The Shackled Monster

I remember the first time I was made aware of my own insecurities.

I was 12 years old—young, quirky, frizzy-haired and eager. I was no beauty queen, but I told good stories and made people laugh. Middle school was never friendly toward me, to say the least. More than anything, I wanted to be liked. So, naturally, I tried out for the cheerleading squad. After all, those girls with their straight blonde hair and thin legs squeezed into elastic uniforms were the true stars of the show. I wanted in.

Low and behold I made the squad as a rising seventh grader. I remember the day like it was yesterday. I saw that list, my name printed clearly towards the bottom, a shining beacon in the murky night that is middle school. Squeals of excitement and triumph erupted into a chorus of praise—I had made it. I was in. I was going to be liked, maybe even admired.

That next day the new cheer squad arrived at school for uniform fitting. I remember joining the group of green bean tweeners by the door, desperate to find a gap in conversation where I might insert my awkward self. The girls stared past me with disinterest and gossiped among themselves about boys and who had kissed who at the movies that weekend. I drifted towards the back, my spirits still high. Nothing could steal my pride in this moment. I was a cheerleader—I was invincible.

A line formed outside the hallway. Girls in groups entered the room to be measured by a seamstress waiting within. I counted the tiles on the floor and read the graffiti that littered the lockers to pass the time. The white washed walls stared back at me, egging me on, routing for the under dog. Time passes slowly when you have nothing but the space around you and your own thoughts to make conversation with.

Looking back on this moment, I wonder why middle school Carly ever thought her identity wold be solidified by squeezing herself into an elastic uniform and making friends with girls who made fun of her behind her back. I liked Harry Potter and gardening and playing in the creek being my house. Waving pom poms and flirting with boys was never a forte of mine.

And, yet. It was all I longed for in that moment of my young life.

Finally my time had come. I entered the room with two other girls. I don't remember who it was that came in with me, but it doesn't matter. As far as I'm concerned, all those girls looked the same- thin, lean and stiff. The seamstress's eyes fell on my frame first. I puffed out my chest.

Yep, that's right lady. I made the squad. I'm ready to be accepted.

She smiled back at me. "Ah, yes. Finally we have a normal-sized girl to work worth."

The words slipped from her mouth with ease, as if she was completely unaware that her sentence had suddenly made me aware of a broken piece of me that continues to shatter even today as a 20-year-old.

"Normal-sized."

I knew what that meant. I wasn't stupid. I read books and played in the back yard and loved school. I knew that normal sized meant bigger than everyone else. It meant I was different, suddenly ostracized from the others. I knew that despite what that paper had to say about me making the squad, I never was truly going to be a part of something like that looking the way I did. Something had to change.

I left that day with tears in my eyes and a newfound discovery of self-hatred. I don't blame the seamstress. She didn't say what she did with mal intent. She merely pulled back the black sheet that hid the growing monster within that constantly tells me I'm not enough, that I'm too fat and too ugly and too ordinary to be loved.

To this day I have struggled with an eating disorder that leaves a path of destruction in it's wake behind my footsteps. Some days are better than others. Who am I kidding, some hours are better than others. With time, hurt and counseling, I've come a long way. The monster has been shackled, but it still roars within, fighting to be heard, fighting to make me feel like I don't belong.