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Round 672!  Woman v. Bank of Northern Hemisphere -


Finally.  Being a pain-in-the-corporate-prostate paid off.
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Today has been...strange. One of the side effects of the Cymbalta is that I am not hungry. Ever. At all. So I have been forcing myself to eat something once a day, even if only a bowl of cereal or a granola bar. (I've lost almost 7 pounds in the past week. It's scary what living on 500 calories or less a day will do). I made myself eat a balanced breakfast when I woke up today, and spent most of the rest of the day in the bathroom. No bueno, not kakkoii at all. I slept most of the afternoon, and now, of course, I'm awake. Though not for too much longer - while I can't tolerate food, I can tolerate liquids, Mike's hard berry included. So I'm about 1.35 sheets to the proverbial wind, and trying to mellow out enough to sleep. I'm having one of those days where memories seem to sneak up on my at random - they ambush me like kittens practicing their fierce hunting skills. I'll be toddling off to pee, or sitting in the bathtub watching Hellsing (geek heaven!!!!), and my brain pops up with "Hey, you with the meat, do you remember that time in seventh grade when everyone had to run the obligatory track laps and Bryce Denney** and Spencer Williams, two guys you kinda regarded as nice guys, would grunt at you when they passed by? You know, just to remind you that you were, like, fat. (I was a size 11 in seventh grade. And 5'6". Looking back, I would have been damn hot if not for the Encyclopedia Britannica's worth of issues I was lugging around).

And it's been going from there. From being teased mercilessly about being gay (a concept I didn't really understand other than it meant girls wanted to date girls, and I didn't know what all of the fuss was about). I broke down in hysterics in eighth grade English class, not because they were calling me gay, but because there was NO RESPITE. My teacher lost her temper a bit because what they were saying wasn't that bad, and the quiet girl was being none-so-quiet. I ended up writing her a paper that semester about what it was like to be me, and how I though I had gotten there. I wrote pretty honestly about the abuse at home, and how that meant that I never knew how to relate to other kids, and that we just got locked in this pattern - I was the strange girl you mocked, and they were used to that pattern and I was used to that pattern even though it was killing me (almost literally - I overdosed that summer and spent most of my first semester of freshman year in the psych ward after a week in ICU). I think it was pretty astute for my age and fucked-upedness. My teacher asked to keep it, and I let her. Sometimes I wish I had a copy now. I was teased or ignored constantly, glared at and mooed at and called "granny" because of a propensity for ankle length skirts and hair that laughs at any curling iron developed outside of JPL. It was so bad I  went through a phase of bedwetting in junior high - try developing self-esteem with that going on at home. And limited access to laundry facilities (we were hand-to-mouth poor).

I remember my "best friend" in junior high - read Cat's Eye by Margaret Awood for the gist of what that was like, I don't want to go into it now.  She left scars on me, I'm sure I left scars on her.  She's still in Dickinson with three kids and a strained relationship, and not so much that flat belly she used to use as her absolute definition of her rank above me (along with having full pubic hair where mine has always been thin - girls are fucking strange).  So nyah.

I just keep remembering the things that made my life suck for all of the school years.  Ann Bell and Stacy Goss tapping my shoulder duing some "Don't Do Drugs or Nancy Reagan will piss in your shoes!" rally or another, and when I turned around, they would cross there arms in front of them and make this "boohhnk" noise like I had just lost a game show question.  The meaning was pretty clear there - YOU ARE AN OUTCAST AND WE FEEL LIKE RUBBING IT IN.

There was the absolute astoundment in junior high track when this chubby weird bitch could jump hurdles with the best of them - in jelly sandles, no less (couldn't afford sneakers).  I wasn't allowed onto the team because of "teammate complaints" and "school image" - I mean, the fat kid jumping hurdles?  And damn well?  Impossible.  Wasn't allowed to do balance beam either, even though I was pretty darn good at that, too.  The leotards didn't fit.  Keep in mind I wasn't obese yet, just chubby.  Just as well, I would have spent every competition puking in the girls' room out of sheer terror over what I was going to have to endure at school the next day whether I won or lost.

I remember dancing with my history teacher at seventh-grade cotillion because no one else would. I knew it was a pity-dance, but I was so freaking grateful for it anyway.  I had looked for a dress I liked for so long, it was teal satin and off one shoulder and had a long, draping gather down one side (it was the 80s! Don't blame me!).  It was gorgeous to a small town tweener.  It showed my tan from being a pool bunny, and showed off the blonde hair (my natural color, believe it or not).  Hell I even wore matching teal mascara and frosty peach lipstick.  I was stylin' in my own world.  But it was Mr. Riviere who taught me to two-step, and polished my waltz, and tried to keep the sympathy/pity out of his eyes.  Bless him for that.

I remember being the girl normally nice kids would tease and persecute just to see what it was like.  Ginny Reynolds did that, and apologized later.  I think I mumbled "it's okay" and ran like hell.  I remember getting these notes from Jason Kettler in my locker - little friendly notes, like maybe he liked me (oh, the naivete of adolescence!).  When I never mentioned them to anyone, his girlfriend suddenly "found" them in my locker and posted them in the girls' bathroom so everyone could see what a big joke it was.  He would never look me in the eyes after that, and I wasn't even pointed anything sharp at them.  Signs of conscience?

These days suck - why won't school stay buried?  I know the answer to that - it means I'm going to have to go through another round of dealing with the things happening outside of school that made me the dissociated freak-child of the Dickinson Backwater Social Pecking Order.

Okay, enough of this before I spiral down and cut again.  Or put on the old Bauhaus and rock in the corner and weep like the good old days of Gothdom.  Though I really am too drunk to put on the requisite lace and eyeliner.

**names not changed because I damn well don't feel like it.  If you're one of these people reading this, cope.  Email me, I've got some perjoratives with your name on them.


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April 2017

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