I am a young lady that grew up without a father. I would watch enviously as friends celebrated father’s day, wishing I could do the same. I remember spending hours imagining my father coming back and telling me how he has missed me in his life. I imagined conversations and holidays that I knew would never happen. I could not fathom why I was never good enough for him to call daughter. If I am not good enough for my father, how will I be good enough for anyone else?
This began my journey to self-loathing. As an eight-year-old, I would spend hours drawing circles around the areas I wanted to change. As more and more people around me commented about my weight and unattractive features, I began to obsess about my image. I moved from dreaming about plastic surgery to experimenting with ways to lose weight. People around me were too busy to realize that I had begun experimenting with diet pills, binging and purging, and starving myself for days on end. All I could think about was being skinny. Maybe if I was smaller, I would be sexier. Maybe if I was skinnier, more people would love me. Maybe if I was skinnier, my father would come back…My strong desire to be loved strained my relationship with food, and began to take a toll on my mind. I would find myself crying for hours on end, not even sure what I was crying about. I began hiding from the world, thinking of ways to give myself an early exit. At that moment I did not realize that I was suffering from depression. In all honesty, I thought that’s how life worked: some people deserved happiness, and some didn’t. I was one of those that didn’t deserve it. I was not popular, and I didn’t fit in with anyone in my family. I was a constant outcast, and this pushed me into further isolation.
My isolation made me desperate. I wanted someone, anyone to love me. I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere. So I clung on to the first sign of love that presented itself to me. It always came in the form of an abusive relationship, but that didn’t matter to me. I allowed people to cheat, because at least they would come back to me. I justified the physical abuse, blaming myself for saying or doing the wrong thing. I endured the emotional and psychological torture, because at least I was not alone. Any attention I received was better than nothing at all. I would run away from any “good guy” because someone like me didn’t deserve anything good.
Today, I’m a work in progress. I still have food issues that make me border on an eating disorder. After six different combinations, I have found antidepressants that are helping to pull me out of the dark shadows of my mind. I still find myself afraid of relationships, scared that I might end up in more abusive relationships. I try to keep my mind occupied with small happy thoughts, which will one day lead me to some form of happiness.
Ros keeps a blog at memoirsofavirginprostitute.blogspot.com.
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