I started life as a fat, ugly, white-trash, socially oblivious little smart-ass. I was disgusting. I remember lots of occasions where I grossed out adults, and I’m sure I’ve forgotten innumerable more.
I was a chronic masturbator from somewhere around age 3. I used to do this to help me get to sleep during imposed naptimes at daycare. The lights were coming back on but I was...uh...in the middle of something. I didn’t stop. The daycare worker, eager to get all the kids up and on to the next task, ripped my blanket off. I opened my eyes to see her, another adult, and a bunch of the other kids staring at me. She said, “Uh, you’re really making me sick.” Not to me, really, but just the way adults will occasionally talk around children, not consciously believing the children will understand them.
In first grade I was fattening right up. After lunch I’d go pee, but wouldn’t be able to button my pants again. My fat, gross little bitchass would have to go ask my teacher to help me button them again. She had to struggle with it too, and I remember this disgust and discomfort on her face and her disgruntled sigh under her breath, “Well why do you keep wearing them when you know they don’t fit.” Again, not so much talking to me as talking about me. That’s how most of my communication went until adolescence.
Also in first grade we switched from simple math to telling time. Being the incessant hand-raiser, I insisted I knew how to do it. I yelled at her about thirty minutes after 12:45 was 12:75 for a small and undoubtedly exasperating eternity. Despite her being super nice and patient I crawled under my desk and wept out of embarrassment and frustration and my mother had to be called to come get me.
In second grade there’s a birthday party for my new step-sister. She has cake! And ice cream! And balloons! Being poor as shit I was so jazzed but also confused. Every time someone left a plate of ice cream and cake unfinished I was astonished. I asked for them. My step-sister watched me swallow about a thousand calories and then said, “Wow, you’re like a human garbage disposal.” I know that this was a dig but at the time I was surprised someone was even talking to me. I took it as a compliment/play invitation. I tried to smile with my mouth full of cake.
In third grade I developed a yeast infection that I would keep, undiagnosed and unmentioned to anyone, until my first gynecological appointment around age 14. This, coupled with my persisting interest in masturbation, led to such endearing affectations like visibly rocking back and forth on the raised plastic edge of my school chair for, I don’t know, years. After many moves across state lines and continued bizarreness, I understandably had no friends. I temporarily lost the ability to discern whether I was thinking or talking out loud. This did not help. I was psychologically evaluated. Turns out my nasty ass has an IQ in the superior range. This is the same time I was hiding soiled underwear because I was too afraid to put them in the hamper and getting caught masturbating all the fucking time. Some relatives still won’t really make eye contact with me to this day. Genius over here.
It’s fourth grade! Remember, I’m still a fat, ugly, weird piece of shit that no one likes. Now I’ve got fat, ugly, weird piece of shit little tits. I have to get ugly little bras. The ugly little rosettes show through my ugly little floral shirts. I am tormented. This is my first social attention, so I’m excited. When a girl in my class beat/choke me to unconsciousness in the hallway I keep it to myself. I hated myself as a fact and, without a trace of melodrama, was 100% cool with being dead. If anything I considered my would-be murderer a better friend than ever. She almost did me a solid.
Yay, fifth grade! If you thought you weren’t going to hate me, get fucking ready. I’m slightly more socially aware but fatter than ever. I have developed a real charming personality where I imagine people are picking on me all the time. To be fair, about 50-80% of the time I’m right, because I am truly detestable. The rest of the time I’m not helping my case by spitting in people’s hair and cussing out teachers who try to be nice. One offered me a candy bar as incentive and I yelled, “WHY, BECAUSE I’M FAT?! I DON’T WANT YOUR FUCKING CANDY BAR.” This is the same year I stuffed so many chicken nuggets in my sloppy mouth hole that I started to choke, then held my hand in front of my face so no one in the school cafeteria could see me push the bolus out of my gross fat kid lips and chew the back end off bit by bit with my molars while tears welled up in my eyes and my lungs burned and I tried not to cough/die. You know, like you do.
I was acutely aware that there was nothing else good about me so I tried to brag about my IQ. It’s okay, I want to punch me too.
In sixth grade I am still awful. Somehow miraculously slightly less fat, no less insane/disgusting. I chew and swallow paper and my own hair. I constantly turn in homework that is half eaten. A young boy approaches me and tries to tell me that his friend likes me. As the only regard I have ever known for myself is bleak loathing I am certain that he is trying to make fun of me. I scream at them and try to fight them.
In seventh grade I start dieting as best I can. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, I’m twelve. I somehow get friends, whom I promptly weird out, but they help me normalize. It is also the year 2000 and my house now has internet. I learn to emulate humanity I mean hold conversations and not be a spastic fucking mess via, of all things, AOL chatrooms.