Then, I really started thinking. Why do I write an online blog that anyone at all could read? Why do I want to share stories and be a semi-open book? . . . .
When I was 6, I started illegibly writing in a multi-colored
diary that had a lock….and a universal key. I had lots of hiding places: my
caboodle, under my baby doll bed’s blanket, or under all of my beanie babies
(remember those!?). I would write down exactly how many inches it was away from
the corner of a shelf, how many things were stacked on top of it, just whatever
I could do to make sure no one had opened my secret diary.
I came up with code words, signed my name with pretend
names, and made up stories of things that happened to anyone who opened my
diary…and wrote them down for suspicious eyes to read. I was absolutely and
completely obsessed with keeping my secrets, secret.. no matter how big or small they were.
After a few years of not writing, I got a journal for a
birthday gift. A journal. No more diary. This journal didn’t have a lock on it,
so I was very hesitant to invest my time in writing in it---but I decided to
just find better hiding places. The front of the journal had tweety bird on it;
I really hated that bird. He just got on my nerves and birds have always given
me a small fright. I decided it was going to have to do because I knew better
than asking my parents to buy me a new journal (wasn’t trying to let them know
I was actually going to start writing in it).
I spent hours sitting with my dog, Lucy, just writing. You’d
think my handwriting would have improved with all the writing I did-not one
bit. I figure I thought it would make it harder for others to read it...or
something. My parents would say, “what are you writing about? Go outside and
play! Can I read it? Hope your handwriting is getting better!” I stared at them
and told them please leave. I was terrified of them reading the words I wrote
down. I would cry and cry when I would find out someone moved my journal or
when my mom would beg me to let her read. I started bringing it with me
everywhere I went. I had become a slave to the belief system of keeping
everything to myself. Never telling anyone about my fears, feelings, or thoughts. Ever. I was too embarrassed.
I stopped writing in my journal one summer when I was about
11. My dad threatened to take it away from me if I didn’t start eating my
entire dinner. Meal time became a nightmare and getting to write wasn’t worth
the torture that meals created. I was so angry. Every night became a screaming
match and would end with one parent outside drinking from that blue glass, one
parent reading the paper, and my brother locked away in his room. Lucy and I
would lay in my bed, hungry (well, not her, she ate my suppers) wondering why I
would get so upset and why couldn't I just eat my dinner.
When I was about 9, the horrible, horrible phone calls or instant messages (AOL, ZxCoRtNeYxZ, so cool) started. A select few girls telling me things like, “you know you are a lesbian because you told
____she was pretty.” (side note: I was 12 and there is nothing wrong with being a lesbian, but I am not, and was so confused by said comment). They would make comments about my body. How funny it was that I didn't have boobs..that it made me look like a boy (jokes on them, now...hahaha). I was devastated. I had no idea why
they would say such things to me..all the time. Didn't they knew how much I already hated my body? Why couldn't they understand I didn't need their mean jokes to already feel so bad. I didn't tell anyone. I just wrote about it..in those journals I protected so.
I never told anyone (until years later)…except my beloved journal. I would look
at myself in the mirror and cry. I hated everything I saw. All the things I had
already struggled with were magnified x1,000. How ironic...that I despised these individuals
so much…but I wanted to be just like them? I just wanted to feel better about me.
“What makes you
angry?” I was recently asked. It was an interesting question. I don’t get angry
too often. It’s just a waste of time and frankly, it is terribly uncomfortable
to be around.
I have grown so much from the days of hiding
at home on weekends because I was so scared to be around people for fear that they
would make fun of me, think I was ugly, or talk about me behind my back. I try
to believe that people don’t mean to be awful. And often times, I think they
are just so sad that they can’t help but radiate negativity. But what makes me so angry...is when I think about all the girls (boys, too, I just don't know much about those creatures) who hate their bodies and who they are because someone taught them to feel that way.
Without hard times, we wouldn’t be where we are….which is right where we are
supposed to be. Everyday I want to make a difference to someone. . no matter how small of a difference. In my perfect world, we would all have enough strength and belief in ourselves that we could treat others-and ourselves-with respect.
And that is why I write. It’s my saving grace. I know every
day there are way way way too many girls who believe the horrible lies people
tell them. Girls who sacrifice the opportunity to love their flaws, all of
them, but instead despise the body they have been blessed with because they believe that’s
their only option. I write because I believe
e v e r y thing happens for a reason . I believe in helping someone who doesn’t think anyone else could ever understand. And if my only contribution to someone is sharing my story and not being embarrassed by it, then that’s what I’m going to do. No matter who knows. . because I'm not embarrassed.
e v e r y thing happens for a reason . I believe in helping someone who doesn’t think anyone else could ever understand. And if my only contribution to someone is sharing my story and not being embarrassed by it, then that’s what I’m going to do. No matter who knows. . because I'm not embarrassed.
Grateful to be entirely me,
Cortney
