Life —
Dear Life –
Here’s what I’ve learned since graduating from college. Being an adult is overrated, it means you have to make money, can drink alcohol, have bills to pay, and have to clean the microwave. I’ve been stealing from my parents’ liquor cabinet for years. Just little sips to take the edge off, to forget about things for an hour. I spend a lot of time in my head and the alcohol gives me a break from that. Honestly, I’m pretty lonely and wish I could confide in someone. It would be impossible for me to say those words out loud, it’s too vulnerable. People judge me enough as it is, I don’t like to give them more ammunition. The truth is, I’m so lonely I sit in my apartment listening to the silence. Have you heard silence? It’s quiet. I take clean clothes to the dry cleaners. Not only clean, but cotton clothes, not only is that sad, but it’s also a waste of money. I order stuff online that won’t fit so I have an excuse to go to the Mall of America to return them just to be able to interact with a human. I used to go into normal sized stores and pretend like I was looking for a birthday present for my friend who’s a size two. I’d make a big production of it, telling the clerk about my one and only friend. Sometimes I’d make up lies about her because I was bored, sorry salespeople. I’d buy a dress I had no intention of giving her and add it to the collection in my closet. Honestly, one day I opened up my closet and there were more size two dresses than size 20, so I stopped cold turkey. I was embarrassed for myself. These days I stick to buying shoes, purses, necklaces, make-up, and earrings only. I’ve been known to put on full make-up, to get dressed up and sit on the couch to watch Sex and the City reruns. I even wear heels. It makes me feel good and like I’m one of those ladies. I’m safe inside my apartment, in my dress and heels, in front of the TV. No one can hurt me here. Going outside, that feeling is liable to be stolen from me. It could be a comment. It could be a look. It doesn’t matter. I miss college and my friends and being around people.
The truth is, I hate myself. I hate the way I came out of the oven. I hate the layers of fat on my body, the freckles on my face, the color and curl of my hair, my height. I’m the names strangers, classmates and my mom call me. Disgusting, fat, and lazy. Oh hello, don’t forget lardass, thunder thighs, big red, fatso and porker. This is not a comprehensive list, there are more. I don’t have the energy to remember them all. Can I tell you, I’m so tired from being fat, tired of being fat. I dream of shaving it all off, of it disappearing, disintegrating into my hands. Will I ever be more than my appearance. Will my life have meaning or will this feeling of worthlessness remain with me for eternity? Where can I bring value? Is there a way to become immune to the hostility towards me? What did I do to deserve this? Is this a test, am I being graded? Why did God make me this way?
I have a job. I can pay my rent. I can support myself. Honestly though, I’m not happy and I’d love to be happy. I have no friends at work. My boss only talks to me when he needs something. I come home to my cat and we watch TV all night. I count down the seconds until the weekend will be over. Life, don’t be jealous of my life. You suck now and I suspect as long as I’m in this body and look the way I do, you will continue to suck.
Life, I’m going to be honest with you, I’ve acquired obsessive compulsive disorder. I gave it to myself, is that scientifically possible, I have no idea. I wasn’t like this before. Six months after moving into my apartment, I became this person who couldn’t tolerate the tiniest stain or piece of dirt, so I created rules. Dirty dishes are not allowed in the dishwasher overnight. I cannot leave a room unless it’s spotless. I scrub the countertops with so much bleach I need to put Vaseline on my hands before going to bed. Every article of clothing I own must be hung up in the right place and categorized by color, even the size twos. Only furniture has permission to be on the ground. My shower must be cleaned after each use, same with the bath. The kitchen floor scrubbed is three times a week. The order gives me a sense of control. I spend less time thinking about how much I hate you when I’m busy cleaning. Honestly, you’d be better served if I took up a hobby. I already work out to YouTube videos in the privacy of my own home. I could learn about fruits and vegetables, what’s in season when, grow some on my patio. I read fashion magazines even though they depress me. It would be fun to learn how to give manicures or learn a language. I listen to music, is that considered a hobby. Only the Beatles. I got into them because there was a guy I liked in college who was into them. I was hoping to knock his socks off with my extensive Beatles knowledge. He hardly gave me the time of day so I didn’t get the chance. I could be standing right in front of him talking and he’d look the other way. I found out he was in love with my friend, along with the other 10,000 dudes we went to school with and that was the end of that. Men are so predictable. I did fall in love that year, with Paul, John, Ringo and George.
My friend likes to tell me I’m in control of my own life, it’s not true though. You control me, I am controlled by you. Let me get out from under you and to be known for something besides being fat and having red hair. Until I solve the problem that is you, I’ll hide in my apartment, cleaning, buying purses online I have no use for, dreaming of what could be if I were thinner and shorter and how I’d live if I were and finding solace in my fear of living you to the fullest because it hurts too much.
Georgie
