I mean, well... no.

No, I'm not anorexic. I want chicken nuggets. I eat, I swear. Have you seen me at home? You'd be surprised, I think. I eat like, three portion sizes for dinner because I didn't want lunch at school.

No, I'm not anorexic, I'm twelve. I have a fast metabolism.

No, I don't work out, I'm just skinny. I eat a lot of junk food but I don't gain weight. That's just how it is.

No, I'm not "too skinny," and I don't need to "put meat on my bones." It doesn't work. I've tried.

No, I'm not anorexic, I'm fifteen. I know I don't have curves, and I know I'm skinny, but I eat. Who's supposed to love a girl like me? No curves? More like no body. I guess I'm just a ghost. A waif.

When I look in the mirror, I see what you mean. I have bruises in the shape of my spine from too many sit ups. I can see my ribs when I breathe in. People cringe when they touch my shoulders and apparently my elbows are rather sharp. I'm sorry I'm too skinny.

"I wish I was as skinny as you."

You sound oddly wistful. Why would you want to be like me now that we're all grown up? No one has ever wanted to be like ugly, skinny me. But there you are, praising me like the second coming of Christ. For all the times I tolerated those insults, to hear them as compliments was almost... nice.

I guess I should watch my weight a little. Being skinny is all I've ever been known for, and my identity formed around that, in a way. I was the anomaly that could fascinate people at a party, spark comparisons and jokes that I was in the middle of, in a good way. What did a low, never-changing number on a scale mean compared to that? Little, like my weight.

I was looking at myself in the mirror, taking in the bones that are all anyone has ever been able to see of me. My boyfriend came and wrapped his arms around me, kissing the crown of my head and looking at me in the mirror too.

"You're so pretty." I'm sorry, don't you mean... anorexic?

the voices in my head are not my voices they are the voices of others 

the panic attacks that I have result from the attacks my body has endured 

the words that replay in my head are the only melody that I can sing too 

your a bald headed bitch 

your nothing but a pair boobs and a vagina that is what you are to men 

your a nigger 

your a hoe 

your a fagat 

your fat 

your depression isn't real 

your feelings don't matter 

your worthlessness 

you look like a leopard with spots 

go screw yourself 

go kill yourself 

your better off dead 

you pussy lover 

you have no life

if you kill yourself its not my fault blame it on my wife 

you wanna kill yourself so bad jump 

your look ulgy bald

oh your going to die send me a cake for ur funeral

your an abuser 

your a manipulaor 

your cold blooded 

your a back stabber 

you just want attention 

your brother has problems he didnt mean to 

your ulgy 

no one will ever love you 

your dumb 

your never going to be anything in life

your a mistake 

you should have been bore a boy 

your life is so perfect 

you smile too much

go take your pills 

your sick and your going to die 

there no point in fighting 

your a failure 

theese words have no meaning unless I put value on them 

I rember everything every hurtful  thing people have ever told me 

I could go and on and write every negative thing someone has said 

but wouldnt that be giving power or undiveded attention to hateful speech 

Let me introduce myself. My name is Logan Adrian Robertson (that's first, middle, and last.) And I have powers like you wouldn't believe. I'm what people call ultrapathic, and unlike my two older siblings, Chris and Abigail, it wasn't because of brain strengthening crystals or devices. I was just born this way. I don't look quite like them, with my blonde hair, but we do have the same eyes. We're siblings, sure, but I it's like, some days, I don't even know them. They're always on missions, and they're so much older than I am, Abigail by fourteen years, Chris by sixteen years. Though to look at us, you wouldn't know, seeing as how they've been...de-aged. But back to me, here...

     So it was a Saturday, and I knew that Abigail and Chris would both be home today, and we'd go to church on Sunday as a family. Now was my chance to show them that I was responsible, and that I could handle my powers.

     Abigail was the first one to walk in, and after exchanging hellos and hugs with my parents, she smiled at me. "Hey, Logan, what's up?"

     Unlike everyone else on the Team, with the exception of Rachel, she's the only one who didn't treat me like someone much younger and therefore needed baby-talk.

     "The usual--school, chores, celebrity status," I kidded. Well, the celebrity status was mainly true, but it was because of my older siblings, not myself.

      She seemed to guess what I was thinking and frowned slightly. "That's too bad."

      I nodded slightly.

      She forced a smile, and then said, "Want to go make lunch? I'm starving."

      I grinned. "Yeah, me too. I missed you."

      "Yeah, I missed you too, buddy," she smiled as we headed into the kitchen. She pulled out some bread, canned chicken, celery, mayonnaise, and garlic salt to make chicken salad. "I still don't like it," she told me, "but I know it's your favorite."

     I nodded. "Yup."

     Together we mixed up some chicken salad, and then she focused me with that steady gaze of hers, perfected from years of battle and interrogating enemies.

     "Logan, what do you want from me?"

     I played confused. "What?"

     "I'm not stupid, Logan. You really want something. What is it?" she pried.

     "Abigail, I really want to be on the Team--I have the ability, and I'm the same age you were when you joined the Team. Please?" Then I played my trump card. "I'd get to spend more time with you guys. I'd actually have some real friends."

     And that's when Abigail said those words I still hear ringing in my ears every time I fail:

     "We're very busy right now, and we don't have the time to train you or fix the mistakes you'll make. I'm sorry, Logan."

     I let my eyes slide away from hers, the sinking feeling in my chest falling to my stomach. "I won't make mistakes!" I pleaded.

     "Yes, you will; everyone does. But we can't afford them when the stakes are so high. You are irresponsible with your abilities, and we cannot spare the time to train you to use them properly."

     She said it gently, like that was going to help, somehow. It didn't.

     I could feel tears stinging my eyes as I turned away from her, leaving the room. All I could think about was that they didn't want to take the time to teach me, to be there for me. No one did these days.

     I drew in a shuddering breath, steeling myself and standing up straight. Well, if they didn't think I was good enough...I'd show them. I would train until I dropped, if I had to do. But I would prove it. And eventually I'd make the Team.

Growing up in my house was a treat.

As a bookish, introverted child, I guess you could say my attention to day-to-day events tended to vary.

Moving on, I was a daddy's girl until I hit puberty.

He would push, I would resist, he would push, I would resist, and the cycle went on.

Thing is, I wasn't a bad kid.

I made all A's, never did drugs, had maybe a handful of boyfriends.

But trust was never there.

My father called the school, my teachers, to ensure I was where I was supposed to be.

Wouldn't let me go to parties, football games, anywhere without adult supervision.

It broke my heart, because I thought I was doing everything right, and he still hated me.

Blamed me for things that I had no control over.

"You're selfish," was a phrase I heard on the regular.

I cried more than I didn't for quite a while.

Resentment built, and over time, it came to a head.

My father and I, had a fight.

One of many, but this one was worse, in the way that he called me the worst thing I've ever heard a parent tell their kid:

"You're a fucking monster."

Oh god, of course, I thought in the moment.

Today, I know what I am.

And my father's daughter is not it.

***

I made this challenge because I was curious to know about this moment in other's lives. Mine was one that will follow me like dark smoke in sad moments, but I'm lucky to have come so far in waving it away. To everyone who's participated, thank you for sharing.

An invisible bell, 

crafted in an instant and yet, 

as old as our first meeting,

fell silently through a clear 

but clouding sky and landed

over me, sealing me in place,

effectively freezing me 

in position so that I could not move,

could not speak, could not do other

than simply be stunned into

silent inertia by the raw power

of something I had never felt 

the icy bite of before. Words have always

been weapons, but I endured

insults from the playground

on up without tears and trembling;

I was called a faggot more often 

than an actual gay person. You, though,

with five words - I later thought of you

as David, whose five smooth stones

felled a giant - caused the traffic

to stop, the birds to fall from the sky,

the sun to become enwrapped in

gauze so thick its light, even to this day,

is not so bright to me. What was taken

was only partially mine, and even

less partially known, but it may not 

have been the words themselves but the smile

that embraced them as they fell from your

lips that split open my forehead,

letting loose not some fully-formed Athena,

but a swaddled misery, and yet around the

edges of the wound, a crystalline hope, 

a dawning realization that you actually

performed a small mercy, though you surely

would not see it as such; because what

child born to a mother who with

calculating indifference can say

I gave myself a miscarriage

is most certainly doomed, and

so still entrapped though with more and more

freedom, though never less sadness and

never a diminishment of the cup of sorrow,

I hold sometimes, when I am alone,

a weightless grief the size and shape of

a phantom child, growing with years

to become almost lissome and true,

my small and selfish gesture, more unbearable

to me than any long and lingering dying,

because he (it was a boy, you were careful to tell)

was never able to fight against it. My arms 

to cradle, my voice to lull, my eyes to 

trail over symmetrical forms, my heart to beat

once, 

        for the not knowing of you

twice,

        for the not knowing of us

three times,

        for the not knowing of what comes after

and then to stop.

My first pregnancy was multiples; triplets until 13 weeks, then a miscarriage of one but the other two were fine. I’m not a very big girl; 5’2” on a good day when I first wake up and my spine is all stretched out. The pregnancy was rough; I had several medical problems and had to be put on bed rest. During this time, I gained a lot of weight that was partially real weight, partially fluid. I actually gained weight after delivery because I had to receive blood transfusions to keep me from dying. However, one year after having them, I was still 40 lbs heavier than I was when I conceived. Unbeknownst to me, my husband and his friend had a bet as to what I would weigh on the twins’ 1st birthday. Because I was nursing, the friend thought that I would be under my beginning weight, whereas my husband thought I would be 20 lbs lighter than I actually was. They both lost, and I suffered great humiliation when I found out about this bet. When my husband and I separated, I worked my ass off, literally. I lost 65 lbs in 6 months; I had a very active job, I watched what I ate, and I was chasing around twin toddlers most of the day. During this time, he and I did not see one another as we were living in separate states. When we did reconcile, he was absolutely stunned at my physical transformation, and for the first 3 days, could not stop raving about how wonderful I looked; I had lost all the baby weight and then some, and was thinner and healthier looking than on our wedding day. But then, he spoke the words that still hurt me to the core. “You look great, and I know you worked hard to lose all that weight, but you also lost all your tits and ass. Maybe you could get a boob job to get it back.” We have been divorced for 13 years now; our twins will be 16 this year, but to this day, those words still haunt me. No matter how healthy or unhealthy, thin or fat, happy or unhappy I am, they will remain forever etched in my brain.

Of all the names I've been called

All the accusations, faults

Not even my dear mother's

Screaming to me "none other

Than my despised cousin, you

Remind me of!" stings so true

Rings in my head, hurts my heart

Like the day that cupid's dart

From my desired heartthrob teen

Struck my heart, so I dared glean

HE LIKES ME, or so I thought

Alas, my name he forgot

Worse yet, he smiled, did begin

To call the name of my twin!!

Of all the things said of me,

That, by him, was felt painfully

I can be "bitch", "slut", "lame"

But, please not my sister's name!!

The voices in my head are not mine, they are the voices of others. Others telling me terrible things. Things that I can not get out.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

One sunny spring day in May, near the end of the school year, Miss T's first grade class was enjoying a trip to the zoo. I was a shy, and reserved kid, but I was also a happy kid. I remember begging Leanne's mom, our group chaperone, to take us to see the swans. Due to my enthusiasm for the animated film "The Swan Princess", I was excited to watch beautiful live swans gracefully swimming about. Leanne's mom promised we would get to see them. The day passed by, and I realized I had to use the bathroom. I quietly waited in line for the girls room, day dreaming as usual, when out of the blue a girl standing in front of me said matter-of-factly :

"You have a big nose."  

Then she turned around as if nothing ever happened. I clearly remember this day, because that was the day I changed how I looked at myself. There is a line that divides my childhood into before the "big nose" comment, and after the "big nose" comment. Before that girl, who I didn't even know, carelessly opened her mouth to say something unkind, I had never much thought about my looks. I was a just regular happy kid. After that comment, every time I looked in a mirror, all I saw was a giant nose. That girl spoiled my day. When Leanne's mom finally directed us to the swans, I was still crying. 

Throughout elementary school other children would often comment on the size of my schnoz, but none stung more than the first time those words accosted my ears. Of course, now that I am an adult, I have recovered from what that rude little girl said to me as a child. I like my nose.  I wouldn't trade my nose. It is my mother's nose, and my grandfather's nose too. However, on the rare occasion someone might reference my "big nose", I'm reminded of the girl who spoiled my day with the swans. 

I heard the tears of the branches, the scrunch of the metals hitting each tree. The trees that my father planted. The trees that provided us good shade and fresh air for the past years. The trees that provided us with sweet fruits and beautiful blossoms.

"Sorry, Sir, what do you think you're doing?" I asked the man who carelessly cut the trees.

"I am cutting these trees because this is my land. You have no right to ask." The man replied sarcastically.

I love trees. And it breaks my heart to watch as the trunks, branches, and leaves of the trees fall to the ground. It frustrates me to think that this man is right. I have no right to react on what they plan to do with this land. After all, I am just a plain caretaker of their property. My family do not own the land. 

How I wish for things to change. I wish my family has our own land. Because now I can't do anything. I feel defeated. I can't do anything for these trees.

This incident ignited a fire in me. I am now determined to work harder, to strive harder, to dream bigger. I want to buy a property where I can build a house for my family. I want to buy a property where I can plant trees and let them grow forever. I want to be the person who will always have the right to ask, to plant trees, to dream, and to live abundantly.