My name is Alexandra. Most people just call me Alex. Now, I don't do blogs, I don't like writing, I am an awful writer. The only reason I am writing this blog is because I do feel strongly against bullying, and I think this is for a good cause. I tend to have, what I like to call, a rabbit mind frame. My thoughts scatter back and forth, back and forth. A little bit about myself, eh? Well, I am twenty two. Jes, I am legal drinking age. Do I drink? Not much anymore. But we will get to that later.
Where to start, where to start. Now, Let me first say, I have always had a great home life. Great parents, never been in financial stress, yada yada, I guess I have every reason to be happy right? I mean, I am an only child, got everything on my christmas list, what on earth could a few hurtful words do to me? I mean, rubber and glue, right? Kids will be kids? Ever heard those expressions?
Well let me start off by saying, those are all wrong. Words cut, words slice, words leave scars on the heart that don't go away. All the taunts, all the jokes will always stay with me. Let's start with my elementary years. I was made fun of because I had a problem. I s-st-t-t-uderred. Kids would make fun of how I talked. They would repeat words that I said and laugh. When I was trying to talk, even teachers would make me feel stupid because I could not get out what I was trying to say.
Soon, I learned just to stop talking. It got me out of awkward situations. My parents would talk to the teachers, asking them not to let me read aloud in class. I would come home crying. I eventually stopped, not completely. Sometimes I still stutter if I get worked up, over excited, but for the most part, you would never knew I stuttered.
Another thing about me, I was short, and I was fat. The doctor's told my mother that I would more than likely hit a growth spirt and grow into my body, but the other kids did not see it that way. Nope, I was fat ass alexandra. People would actually moo at me in the cafeteria, they would put what ever they didn't eat on my tray, and cause me to run crying.
I heard it from everyone. I was over weight, my relatives would tell my parents to stop feeding me so much junk food. My grandma even took a cookie from me and told me I was turning into Miss Piggie. I hated myself. I hated my body, my face, my hair. Everything was just all wrong about me. I would eat and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat everytime I was sad which caused more weight gain. I remember going into middle school. There was a girl. She was beautiful, everyone loved her.
I caught her one day in the bathroom throwing up. I thought she was sick, and offered to get nurse. She begged me not to tell. She made herself do it. Now, in health class I was aware of what it was. Bulimia. Needless to say, this girl and I became friends. By the time I started my freshman year, I had grown a foot, was not longer chunky, and blossomed into a beautiful girl. But, that did not change the way I felt about myself.
I am not sure when it became an addiction, but unlike the other girls, I loved food. Too much. I binged and binged. I could eat more than most people could eat within a few days in an few hours. I was so ashamed, I had to make sure that no one was around when I ate. After I ate, I would throw up everything I ate, and exercise. I was becoming thinner, and thinner, but it still wasn't enough. I loved the rush I got. I began stealing money, stealing food, anything to feed my addiction.
I loved being thin. It gave me the positive attention I was looking for. People would ask me, "How do you stay so thin?" "You could be a model." I think my mother may have had been suspicious, but maybe just wanted to deny it to herself. I mean, not her smart daughter. Her straight A, almost valedictorian daughter. I mean, surely her daughter would be smart enough to know the consequences of an eating disorder.
Oh, she knew them alright, but she did not care. I did not care. I wanted to be perfect. I wanted to feel like I had control in my life. I wanted to throw away all those old feeling I had when people had called me fat ass, flabby, chunky, tubby, fatty fatty two by four. I have heard them all. Well, by my junior year, I was getting bad. My mother was scared, took me to doctors who all declared I was under weight, at risk of some major complications if I did not get my act together.
Did I get my act together? Nope. Worse, I started drinking, using drugs. Not just weed. Anything to get me high. I used cocaine, ecstasy. Anything. Acid. Shrooms. The only thing I never tried was Herione. I pretty much tried to escape reality any moment I got. My mother had found the drugs, and that was the final straw for her.
They put me in and out of hospitals. But I could not stop. I didn't want to stop. This was mine. This disorder had made people want to be me. Made them jealous of me. I think the moment I realized my life was in danger when I was throwing up blood. I remember my heart started feeling funny. It almost felt like someone was squeezing it as hard as they could. It ended up that I had a heart attack. Luckily, it didn't cost my life.
That was when I tried to get myself together. It was hard. Even to this day, I still can't own a scale, I can't stand in mirrors in a long time. I still have to be monitored when I eat, I am still underweight, I still have heart problems. I have trouble keeping food down. The things I did to my body were because of hurtful words. Words that I wanted to wash away. I wanted to be perfect, loved and accepted, and went to extremes to get their.
Bullying almost costed me my life. I only hope my story get to someone. Be careful with your words. Don't let someone suffer like this so you can have your five minutes of fun. Your five minutes will be chained to the other person for the rest of their lives. Anyway.
I am sorry again. As I told you in the beginning. I am not a writer.