I couldn’t have been more than eight years old in either second or third grade. Thanks to one of my mother’s hangovers, I was late to school and almost missed the field trip bus. Looking back, I wish I had. As the last one to board, I didn’t have a choice of seats and ended up beside a boy named Nathan. He was a jerk to everyone, which is likely why nobody wanted to sit by him.
Lucky me.
As I attempted to slide across the sticky vinyl seat as unobtrusively as possible, he made a show of scooting over toward the window as far as he could to get away from me. I tried to ignore it and almost succeeded. Until a girl across the aisle saw how Nathan was acting and started laughing, which only encouraged him. He grew more over-the-top with his antics.
Next thing I know, he’s clawing at the window and bellowing, “Help! Someone, save me from her thunder thighs.”
Everyone laughed.
Except me.
That’s when I learned there are few things funnier than a chubby girl with the nerve to take up space.
Eventually, the teacher chided him, which brought an end to the teasing.
I just sat there for the entire ride, squeezing my thighs so tightly together that I got muscle cramps. But I didn’t dare let my legs relax out of fear they’d graze his, and then the taunting would return. My hips and glutes screamed in pain.
I held my breath as well, hoping my belly wouldn’t draw his notice next. It took all my focus and strength to stay on that tiny corner of the bus seat, perfectly still and as compact as possible. It was a challenge to teeter on the edge without falling. I didn’t want to lop out into the aisle either because then the kids behind me would have joke fodder for days.
And it wasn’t just my class on the bus, since the entire second grade went on the field trip. The last thing I needed was for this moment to follow me into future grades.
On the bright side, the physical agony from the long-term full-body muscle clench helped me forget how badly I wanted to cry. Body pain drowns out emotional pain when it gets loud enough.
Once I finally got the courage to meet my teacher’s eyes, I remember the pity reflecting there. He pointed at the corner of his mouth as he curved his lips upward.
A silent order to smile.
Looking back, I wonder why he did that. Was he suggesting I smile through the pain so it wouldn’t hurt as badly? Like a grin and bear it type of thing? Was he trying to cheer me up? Tell me that I’m more valuable as a human if I’m smiling? Or did he simply want me toappearhappy so he wouldn’t have to feel sorry for me?
It probably shouldn’t matter why he did it.
Yet itdoesmatter. All these years later.
Perhaps what’s bothering me the most is that Ididsmile. For him? For me? I don’t know.
Despite the crippling shame, embarrassment, and burning ache pulsating through me, I smiled at him.
As if nothing was wrong.
He smiled back.
The moment cemented itself into my mind, probably becoming a foundational piece of my personality. How messed up is that?
Aside from when my sister died—which is forever branded into my psyche—one of the most vivid memories from my youth was how I wasphysicallyholding myself in to appear smaller. No matter how much pain it caused to do so.
While wishing I could cry, I wore the biggest smile so nobody would see how pathetic I was. How I was dying inside. How badly they hurt me. How angry I was.
I freaking smiled. Because that’s what I do.
Suck it in, suck it up, and smile.
It didn’t end that day, sadly.
I still do it.
Huddling into the corner of an elevator and collapsing in on myself so people won’t feel like they need to wait for the next one. Picking the farthest chair away from others in waiting rooms to avoid crowding them. Never going through a doorway or hallway at the same time as someone else. Wrapping my arms around me, holding myself in like a human girdle. On and on. It never ends.
I’m perpetually fighting a losing battle. None of those things makes me thinner. None of them makes me more palatable to others. None of them makes me more lovable.
