“I got up, brushed my teeth, and picked out my school clothes.” 

Ah, the famous first words of Cher Horowitz from my favorite film, Clueless. How I wished I could lead such a comfortable and lavish life as hers. Sadly, that was not the reality I woke up to at 6:30 a.m. every weekday morning. 

Instead, my routine went something like this. I set an alarm for 6:00 a.m.,  hit snooze five times and hoped I was not late for my chemistry exam or else I’d fail. Unwillingly, I got out of bed and prayed that my hair cooperated with me. Nine times out of ten, it didn’t. So I went into my bathroom and inspected the damage from the pimple cream that I slathered on the night before. I prayed that the persistent Accutane treatment I am on worked so I didn’t have to be seen with pounds of makeup slathered across my face. Then I looked in the mirror and searched for a reason to like myself and tried to resist the urge to check the scale. 

“Check the scale,” my brain told me, “Check the scale.”

Ten out of ten times, I did. 

“Creak!” the floorboards groaned as I stepped on the piece of plastic and glass, the same piece of plastic and glass that I let dictate if I would eat that day, the same piece of plastic and glass that told me how pretty or thin I was, the same piece of plastic and glass that caused harm and loneliness, the same piece of plastic and glass that controlled my life. 

On that day, I was 0.5 pounds heavier. You know what that meant. I had to cut down the calories by half, or maybe not eat at all. I weighed the options in my head the same way I weighed myself on the dreadful scale. 

I stepped down and headed back into my room. It was still dark outside when I swiped open the screen to my fitness app. The screen read, ‘1,562 calories remaining.’ 

I was starving but I knew I had to compensate if I was going to eat breakfast. So, a cardio workout it was. I gently propped open the computer screen. At first, it started out by pressing some keys, searching for a video. Usually, I looked for something that stated, “Burn 500 calories in 15 minutes.” 

“Oh, what is this?” I pondered. There were at least seven videos that popped up on the screen regarding Bulimia, Anorexia, and Bingeing — the whole nine yards. 

I clicked on one, subconsciously knowing that I really should be working out, subconsciously knowing that this wormhole would just trigger me to eat less, and less, and less…

I continued watching the video. I saw that her portions were much smaller than mine. Her fingers were much thinner than mine. Her clothes were a size smaller than mine. Her food had a lot fewer calories than mine. Her workouts were longer than mine, which reminded me that I really should be working out.

I clicked on the next video, and the next, and the next, so on and so forth, until I had seen so many ‘trigger warnings’ at the beginning of these videos that my head started to spin. I couldn’t tell if it was from the screen or because I skipped dinner the night before. 

It was already 7:32 a.m. by the time I actually clicked the search button at the top of the screen in order to explore all the workouts. I needed to make it quick and effective if I was going to make it to school on time. I thought, Who cares if I am sweaty when I arrived? By the end of this, I’ll be happy and skinny. Right?

After a quick ten-minute workout, I peered down at my watch and saw that I had only burned — 90 calories! Impossible! I hit replay and did it again. 

By the time I left for school it was 7:59 a.m., I had a sinking feeling I was going to be late. Fortunately, I didn't even have time to eat breakfast. 

I blasted the air conditioning in my 2007 Ford Fusion. Even though it was 28℉ outside. I needed to dry the sweat so my ‘friends’ didn’t become suspicious. 

I arrived at school at 8:11 a.m. Great, eleven minutes late, eleven minutes less I could spend dreading my chemistry exam, eleven minutes less I would have to make up an excuse for why I couldn’t sit with my ‘friends’ at lunch. 

I rushed into my first-period class just after the late bell rang for a final time. I cringed as Mr. Edwards called my name in front of my twenty-six other classmates. At that exact moment, I became extremely aware of every insecurity I had, even some I have never considered.

 Every dip and wrinkle where there wasn’t supposed to be dips and wrinkles. 

Every stretch mark where the skin was supposed to be smooth. 

Every cuticle left untrimmed when I gave myself a manicure last week.

The width of my hips, bust, and waist, larger than my skinnier friends.

My short, stubby legs, unlike the supermodels I yearned to look like. 

My non-existent thigh gap.

My double chin seemed to have grown larger just by standing there. 

At that moment, the world stopped. I felt the weight of the judgment from myself and others as I stood at the threshold. I felt like a heavy rock weighing down the balloon that is my soul. 

Why couldn’t I just be pretty? 

Why couldn’t I just be skinny?

Why couldn’t I just be happy?

It is at that moment I realized I couldn’t bear to be seen anymore. I wanted to shelter, hide, shrivel up, and die so that no one could see me anymore. So that I couldn’t see myself. 

I did a 180° turn and marched straight out of the classroom. Out of the building. Out of the miserable life I had created for myself. A life full of hatred, confusion, insecurities, and self-doubt. A world I couldn’t stand to be in. 

I raced home in my car at 80 mph on a busy street. I was shocked that a police officer did not pull me over. They probably did not want to handle a fat basket-case like myself. 

As soon as I walked through the front door, up the stairs, and into my room, it was waterworks.

I pinched and squeezed the extra fat attached to my stomach. I wished and pleaded that it would all disappear.

I tried to wrap my arms around my waist. In a final attempt to make it smaller. 

I pulled my skin taught across my cheekbones. I wished that my chubby cheeks would go help a chipmunk somewhere else, not me. 

I squeezed my eyes tight, trying to stop the tears from flooding my senses. I didn’t care about my feelings. I didn’t want to drink more water after crying because I knew I would be dehydrated. I did not want to because I would be bloated. Girls who are bloated aren’t pretty, I thought. 

“Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock,” the clock mocked me. Each and every minute of each and every day of every week of every month of every year I spent despising my body. Why? Because I knew that no matter how many times my mom called me beautiful and bragged about how she wished she could have my shapely figure, I couldn’t compete. No matter if my friends all wanted my long lashes and bright blue eyes, they would still be the source of my insecurities. No matter if the boys in my class said they liked girls with ‘big butts’ and ‘thick thighs,’ they were lying. 

I know deep down that society was not ready for me. I was born into a world that did not appreciate my brilliant ideas and my compassionate personality. Instead, I was born into a world that scoffed at my curves. Side-eyed my birthmarks. Laughed when they saw me in a bikini without a sun-kissed six-pack. Practically vomited every time they saw me wearing a cute outfit that a skinny girl would have rocked. 

Every day I knew my life would be easier if I were thin, blonde, and pretty. How much happier I would be. How many doors would be automatically opened for me. How much praise I would receive on a daily basis. How many guys I would attract simply based on my appearance. 

And I hated myself. No matter what I did, no matter what I changed, I would never be good enough. 

The next day,  I thanked God it was Saturday. I thanked God I did not have to wake up at  6:30 AM and live my horrible life. I thanked God I did not have to look at my ugly appearance in the mirror while I procrastinated going to school. 

I woke up at 8:00 AM and immediately checked my phone. How original. A teenage girl constantly looking at social media and texting her friends. 

I tried to resist the urge to open up Instagram. I tried to resist refreshing my feed. My heart was telling me not to stalk skinny girls' profiles who fit in size XS bikinis. But my mind convinced me otherwise.

“Check it,” my brain told me, “Check it.” 

And like always, I did. 

All I could think while I scavenged models’ profiles was, why couldn’t I look like that? 

Why couldn’t I be skinny and petite? 

Why, Why, Why, Why… 

My mind was full of whys. 

A half-hour later, when I finally decided to do something productive with my time, I saw that I had thirty new messages from my ‘friends.’ 

Ten of them were messages from ‘friends’ who were ‘concerned’ about me. They claim they actually had an interest in knowing why I left school so abruptly yesterday. They pretended they wanted to ‘check-in’ and ‘see how I was doing.’ 

Most of those messages went something like this:

“Hey, June! Just wanted to see how you were doing after you stormed out of class yesterday. What happened?! Call me when you get this.”

Usually, my response goes something like:

“Oh yeah, sorry I didn’t text you sooner,” (I wasn’t planning on it) “Just had really bad cramps!” (Lie.)

The rest were from my ‘friend’ group. They were wondering if I wanted to hang out. 

For starters, the answer was no. To be honest, I could not assure you that they realized I stormed out of school yesterday. And if they did, I was one-hundred percent sure that they didn’t care. They probably didn’t even bat one false eyelash at my absence from the coveted place at their lunch table. 

Secondly, I was invisible to them. They did not even realize I was in the group chat. They didn’t even realize I was in their ‘friend’ group. They could have been gossiping about me right through the screen and not even realize I was on the other end sobbing about my loneliness. 

I felt like a ghost to the people who I was supposed to feel closest to. 

I felt like a jar full of empty promises and pointless small talk opened when convenient. 

Instead of expressing my painful feelings, I simply replied with a thumbs up and agreed to meet them at a local coffee shop for breakfast. Little did they know I was expressionless and empty on the other side of the facade I chose to portray. What a Gemini thing to say. 

Later on, that day, after I stared at my reflection for an hour, I tried to think of a reason why I was born into a shell of a body that didn’t represent who I was on the inside. I sauntered gloomily down the hallway of the apartment my mom and I shared. 

“Hi Sweetie!” she exclaimed with more energy than I could have ever mustered in my whole seventeen-year existence. 

“Hello,” I  managed to squeak with the confidence of a feeble mouse. 

You know how moms have a sixth sense? A sense which can determine when something is wrong with their children. Specifically their teenage daughters. Well, my Mom’s sixth sense is heightened by my depressive attitude. Honestly, every time I walked into a room I felt as if I ruined the positive vibes. Similar to being a giant hairball caught in a cat’s throat. Just waiting to be rejected by society. 

She stared me down using her sixth sense and apparently decided that I was fine to leave the house. That it is A-okay for her daughter to be seen in public with crusty foundation and a hunchback as a result of the constant anxiety that flowed through my mind and body. Of course. The one time I needed her guidance most, she didn't see it. It isn’t her fault though. It was my own fault for not conquering this monstrous beast that was eating me from the inside-out.

I grabbed my black coat that had a hole in the right pocket and was a size too small (shocker) and I was halfway out the door when my mom started her daily interrogation. 

“Where are you off to?” she asks.

“The Busy Bean,” I replied. It was a local coffee shop near my house. The owner, Mrs. Dwight was the sweetest, most compassionate person I knew. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. I had known her since before I could remember. This was most likely why I have been addicted to espresso since the age of thirteen. It pained me to know that she had seen me change from a loving, intelligent child into a horrible beast. Perhaps she still saw me as the promising young woman I was before. But I saw it differently. I knew deep down that she knew there was a radical shift that occurred the summer I turned fifteen. The summer when my life took a turn for the worst. It pained me to know that this old woman: a role model to me, practically made of honey and the sweet sap of roses on a warm August night, could see a daughter-figure grow farther apart from the life she once knew and the person she once was day by day. 

“With who?” an incredulous question I had grown familiar with. 

“Friends.” What a snarky reply from someone like me. Well, I guess that was me now. Not that I wanted it to be that way. 

My mother rolled her eyes and returned to typing rapidly on her Apple computer. Here is a woman who had worked herself to the bone to make a better life for her failure of a daughter. All I could do to repay her is spend her money on an overpriced (but delicious) cup of coffee and hang out with ‘bad influences’ who had rejected someone of their own kind. I proceeded out the door with the weight of guilt that only came from her disappointment. 

I opened the squeaky car door and I was shocked to see the smear of foundation across my face that did not match my pale skin tone. As well as the blue eyeshadow I spread on my eyelids that reminded me of a knock-off Britney Spears cosplay from the nineties. Not to mention the light pink lip gloss that somehow managed to travel onto the yellow enamel of my teeth. And let’s not forget the huge divots of pores like a golf ball that sprinkled my nose and forehead and were pooling with oil and grease, enough to make some delicious french fries. A thin layer of peach fuzz coated my bare skin and was visible through the thick layer of drugstore makeup I put on in an effort to look mildly presentable. I was foolish to think some eyeliner and mascara would solve all of my problems and vanish my insecurities. 

I decided to fish around in my thrifted purse for some makeup wipes. And no, the purse was not some cool, vintage, boujee Prada type that you could find on Pinterest. I laughed just thinking about it, my life was galaxies away from the perfect, Pinterest aesthetic. No, my bag was something much less, well, glamorous. I’m talking about an old, musty grandma bag that probably fit hundreds of hard candies back in the day. It was the only thing I could afford, so I guess it worked fine. 

I arrived at the cafe and noticed a group of girls huddled in the corner in a booth that usually held up to four people. Somehow they managed to squeeze at least six skinny bodies in. I wondered if their ribs hurt from being so close together. I also wondered if I actually belonged in a group such as this. You know, the discombobulated, strange, drop-out, stoner type? Inside I still felt like the little girl I was a few years ago, making science projects with small knick-knacks around the house and reading Harry Potter next to my mom on Sunday mornings watching the sunrise. Sometimes I wondered what I could have done differently...

I made my way over to the booth, not even trying to smush my body up against the mass of limbs cramped in the booth. All of them together probably equaled my whole body weight. I am greeted with nothing more than a small grunt that was probably caused by the upset when they saw that I showed up. I told you, they couldn't care less about me. 

I noticed that none, not one, of them had ordered anything off of the expansive menu. Wasn’t that the whole point? Or was that beneath them too? Now they were too cool to even order a cup of coffee? Classic. 

I was starving from not eating the day before, but to eat in front of people who were half the size of me was a nightmare. I couldn’t even bear the thought of taking a single sip of a beverage without dreading the calorie intake or the stares I would get from the thin folks in the restaurant. 

So I don’t. 

When I got home I was so hungry I could eat a horse. It is 12:45 P.M now. Yet my urge to resist the cravings did not overpower the emptiness of my stomach. I grabbed everything I could, cereal, chips, popcorn, pretzels, gummy bears, rootbeer, granola bars, etc. You name it, I ate it. 

Not even fifteen minutes later I could feel the bloat coming on, the gut-wrenching feeling of wanting to purge so badly. The impulse that was so familiar to me felt like second nature. 

I scrambled out of bed, surrounded by a heap of wrappers and torn-open boxes and into the bathroom. I stuck my fingers down my throat in hopes that all of my problems would disappear down the toilet drain. Unfortunately, nothing happened. I felt worse than before, ashamed even. 

“Why was I like this?”  I couldn’t help but think.

“What went wrong?” 

I grabbed my journal and laid flat on my stomach. In hopes that my stomach would miraculously flatten from the pressure of the carpet floor. 

Dear Journal, I wrote. 

That was all I wrote. Because my vomit could not travel as fast as the feelings that flowed through my heavy mind.

So, I laid, staring at the dusty floor while my mind traveled a thousand miles per minute. 

I thought, 

There was no escape to this endless tunnel that was my life. There was no simple way out. 

I hated my curves. I hated my stomach. I hated my life. 

I wished that I lived an aesthetic and happy life.  

I just wanted to be skinny and happy. 

And at that moment, I suddenly felt a surge of self-pity. I despised pity. 

But at that moment I also felt a sense of love for my mind and body, an emotion I had never experienced before. And I savored it. 

I realized that my mind was causing this hatred and feeling of worthlessness. That my body just wanted to be appreciated and I couldn’t even be there for myself. Much less for somebody else. 

You see, that feeling did not last long. In fact, it was probably a split-second experience that didn’t linger. It did not overwhelm all of my senses. And it definitely did not come back afterward. 

But that feeling, though only settling into my mind for the smallest bit of time,  felt like it lasted an eternity. I felt as though I was worth something more than just a shell of a body I lived in. That I was greater than the horrible thoughts I had about myself. That I, Juniper Lee, was loved and important. 

And that feeling, let me tell you, was better than imaginable. 

True, I did not, at that moment start adoring my love handles and every ounce of cellulite on my body. And I did not start kissing every inch of fat and I certainly did not wish it would stay linked to me for eternity.  

But it was so much more. So much better than that feeling could ever be. 

For once in my life, if only for a half-second, I loved myself. I mean, true, inexplicable, and undeniable admiration for every part of me. 

I finally accepted that my curves were not going to go away just by my constant loathing of them. 

That my pores would not shrink any smaller just by prodding and poking them. 

That my legs would not grow any longer or leaner just by flipping through images of models in Vogue.

But I also knew that I would never be content or satisfied in my life, nor did I want to be. 

Now if I told someone that I never wanted to be happy they would scoff and look at me as though I had a third eye. 

But I never said I didn’t want to be happy, I said I never wanted to be satisfied. As the Hamilton song goes. 

I never want to be satisfied with this life because there is so much more that I was capable of. So much more I wanted to explore. So much more I wanted to learn about myself and the world around me. 

So who cares if I have a little extra fat? Who cared if I didn’t have perfectly chiseled abs? Who cared that I looked different than the models walking the runway?

Don’t get me wrong, I was still battling the demons of anxiety and my detrimental eating habits. That was not going to disappear, as much as I wished it would, with a simple affirmation. 

But, what I had realized, but maybe not totally embraced, is this: 

We each have a limited amount of time on this earth. 

Most of us less than one hundred years. 

We think that we have time to keep pushing off our adventures. 

Procrastinating accomplishing our goals and dreams. 

By telling ourselves we can just,

 “Do it tomorrow.” 

And let me tell you, there is no light at the bottom of the tunnel you are digging yourself into with those habits. 

Hell, there is no guarantee you’ll even be here tomorrow. 

So, why should we live our lives in constant fear of others judging us?

Why should we join the group of our haters that will always be there? 

Most importantly, why should we live our lives ungrateful and unhappy when we could be enjoying every moment of it?

Now, I cannot tell you how to spend your life because I am not even sure what I want to do with my own.

But if you are reading this far, here is your ticket. Your ticket to go spend your life whatever way you want to. There is no doubt going to be people and things that will try to keep you from pursuing your dream life, but, “Snip!” There go the scissors that disconnect you from that nagging fear. 

I’m not perfect. Neither is my body. I will never be perfect. Not even close. While I am not free of self-doubt and worry, I know I have the power within myself to overcome anything and everything that I will face. 

And that, my friends, is the greatest power of all.