"...when she doesn't get her way."

When I was 14 or 15, I tried to kill myself. 

I woke up in the bathroom of our trailer park, covered in blood, with a razor blade in my hand. I had shallow and deep cuts all over my arms and legs. I grabbed my cell phone from the bench next to me and called my mum, crying. She walked down from our trailer and flipped out when she found me. She called an ambulance and my dad. 

When the paramedics arrived, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I remember being strapped to the gurney and loaded into the ambulance. I could hear my mum talking to one of the EMTs. When they asked her why I would do something like that, she said, "She does this when she doesn't get her way."

I have never forgotten that night and the betrayal that I felt.

"Why is Pooh black?"

Junior year of high school, we put on Winnie the Pooh as our spring play, and we performed the show at all of the local elementary schools. 

Our cast was mostly black, as is the population of our town. When we brought the play to schools that were also mostly black, the children adored us. We were big, fuzzy rock stars! 

However, when we brought it to the suburban and private elementary schools, the little kids were fearful of us. They would ask their teacher, "Why is Pooh black?"

My cast-mates were uncomfortable. The kids didn't laugh very much. Our director blamed it on low cast energy, but we knew him too well to know that he was just trying to ignore the obvious. Those kids didn't see themselves represented for probably the first time in their lives, and they didn't know how to deal with it. I learned a lot about racism and media representation that day.

Now whenever I hear someone complaining about a fictional character being non-white, I always think back to those little suburban kids, confused at their lack of representation for the first time and not knowing how to handle it. Except the people I'm referring to are grown adults with access to plenty of white characters to relate to.
 

"Not until I'm finished."

My pregnancy was not easy, and afterwards we followed the doctor's orders to abstain from sex for six weeks after I delivered. We waited like eager teenagers, and once I was cleared by the doctor, we could hardly wait to get our hands on each other. 

The sex was painful. I tried to get through it, but couldn't, and finally I had to call it quits. "Stop," I said.  

"Not until I'm finished."

I hear it every time now, in the back of my mind. A growl of need I couldn't meet, but had to anyway. 

"Not until I'm finished."

"That looks like a cartoon."

As a kid I always loved painting, and when I got to middle school, I finally had a chance to take a real art class.

We were working on landscapes, and I decided to paint a mountain range based on a real photo. I was really proud of my work so far, and I was so happy to have a whole class period in school dedicated to this beloved hobby. 

The teacher came up to me and looked at my painting in disgust. She said, "That sky is ridiculous! Skies are not that deep blue in real life. They're light grey. Almost white. That looks like a cartoon."

I tried to tell her that I was going directly off the blue of the sky in the photo, but she insisted I change it.

To this day, twenty years later, whenever I see a deep, rich blue sky in real life, I still think of her. 

"What the HELL did you do to your hair?!?!"

I got married really young, and it took me six years after our divorce to realize that it was an abusive relationship. 

One of the first hints was when I went to visit a loved one in Alabama without my husband. During the trip, I got my hair cut from shoulder-length to pageboy cut, and I absolutely adored it. I thought I was beautiful for the first time since my son was born.

I was gone for a full 10 days, and as I got off the Greyhound I heard my husband call to me. He didn't say, "Hi." He didn't say, "We missed you." He didn't say, "Welcome home."

All he said to me was, "What the HELL did you do to your hair?!?!"

The whole ride home he went on and on about how I shouldn't have cut my hair, how I didn't even talk to him about it first, how awful I looked with short hair, and how it made me look slutty. 
 

"Just don't stretch them out."

I had this friend in high school who would sleep over at my house a lot. One time she left a pair of leggings in my room, and I mistook them for mine, so I wore them to school one day. 

She saw me wearing them and asked if they were hers, and I realized that they were. I apologized, telling her she'd get them back. She told me it was okay, adding, "Just don't stretch them out." 

I've always had bigger thighs. And I never used to care a whole lot. But now I hate them in every pair of leggings I put on.

"Johnsons don't cry."

I grew up without much physical affection, so I was unusually attached to my first boyfriend. When I was 16 and we broke up, I couldn't accept the fact that this breakup would be our last of many. To me, the daily sex, hugs, and kisses were an addiction. I needed them to feel loved.

When I finally processed that this was final, I was sobbing in my room. My father - drunk, as was typical of him - might have thought he was comforting me when he saw me and said, "Forget him! Johnsons* don't cry."

After that moment, I was ashamed to cry. I was ashamed to show any emotion other than hostility. 

I'm 21 now. And I'm still not able to let myself cry. I fight the tears until I have mental breakdowns. My sadness now automatically converts to rage.

I have some joy and love, thanks to my fiancé, but I fear I'll never be normal again. I'll never be able to cry openly and easily.

Because Johnsons don't cry.

*Names have been changed. 
 

"You need this."

Growing up, I was never really big, but compared to my 5'4 120 pound mother, I was enormous. 

For Christmas in 5th grade, I received a beautiful box wrapped in red paper from my parents. I excitedly opened it in front of my entire family. It was the Richard Simmons Deal-a-Meal diet program. I was absolutely humiliated. My mother's only explanation was, "You need this." 

I look back on my childhood and I can remember the comments from them about how big my arms were and how fat I looked in my clothes. I remember my mom saying once that she didn't understand why I was so fat because I didn't eat any more than she did. These things stuck with me. I don't think my parents intentionally tried to hurt me, but their words are burned into my soul. 

I'm now 33 years old with a 10 year old daughter of my own. I go out of my way to build up my daughter and to let her know that she is perfect just the way she is.

"What IS it?"

As a kid, I had short hair, played sports, and was routinely mistaken for a boy. We moved when I was 10, and I started a new school. I kept wearing androgynous clothes and flattening sports bras. I was self-conscious not only of being the new kid with no friends, but of being one of the only kids wearing a bra. I had short, short hair and "boy clothes," but breasts. 

It wasn't until high school that I started dressing girlier and growing my hair out. In homeroom one day, a male classmate gave me an unsolicited compliment on my new look. 

He went on to describe how my appearance used to freak him out because he couldn't tell what I was. The clincher, though, that stuck with me? "I remember when you moved here...I was like, 'Is it a guy or a chick? What IS it?'"

I replied with a sarcastic joke, but in reality, most sentient beings probably wouldn't like being labelled as "it."

"I really don't have any interest in being a mom anymore."

My parents both came from pretty rough backgrounds and were raised by Depression Era parents. They were both the oldest of large families, so they had a lot of responsibilities. 

When I was 11, my mom said to me, "I raised my own siblings, and then your brother. I really don't have any interest in being a mom anymore." 

My parents still don't understand why I stopped telling them about awards nights and other school events, or why I dropped out of doing things. It was because I didn't think anyone cared.