Dear Little Wallflower….

Before I begin, I would like to say that this blog is completely from the heart.  
This blog post is different because it may disturb and wish some to send me an email asking me to openly admit to seeking medical advice/help in the form of a psychologist.  However, it will open your mind as to who I am a person beyond this screen.  With that, welcome to number 68.
I was asked four weeks ago how I would express myself in description.  I’ve found myself suffering from trouble not being able to form sentences or paragraphs.  Or even be able to find one word that would sum me up best.

As a result, I found myself one evening sitting in silence with a pen tapping against paper, staring at a wall blankly.  It was in the moment when my pen dropped that I realised something.

To be able to describe who I am as a person, a female and most importantly, as an individual, I have to go back 8 years.

When I was 17 and about to graduate from high school with my certification, I’d have described myself as being the wallflower that remained hidden in the background.
Until I became the center of attention one morning when I stepped into the school grounds.  It was there I noticed that half of the school had gathered and were now staring at me, pointing fingers in my direction and whispering to one another.
Nowhere in that sentence did I mention that I was mocked regularly for appearing to be dumb.  Or have a left ear that stuck slightly more out than the right.  It didn’t matter that I found the subjects made available to students at this relatively small and rural high school to be incredibly mundane and boring.  Where I had more IQ points than their parents and siblings put together and that I had come from a high school where I didn’t have to attend regularly because I still managed to pull A’s.
17….
I didn’t mention that I was bullied for having openly admitted that I had loved someone with my whole heart.

Then to have those letters I had written, photocopied, hung and spread throughout our grade level.  Making it well known what I had openly and privately expressed was now shredded and destroyed.

That when asking why this person had done this to me, I was told: “I could never love you the way you loved me.  Only dogs would accept someone like you”.

In fact, that was the last day I ever told the opposite sex to their face and in front of others, that I loved them.  Not to mention, only express my affection for them.  It would be many, many years before I sat there in front of friends and family and told my partner that I loved them.
During and outside of school hours, I would have the somewhat ‘popular and shallow’ people inform me, like I was dumb and didn’t know what was happening, “is it true that you’re knocked up?”
Before turning to one another as if I no longer existed, laughing with one another.  While I was coming to terms of what had been asked, I was told to my face, “All ways knew she was a skank who put out for anyone.  What a fucking whore!”.  It didn’t matter that I had never had sex with anyone before and was told by the local doctor that my sister and I were the only ones in the town, who hadn’t had a STI/STD or were pregnant.

During bus trips to and from school, I was subjected to by my arch enemies, bullies and torturers that ‘Ferrals’ don’t sit at the back with the rest of us because we were disgusting’.

This level of shame was nothing compared to the level of shame and embarrassment I would face when I had put on five kilos, after having been skinny for 6 months.  The day I walked into the school grounds and had a so called friend come up to me, with half of the school having stopped and looked at me.  She glanced over her shoulder making sure everyone was watching and when she had gotten enough attention, she loudly asked, “Is it is true?”
I learnt that day after being stopped constantly, poked and laughed at that I was pregnant at the age of 16 to some man that who I never met nor knew of.  That I had destroyed his marriage and his wife was wanting to kill me because I had destroyed her marriage.  And that I was a cheap hooker who sold her body for money.  To support my lifestyle of hard partying, drug taking and drinking.
Once again, it didn’t matter that I didn’t start partying hard until I was 24 and my first joint was 18.

Clearly, I am going hard core. 
Over the summer school holidays, I prayed that when I returned to high school for my final year that the bullying and torture would at least be at a minimum.

Since I had resorted to physically harming myself with a blade that I kept hidden in my room and was contemplating serious ways of ending the torture.  Not that anyone would know or care of from school because I was nothing but a wallflower.

But would leave my family, those that I actually consider to be family, in shock and wondering what the fuck had happened.

When I returned for my final year of torture, I was lectured by those who considered themselves to the elite group of ‘cool’ on what the perfect and ideal body weight was.  I was reminded on a daily basis what a complete and utter disappointment I was and how I could ‘try’ better next time.
For those who have been bullied, psychologically tortured and belittled to the extinct, people who have no idea what pain and anguish we have suffered, cannot understand nor complete how we have managed to survive.  You wouldn’t know every time we stare at our reflection or catch a glimpse of ourselves, the psychologically and emotionally comments have followed us.  These comments will no doubt continue to have both a positive/negative input into our lives until the moment we take our last breath.

The positive factor for me about having been physically, psychologically and emotionally tortured is that I have developed a backbone and a ‘fuck you’ attitude.  I can now stare at the photos of my demons, or rather ex classmates, that have sent me friend requests on social media and laugh at them.

Because unlike me, they have either continued to live the same pattern they were living back then.  Or have aspired to almost nothing by becoming mothers where the world revolves around them.  Still to this day, no doubt continue to deny the fact that their life is neither entertaining nor interesting to say the least.

There are many negative factors about having been bullied and physically tortured however the main one that stood out is: I will continue to spend each and every day of my life wondering, hoping and praying that someone will actually sit there and tell me: “you are amazing.  Just the way you are”.

Now as a shy, mature and anxious filled 17 year old, I found myself wondering why people had created and spread these malicious rumors, lies and disgusting tales.

As I pressed the tissue against my cheeks to bloat away the tears I quietly shed, I listened to a bunch of girls who I had thought were friends, discuss me in a vile and horrid way.  It was then the words, “I hope she gets raped one day” was uttered before they left the bathroom, laughing like what they said was a great joke.

Never knowing what they had just said, had actually happened the year before.

It was then after making sure that the coast was clear before stepping out of the cubicle, I wiped my face of any evidence of having shed tears and cleared my face of having any emotions be visible.  All the while pinning back my shoulders as the protective mask I would wear for years, slid over my face.  Protecting and deflecting any emotion, thought or feeling from an observer’s gaze before mentally bracing myself.  For it was time to matters into my own hands.

I had outgrown the bitter comments and acquisitions of being a whore and my wallflower pattern. This pattern had not only been socially but also politically structured for me from a young age.

Resulting in me showing these obtuse, incestuous rednecked morons how a true ‘city chick’ behaves.

In the end when I left people in horror, I showed them I would not meet social norms of kissing arse. Nor would I bow to the four families that ran the district and I would happily look at them like they were shit stuck on the bottom of my heel.

And that us, city women, didn’t take bullshit from anyone.

However, we did take prisoners at the end of the day.

Over the next 10 months of living up to my true name of ‘city bitch’, I showed them what it was like to have a normal body.  No longer would I suffer having constant pulled muscles from exercising in excessive amounts.  So much so that now as a wiser and more mature aged adult, I have done damage to my right knee after pulling and tearing cartilage and tendons.
The need to spend hours on a block in front of a mirror, watching a seamstress pin, poke and prod my body as she tailored my school uniform.  So that when the school year started, my original size 8 uniform now could fit my even smaller size 6 frame.  Because school didn’t not believe in stocking uniforms in anything less than a size 8 since who could be that size anyway?
I had blocked out the reminders as to what a complete and utter fuck up I was, all the while being shown the golden wall of bachelor degrees.  Both owned by Grandfather and Satan’s Hand Maiden by said people.  Having communist leaders, known as my Grandfather and Golden Haired Child, tell me what I was going to do with my life and that was going to uni.
My options for university when I passed my QCS was: Law, Medicine and Teaching.
It is safe to say when August arrived with the promise of future leaders 2007, I sat down at the desk assigned to me and waited for the clock to hit 9 o’clock.  For those around me did not know what I had planned.  After three days of continuous exams throughout the state of Queensland, I walked away without looking back.  All the while deliberately hoping that I had failed the exams so I wouldn’t be able to go too University and live the already crafted dream created for me.
The perfect carbon copy…

Least to say I was bitterly disappointed to be informed by Lois over the telephone that she had received my QCS results in the mail and I had scored a 9.

I was majorly fucked off that I had been out beaten in the own game I had created, structured and formatted.  It was evident that I would need to return to the drawing board to rethink and restructure the game of self sabotage.  Just so then I could be me and free.

I’d grown tired of having the slice of cake I wanted to consume, be taken away by my Grandmother.  All the while being lectured over body sizes and “Do you really think you should eat that slice of cake? Besides, it will go to your hips and arse, which are already huge”.

She would then pause as my hope began to slowly increase at it could be very well, the end of her spiel on the perfect body image.  Only to be told, “Besides, what man would want you if you are gigantic?”

It was in that moment that I would turn and look at my Grandmother and see her for the woman she was.  Nasty, self loathing and did not like me because I resembled someone, she considered to be a disappointment.

Not to mention, I’d outgrown the lectures on what my dieting and gym junkie obsessed cousin thought what men really wanted in a woman.  
Least to say Satan’s Hand Maiden believes that the perfect figure can be found on a catwalk with track marks hidden between her toes or in magazines, having been airbrushed within an inch of her life.  In fact, you can find her at the gym 5-6 days week, sometimes twice a day, working on her perfect body image while completely ignoring the fact that she is the size of a 9 year old child.
That morning when I stepped out of the toilet cubicle and braced myself to battle for my independence, it was time to do a lot of things.  One of them was to step out the politically and socially structured wallflower status that had been given to me by my cousin, Grandfather and Grandmother. 
That day when I returned home from school and slowly began to unweave and peel off my body armour; I let the robe around my shoulders drop to pool around my feet.  It was then with the door locked, chair shoved underneath the handle and a ‘PISS OFF’ sign taped to my door, for the first time in my teenage years, I took off my rose tinted glasses.
I physically looked and took note of what my body actually looked like.  I had spent the last five years being made to think that my body appearance was a size 16, with small breasts and a juggernaut backside.  In fact, I would have made the Kardashian’s well known and famous derriere appear small and delicate.  However when I looked at my reflection that reflected a pale ghost, I was shocked, horrified, disgusted and repulsed at what I actually saw.
Over the previous five years, I had been brainwashed and as a result, no longer resembled the
Is fat shaming okay?

carefree kid who used to run around the backyard, screaming and yelling in delight.  Replacing that happy child was an exercise freak who counted calories and kilojoules. 

Who prayed religiously to never put weight on or grow fat and who had journals filled with how many daily calories had been consumed over a four year period.  If I had thrown up, the amount of kilometres I had run that day and what sport/exercise I had done.

In fact when I left Brisbane after being hunted, pushed against buildings by my throat and told that if I ever returned I would be stabbed; I was told by my doctor that if I lost anymore weight, I would end up on a holiday. 

The fact that if I even lost another kilo or two on my already scary and shockingly thin frame that weighed 46 kilos, I could kiss goodbye having a normal education and I would end up in an anorexic ward.

The weight that I had vainly fought to put back on my body within an eight month period after having left Brisbane, had dropped off.  I had been poked, prodded, punched and spat on by my Grandmother and cousin while trying to zip up a dress that I planned to wear for Satan’s Hand Maiden’s wedding. 
It was in that dressing room with a locked door that they stood there, pretending to struggle with zipping the dress while making comments like, ‘No one wants a cow at their wedding’.  Most people would think that the words were damaging and destroying enough but the fist that was delivered into the side of my ribs, is a completely different story.

It was a fist filled with jealousy, bitter rage and lust filled hate that dropped me to the ground.

Where in a collapsed ball in a beautiful pale blue dress, the final words delivered were ‘No one will ever marry a fat bitch like you.  Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t kill you when you were younger’.  As I lay moaning and screaming in agony and pain, my savior Lois demanded to know what they had done to me.  All the while they pretended to know nothing of what had just happened.
The weight that I had managed to put back on to bring my body weight to make me a healthy size 8, dropped off.  So much so that I was now fitting into a size 2/4.  Resulting in being able to count the amount of ribs that were protruding and visible through my exceptionally thin skin.  My hip bones resembling something on a skeleton that sits in the corner of a science lab and the beginning signs of a concave stomach were appearing.
Just smile…
As a result, my personal beliefs and perceptions as to what beauty and inner beauty were twisted, tainted and tarnished.

That even now when I am complimented on my looks, I am not 100% sure how to take this comment and often laugh it off. 

Because in my eyes, I have been made to believe by those who I once thought were family but now realise they are bitter and mentally disturbed; I was never beautiful, good enough to be blessed with looks. 

In a roundabout way, a bulldog was better looking than I.

This caused the voices from my eating disorders to be fuelled with negative comments.  Where even right now as I am typing this, they are telling me that I need to get up and get out.  That I need to pound the pavement so then my ‘jelly thighs’ can be banished, my ‘love handles’ and ‘chunky arse’ can be carved, molded and firmed into utter perfection. 

Where nothing remains except bone and skin because this was a true anorexic person believes is perfection.  Even then, that is not truly perfect.

Because of my history at the end of 25, I find myself looking at carbohydrates, salt, sugar and fat levels on packages that I buy.  Most people would assume that I am healthy and conscious about what I am putting in my mouth and they are correct in some regards.  However, I am actually counting and keeping a mental count of how many calories are being consumed because that part of my life will never, ever end.
Since I have been reminded that if I don’t exercise or watch how many calories are being consumed, I would become even more hideous and obese. 

2013 Scarlett.

And what man would want me?

The negative comments that are part of the anorexia, which is a disease, can be fuelled by a simple comment of ‘God, my arse is so huge’ or causing a full blown meltdown when a dress doesn’t zip up.
Trust me, having a meltdown over a dress zipper not going up has not only caused me to be almost escorted out of a building.  But has left me severely traumatized, that I couldn’t leave my apartment for a fortnight.

Spending that duration either in my pyjamas or black.  Not because of sheer laziness, but simply for the fact that it would disguise and prevent my mind from being disgusted and shocked.

It didn’t matter that I had woken up one morning and when standing at the scales, burst into tears at the number that was greeting me.  It didn’t matter that I had decided to put down the alcohol and sharpen myself up because no one else was going to pull my head from my arse and delusional land.

That at the end of the day, I would essentially have to forge my own path to creating a better and healthier lifestyle and life for myself.  It didn’t matter that with these baby steps of being healthier.  All that mattered was I could still perceive, convince and believe that I was still ‘fat’ in my eyes.

One of the most less than pleasant factor of having negative thoughts, particularly when you are in the midst of a ‘must lose weight’ episode, is when you start thinking you needed to lose at least 10 kilos.  Even if the scales are already telling that your total body weight is only 57 kilos and yet in your mind, you are seeing 157 kilos.
Believe me, I had an episode like that when I made myself believe that I needed to drop excess amount of weight to fit into my dress and be even remotely presentable for Satan’s Hand Maiden’s wedding.  Not to mention when I was weighing at 65-70 kilos (size 10 Aus) when I graduated high school and I was being asked if I was fat, pregnant and when I was going to drop the weight.

This seemed to follow me around school grounds for a while until one day, it seemed to flow into my social media life.

One of the positives about Facebook and social media is that you can communicate with those you haven’t seen in a while or you have never met in life.  Like you and I for instance.  There is a possibility that I have never met you and never will because Earth is a big place.  The negative factor about Facebook and social media is that people can post horrible and nasty things about you, to your face.

At least in the old days before media was invented, we bitched about people behind their back.

The following incident happened a few weeks after completing year 12.

I happened to find myself tagged in a photo from graduation.  After going through the album and seeing what all of the girls’ dresses looked like and what I actually looked like; I stumbled across a photo that had both Lois and I in it.  All I remember feeling is my world had just been shattered.

The photo consisted of me leaning across the table, putting down the jug of water as I had filled up my glass and had turned my head to speak to Lois.  And in the comments between two vile people who had sat in my group of supposed friends for two years, mentioned that it had been a severe pity that I hadn’t lost weight.  That I should have done the option of super gluing my mouth shut to hasten the process because I was obese and disgusting. 

And I should do mankind a favor and kill myself.

Most people would assume the comment about my weight, what a complete failure and ugly dog I was, would hurt me greatly.  Instead, it simply offered me comfort.  Except when I later came across a comment that affected me the greatest.
I read these people’s opinions as to how they perceived Lois to be and was deeply disgusted when
they stated that Lois was a complete low life and that she resembled a beached whale.  They should have gone harpooning because ‘whale meat’ was favourable with the Japanese.  That they would score a bounty deal with how much she had going for as she was and I quote, ‘huge!’.

After having read these harmful, disturbing and inhumane sentences that a bunch of 17 year old immature adults wrote; all I could think was ‘what are you going to be like in the next 5-10 years?’.

The answer that I got was that they would still continue to be the same shallow, nasty and disturbed individuals who thought that their life was exactly perfect.

Needless to say when both of these people tried to add me onto social media, I had the last laugh.

One of them has gotten married and after spending hours telling me that she would kill herself if she even put on a kilo, would now close to 80+ kilos.  As for the guy, he is still unattractive as ever.

Least to say it can be stated here and now that these, I cannot even think of a word to describe them, knocked my cousin, Grandmother and Grandfather out of the ballpark with their lack of social etiquette.  That is saying something nice about my unfortunately blood related family members.

Because when it comes to Lois’ side of the family, we fight our battles behind closed doors and when in front of strangers, we stab each other while smiling.

When it comes to leaving, strangers leave with the impression that side of the family is something that can only be upheld to The Walton’s.  Simply, we present a perfect package when in fact, we are murderous bastards that live for blood.

All I can say to that is: no wonder why I am so fucked up both with emotional and mental issues.  Particularly when it comes to eating, understanding my body and what beauty is about.

Because even to this day, I still have no idea what inner and outer beauty is.

Fast forward six years and if I had the opportunity to describe myself at 24, I would seriously state that I was ‘Filled with pent up frustration, anger and yet, utterly alone’.

Six years as anyone would state is a long time.

During those six years after having completed my torture and lack luster of an education, I decided to turn my back on those who had attended the school.

I knew that once I turned my back on those, I would be able to make a name for myself.

Not for the purpose of providing entertainment for others but rather knowing that when the right moment came, I would be able to look back on my life and know that I had tried my best.

Not only in making myself happier and healthier but rather I had left the shit hole and its rednecks to fulfill a destiny that I only knew of.

This destiny seemed to a right ol’ pain in the arse when it dealt a dodgy hand of cards when I had my first boyfriend.

As much as I sat there and wondered why I had been dealt this hand and why it had been me, I soon came to realise that it held a purpose.  I was to learn how to stop being a child as I reluctantly wanted to grow up and become an adult.  Since I’d resorted to being a typical teenager and not wanting to gain my independence.  Much to Lois and Red’s annoyance when I refused to go and ‘experience the night life’.

Destiny and I decided that we would have a love, hate relationship with one another until the age of 21 when both of us handed over olive branches.  This of course happened over breakfast, consisting of me opening the coffee beans and taking a big old whiff.

That morning I decided that I was going to pull myself up by the boot strings, shuck off the demons that had been following me around from my failed relationship a year and a half ago.  Finally, I would become the adult my parents had been praying for to arrive.

Round of applause…

I told my parents proudly and almost borderline afraid of what their reaction would be that I would be moving out of home within a fortnight.

I had gotten myself a job and I would become the independent adult we had both been wanting.

I would no longer require destiny to take the lead and determine what I was going to do.  But rather I would be taking hold of the reigns and therefore, my own pathway.

My initial thought along with my parent’s was, ‘about fucking time!’.

Having moved out of home, tasting the somewhat limited taste of freedom as I was still living in Redneck County after having left for the vast metro city of Brisbane; I was told a year of The Twins graduated high school, that a friend of Frodo’s would be joining us for pre-Christmas entertainment.

As I have previously said in a blog post, I thought he was a patient, a mental patient at that, who had escaped from the clutches of Bailey Henderson.  The mental hospital who housed patients requiring 24/7 care structured to their needs and wants.

I soon found out that he was not a mental patient but rather a smart arse, teenager who thought he was God’s gift to women.  That was until after weeks of ‘courting me’, he told us as he was ducking out the door that he was ‘off to see someone’.

Which we all knew was code for booty call.

It was in that moment when I glanced up from my position to see his body walking out the door that I said, without a blink of an eyelid, “Wear a condom”.  I soon found out from his Mother that I had not only confused him at my comment but he had to ask what I had meant, which left he stunned like a mullet.

Two years had gone past and the rose tinted glasses had been removed from my face that we decided to part separate ways.

I left a partner who I had thought I would not only marry but have his children when the timing was correct.  I had learnt lessons that not all men were arseholes and were simply out there in the dating world to get pussy and didn’t give a shit about using women to their advantages.

Note: Do not feed the fears…

Rather I had been shown what it was like to be loved by a man and be able to trust someone, even if was with half of me as I was afraid of truly letting everything go.

For fear of being hurt again, rejected and even laughed at.

He showed me in many ways that I was bold, determined to succeed in life and that I had enough strength to walk away from a relationship that wasn’t simply working out.

At the end of the day, the only thing that mattered is that I was a proud supporter and believer of myself and dreams.

During the next three years, it would be an uphill battle for me.

The afternoon that I watched Mr. Wolf walk away, knowing that I had crushed his heart to dust, Kaffy was involved in a car accident.

An accident that would see a friend of mine at the time, her son and Kaffy be flung around like they were rag dolls within steel.

It would see them going spinning in multiple different angles before being thrown into the air and landing upside down in a ditch.  As they struggled to rescue themselves from the water now spilling into the car, they were rescued by my brothers who had followed them after a gut instinct of something wasn’t right.

For the next few weeks after making sure that both Miss Sweet Thing, Master. S and Kaffy were okay, I started to believe that the accident had occurred because it had been my fault.

I had started to believe that the accident had occurred because I had ended my relationship.

It was only until I was taken out to where the crash had happened and I was able to walk the same path, that I realised I had nothing to do with the accident.

Rather the back tyres of the car catching on gravel had made the whole incident occur.  Consequently I discovered that the only thing that would be able to provide the comfort I needed to hide the pain of having a broken and guilty heart was to start eating.

Instead of being the person who used to count religiously her calories that she was consuming and how much it would take to work it off, I no longer gave a shit.

I had grown tired of being forced on a diet that was self imposed and also my Grandmother.  Because God forbid, she actually had a granddaughter that had a normal body image and figure that didn’t reside within a size eight or six.  I had also grown tired of people asking me if it were true as to whether or not I was pregnant and when I didn’t produce said child, I had a ‘miscarriage’ or an ‘abortion’.

My overall hope was that food would provide a comfort zone of where I could no longer feel or acknowledge the pain I was feeling.  Not to mention the constant reminder of what a fuck up I was when I saw photos posted of Satan’s Hand Maiden gloriously rubbing in the fact she was married.

There also came a time in my life where I was fed up of being told, ‘you look……..cute’.

Juggernauts ahoy…

Which is code for: “bitch, you ugly!”.

And I don’t even need a psychology major to know that for a fact.

As the weeks of torture and pain morphed into months and then into years, I found myself standing on the scales one morning.

Of all days to pick stripping off and staring down past your toes that needed a good paint job, I took myself off the scales and laughed.  “Yeah right, I am being delusional” I mutter to myself as I once again step back onto the scales.

Only to find that the little arrow hadn’t moved at all and that what I was witnessing, was indeed the correct number.

On my 23rd birthday, I found myself standing in my parent’s bathroom, crying at the number greeting and wishing me ‘Happy Birthday, Chunky Arse’.  It seemed the most logical, crucial and cruel thing that I could possibly do to myself.

Because I needed a wake up call.

After spending a year telling myself that the reason behind my bust line increasing, instead of declining, was due to a wide range of things.  PMS, influx of hormones or actually developing more breast tissue was what entered my mind and is what kept me happy during the day.  But when night approached, I removed my clothes and barrier of make up; I was able to see what I actually looked like.

I stood there in front of the mirror, staring at my naked body and all that was going through my head was, ‘what the fuck have you done to yourself?  Your moral and ethical beliefs about yourself has clearly gone out the door.  You should be ashamed of yourself!’.

The thing that changed my frame of mind about what my body looked like and how I was treating myself, which was clearly not with respect; was when a lady walked up to me in the shops.  Not asking for permission to touch my person or even think about she was doing, she placed her hand on my stomach and stood there, waiting.

Standing there in shock at what had just happened, I glanced at her hand placed upon my stomach and than at the confused look on her face.  She looked at me with a raise eyebrow and said, “I can’t feel the baby move, dear.”

In that very moment, my backbone developed into steel as it hadn’t been the first time I had been stopped.  I had often walked around ignoring the looks and comments made about ‘teen mum’s’, ‘how I should have kept my legs closed’ and being stopped and asked when I was due.  Or my personal favourite is having women place their hands upon my body, waiting for the ‘child’ to move inside of me.

Staring at this women in horror and anger, I used my best posh voice that would have made my Great Grandmother impressed and said, “Madam. I am not pregnant.  I am just fat”.

Pulling up in the drive way, I put the car in park and knew that it was time I took back my life.

I would no longer wanted to deal with women stopping me, giving me birthing advice or having their hands all over my body.

I would no longer ‘be okay’ with men staring at me like I was walking vagina while openly stare at my breasts.

As a result would walk up to them after standing there having been sexually undressed, fucked and than redressed with their eyes, and grab hold of their junk.

As shock would flutter across their face because a woman dared to out step the perfect mold created for us.

Squeezing my handful and raising a finely filled in eyebrow, I’d drop my gaze before piercing them with my gaze.  By this time, the colour has left their face and they are stuttering.  Leaning in so they would be able to hear what I would whisper, I’d tell them ‘I’ve met some pricks in my short life time, but you sure are a fucking cactus”.

My intelligence would become a key factor about myself as I no longer wished to pretend that I was someone like Paris Hilton.  But rather would refer to myself as someone like Dita Von Teese.

By changing my mental thoughts about myself and that I would no longer allow illnesses to rule my life, once again.  I knew that I would have to change my physical appearance as well.

I sat down after celebrating my 23rd birthday in a depressed haze the next day and decided that I would take action.

It was after making that decision that I would set myself a time limit/bracket and if I didn’t accomplish most or all of my goals, that I wouldn’t necessarily punish myself.  But I would be more than disgusted and upset with my lack of ethics in wanting to achieve my goals.

Sitting in the sun room before moving to Brisbane to start my second year of university, I started writing a list.  This list consisted of things that I had wanted to accomplish but didn’t have the time, energy nor the mental capacity.

I wrote down everything that came to mind until I had the page filled up and only did then, I cross off the things that were either unnecessary, highly dangerous or wouldn’t fit into my life.

The list consisted things of:

  1. drink glass of water when first having woken up.
  2. Cut down alcohol.
  3. If blew alcohol limit in a week, do not beat yourself up.  
  4. Think about what caused you to blow the limit and try to not let it happen again.
  5. Cut the crap, rubbish and shit out of your life (refer to 6).
  6. Girlfriend, you arse is not Beyonce Bootlicious. 
  7. Think positively about why you are doing this.
  8. Find a statement piece in your closet.
  9. Use statement piece as inspiration to build motivation.
  10. Exercise regularly for comfort but do not expect yourself to be an iron woman.
  11. Eat regular, smaller meals frequently.
  12. If you get stomach pain, think: Am I hungry or thirsty? (Have a glass of water).
  13. Start seeing yourself as a beautiful person and not a failure.
Scarlett, 2015.

After a year of hard work, minor slips and falls before coming out striving to achieve the ultimate goal, I have survived and succeeded.

The year is now 2015.

I am 25 years old and I am proud to admit that I am 16 kilos lighter.

My attitude from when I was 15-16 and thinking that no one would like me or want to be my friend because I was a ‘fat girl’ and incredibly brainy, has completely changed.

At the age of 25, I now walk into a room and wonder if I am going to come out liking these people.

I still somewhat give a shit about what society thinks about myself.  But not at the constant level I used to think when I was 15.

No longer do I spend anxious riddled week days, biting my nails and trying to walk around like I don’t exist.

But rather, I now throw open the door and yell out ‘Scarlett’s here, bitches!’.

I shake my head at the thought of being a diet obsessed teen, where I spent most of teenage years counting and freaking out when I went over a certain number.  Rather than running around in the backyard with my younger siblings or chilling the fuck out.  I allowed the voices to take control of my life for the past 10 or so years and as a result, have suffered greatly from them.  Whether it be physically, mentally or even socially.

It become so bad when I found photos of myself after having left Brisbane, I am disgusted at how thin I was.

Now when it came to Satan’s Hand Maiden and my Grandmother, I am majorly annoyed and am pissed off at myself.  I am beyond angry that I allowed these two women who are nothing like those that I want to surround myself around, to overtake and control my life.  I am fucking pissed off that I thought by losing mass amounts of weight, putting my life and health in danger, that they would wake up, recognise and love me.

I woke up at the age of 25 and realised that I am never going to be recognised or loved.

Simply for the fact that I am never going to fall into line like a good little soldier and be who they want me to be.

Which does not consist of being a mini duplicate of Lois O’Chunky.

For that, I will continue to be the loud, obnoxious and annoying voice that defies their communist beliefs and ideas as to what beauty should be like.  Instead of being the doormat that lies down and shuts the fuck up, I am a feminist who defies society and tells the big man upstairs to go ‘fuck himself’.  I will tell him when ‘we’ (because it takes two to tango) will be getting laid and not when he sits there and tells me when to spread my legs.

If you want someone who is willing to do that, go and pay a hooker.  Because she does it for the money.

If I could back in time and pen a letter to myself at the age of 14, I would probably write this:

Dear little wallflower,

I should probably start this off by saying that the year is 2015 and we are 25 years old.

You probably won’t know but we are going to be told in August when we pay a visit to Dr. C; that after doing a biopsy, we have cancer.  We will go into shock at hearing that and watch in amazement as Dr. C’s mouth moves.  Yet we are hear no words.  Amazing.

In fact, we still be in shock some 5 months later when we tell the local doctor what we had planned with our life.  He is cute but that doesn’t matter as he soon becomes an arsehole when he ruins our plans.  Brace yourself because he will grab our shoulders and say bluntly to our face, ‘Five years, then you’re dead’.

In a round about way, you set out to prove this moron with a medical degree, how incredibly wrong he is by giving us that diagnosis and deadline.

Mum and Dad will tell the school that you will go to in 2005, after moving and leaving Brisbane.  They, being the school, will want to tell the other morons about the outcome.  

DO NOT let anyone know because it is none of their business and not their god given right to know.

I must worn you that they will comment about your weight loss, clothes and shoes, how city freaks have two heads and how you should ‘fuck off and go back to where you came from’.  

My advice is as much as it hurts inside, smile.  

It pisses them off as it makes them frustrated beyond belief as you wait, patiently for the day.

After being told in wood shop to return where we came from, we are going to pin a guy against the wall by his throat.  We will say, that maybe they should crawl back their mother’s vagina and get some balls.  That is the day that we become known to have a short temper fuse and no one comes near us again, unless they wish to experience the same thing.  

However, there is a nice guy that says “Hey Scarlett” every time he sees you, go up and say hello.

As I am older and somewhat more mature than you, I am going to tell you something.  

Stop hiding and step out of the mind frame that you are trapped in.  You are worth more than the friendships that are pegging you down and holding you back because you deserve more than this. 

Stop being subjected to Emily’s bullying, Tara’s favouritism and Jarlisa’s mental bullying.  Not to mention the physical beatings that you get from Eva.

You are worth so much more than this and I wish I had stopped the pain, anguish sooner rather than later.  

Go and speak to our Mother about the suicidal thoughts and feelings that are running through your mind because she will find help for you.  You deserve more, rather than being told by the inner demons in your head, you are nothing but a fat bitch, with a lumpy arse.  Because I kid you not, you are about to lose weight so drastically that you actually end up having anorexia.

We will continue to fight the battle of surviving and out living the demons that lurk around the corner.  

Take heed Dr. C’s words when she shows you photos of what anorexia looks like and actually sit there and openly admit that we are suffering from this condition.  She will offer medication for the depression that is fueling the anorexia voices, extreme exercise need to physically improve our body.  Rather than sitting there and telling her that you are going to ‘not take them for wanting to go natural’, don’t be a dick and actually take the pack.

Trust me, I regret not having done it because at a later point in life, we are going to be asked if we are really experiencing these symptoms.

There is so much that I can tell you but I know that fate will intervene and will no doubt change the pathway we are set out to experience.  

Just know that at this point in time of life, we are happy.  

We have lived, experienced and shared so many life experiences that most people would be baffled or left confused at the end of the day.  

Yes, you will find your purpose of life one morning while brushing your teeth and you have the attitude to grasp your dream.  Do not let anyone or man tell you what they think you should be doing with your life because once again, you will prove to yourself everything.

Just note that you will find a guy when we are 24 and you will do something that you would never think you would ever do.  All I can say is: the sex is 10/10 and you need to trust him from the beginning.  

Trust me as much as he sits there and says that he is a ‘major jerk’, you will see through the bullshit and see who he really is like.  He needs to be cuddled also.

Finally, you are the only exception.

I will see you on the flip side, Kiddo.

Until next time,

Cheers xo

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