From 9/5/08, "Spartacus"

Perhaps you should know what kind of person I really am. I think that you should know, that you didn't know me at all. And to your credit, this is in no way your fault. It's because I'm secretive and rarely tell anyone anything. Least of all the truth.

First of all, you should know that I have and have had an eating disorder for three years now. If you've read through this book, you may have already picked up on that. I've had image distortion problems since I was in fifth grade, and had no one person in my life model an air of physical confidence that could have shaken my disillusion, my dysmorphia. M was never comfortable enough in her own skin to explain to me that while you may not like certain parts of your body, there's no reason to hate everything. That we can't just be brains on skeletons walking about. That we are what we eat, eat accordingly. And D, he wasn't there. My eating problems are MY eating problems, and I refuse to blame anyone but myself.

I remember the very first time I ever felt ugly. During lunchtime in 5th grade, after we would send our trays out to the dishwasher, we would file to the back of the gym by class, until everyone's lunch shift was over. As per usual, I sat with my best friends Colin and Eric. We were the top 3 intellectuals in our class that year and inseparable in every regard. We published our own periodical, "Weirdo's Monthly," and submitted its grotesque and obscure columns, comics, and gonzo-esque journalistic endeavors to our teacher. Much to her chagrin, I think she relished in our tedious efforts and always indulged us the first read.

So, during the downtime after lunch one day, our minds were somewhere in the realm of the future articles for our publication, when the topic shifted to the subject of female classmate rating and dateability. Whereas poorly-drawn comics had been my forte, this was hardly a conversation in which I was qualified to contribute. What - me in my oversized "Don't Worry Be Happy" smiley-faced t-shirt, Arizona stone-washed jeans (probably a size 10), and my pink Chuck Taylors. What did I care about dateability? I was still queen of the jungle gym, and 4-square champion of the universe. I remember falling silent, as one by one Colin and Eric ranked my fellow female classmates on a scale of 1-10. 1 being a "hell-no" and 10 being a solid "doable" (whatever that meant at age 12.)

Brandi: 7
Beth: 9
Cori: 2
Becky: 1
Shaylin: 6
Brittney: 8

And then... there was Ashley. The buxom brunette, gifted with nature's pubescent acceleration. The girl-next-door who teetered on the edges of tomboy and fantasy. The dream girl. The masturbatory vision. The 10.

"But we left you out," said Eric, as both boys finally looked me over, assessed every atom of my being.

"I'm sorry," laughed Colin, "but Ashley is much prettier than you."

And how was I to argue? Perfect teeth, straight salon-cut bangs, and already wearing the trademark black and gold letterman jacket. A 10.

"No, no. I totally agree," I ruminated, suddenly drawing my knees to my chest to cover the spare tire around my waist. Straightening my back so my love-handles retreated back into my consumer-brand jeans. Rubbing the skin of my neck back so that only one chin connected to a makeshift jawline. Smiling close-lipped so that my crooked teeth no longer offended.

"She's just so pretty."

"She's skinny."

"She's... I mean... wow..."

A 10.

It no longer mattered if I was beautiful in my parents' eyes. Inner beauty - what was was inner beauty compared to physical perfection? What did boys think of me? How did I look in their eyes? Did anyone consider me a 10? The truth of the matter is that I never considered the consequences of developing early. That Ashley's assets were most likely exploited to gain rapid popularity among the horny generation of my 5th grade classmates. She later ended up being a redneck slut that fell from beauty queen to trailer trash. But, no matter her outcome, my feelings of inferiority would forever stick. The seed was planted that day: that I was unattractive by comparison, and could no longer see myself through my own eyes. While the charming effects of Ashley being the most popular girl in junior high inevitably waned, now as a 20-something, I still let the impotent ratings of 2 cases of adolescent lust govern my self-image.

That was the day I became self-conscious.