When I Got Fat

When I was five, a girl told me I had chubby cheeks.

My kindergarten teacher pinched them to make me feel better

but that mortifying moment is when the bullying began.

I didn’t really get fat until I was eight

but only because I was too afraid to venture outside

where kids called me names and threw ice and bugs and boogers.

Then when I got fat, the torture increased.

I was “that” girl—the ugly, angry one.

Challenged to races just because they knew I’d lose.

In third grade, I’d kick people who called me names

and make faces at the kid flicking boogers at me,

but soon, growing tired, I gave up.

I let my fifth grade math teacher make fun of me

and the eighth graders laugh at my size,

at my “crusty, grody” existence.

When I was thirteen, I learned how to regain control.

If I just became skinny, the kids would stop.

Along came the calories, a new kind of bully.

I counted and restricted and obsessed.

I rode seven miles on a bike followed by hours of Wii fit

before becoming a runner and a core enthusiast.

When I was my lowest weight, I could see my ribs through my shirt.

It took doctor appointments and breakdowns and faked recoveries

for things to be normal again.

But now, I feel out of control all over