TIME favorites.  As I get older, I think to myself the same statement.  I really don't know what kind of girl I am, and this could be the root to some of my troubles.  

As I scroll through my Facebook newsfeed, I see several different types of posters.  Girls who post perfectly posed pictures with their best friends and boyfriends, they look so ecstatic to be alive and to be extremely, stereotypically attractive.  I see posts from those who are older than me, telling stories about their careers and families, looking to find advice about parenting or cleaning.  I also see friends who are politically apt posting about how Republican members of congress should be fired for shutting down the government and the Obama administration is causing millions of people to suffer within the confounds of the Healthcare Reform.  Then, I look to my own newsfeed.

Several, hopefully satyrical and funny statuses, Instagram photos of random objects and friends, articles about basically anything and everything.  I think, who am I? What does social media say about...me?   Ever since I was a little girl, I have struggled with identity.  Labeled as a "nerd" early on, I was often asked to let someone copy my homework or asked a question on a test when the teacher left the room.  "Rachael, what's number four?? Don't be a bitch, just tell me!", still occasionally plays in my head.  I knew that I wanted to be smart, and I worked very hard to be "smart" but I also wanted to be that girl.  You know, that girl who not only knew the entire U.S. Constitution at a young age but knew facts about rock icons and movies.  I wanted to be that really pretty girl who was popular, but popular because of her great successes.  I wanted to be what the 90's Disney Channel original movie female protagonist, so to speak.

In junior high, I would practice my smile and laughs in the mirror.  Constantly.  I always thought before I set out to camp or school at the beginning of the year, "This is it.  This is my time.  People will realize I'm cool, maybe someone will think I'm even pretty."  Each year, I would be discouraged because repeatedly that would never happen.  I would look to the girls that all the boys liked and cry, literally cry, because I couldn't figure out what separated me from them.  Other than the fact that they often had pretty blonde hair, watched Nickelodeon shows and could burp on command, I mean, that was beauty back in the early 2000's as a 10 year old.  I was an awkwardly pear shaped kid with glasses,  HUGE front teeth and to merely say 'curly hair' would be an understatement.  I couldn't burp, I wasn't allowed to watch Rugrats and I knew my parents would never let me color my hair blonde.  What was a girl like me to do? 

Today, I still struggle with this question, "what kind of girl am I?", and whether or not that it's weird that I have more than one answer.  No, I am not that insanely gorgeous girl who takes perfect photos and has the world's best boyfriend, and I probably never will be.  No, I'm not that cool hipster chick that plays records and goes to concerts in her grungy, yet perfect Vans.  No, I'm not that on-track young lady who knows that she is going to be married in X amount of years with her picture perfect dream wedding and life picked out.  I'm Rachael.

I'm that Christian girl who really loves rap music.  That girl who has big dreams and an education that is attempting to help get her there.  That girl who dates, but doesn't have a boyfriend, but knows that she wants to settle down with a man someday, have some cool kids and a cat named something awesome like George or Jean Paulo.  That girl who really likes fashion and reality TV shows.  That girl who isn't reckless, but occasionally daring when it doesn't interfere with her naps.  That girl who will probably always dislike that she can't look like someone else, but will continue to get compliments on her hair and make up.  That girl who has friends and family that love her a lot and will continue to make them her first priority.  I'm that girl.  It's not easy, but I can't even imagine my life any other way.