Sunshine girl

Warning: this story contains accounts of eating disorders and abuse. If you are easily triggered by these things, please consider not reading it.

The first time it was said to me was at birth, not even old enough to open my eyes. Swaddled in my mother’s arms, the words fall from her lips: “My sunshine girl.”

           I’ve heard stories of when I was still waddling around on two chubby legs, my hair sticking itself out like a wispy mane. I was always laughing and smiling. The world was my playground, and I could see everything through a lens filled with light.

           I have no recollection of the hospital bed but panic and confusion seemed to strike hard. With every needle, every draw of blood, time seemed to slow down. I was oblivious to all of the serious connotations that went with my new chronic illness because I was so young that all I could ever really hold onto was the pain. I can imagine my mother pulling me into her arms, her eyes soaked wet with tears, whispering, “It’s going to be okay…my sunshine girl.”

My life wouldn’t be as simple as my mother had hoped for it to be.

In my mind then, life was still simple. All I worried about was which color of crayon to use for my crude depiction of the sun. I went to school with my mind open to new possibilities and creative plans. I was shy at times, but to those who really knew me, I was charismatic and bright-eyed. Illness just seemed to weave into the wave of brightness that still radiated from me. Innocence held onto me tightly.

           Years later, I danced back and forth across from a studio mirror that seemed to stare me up and down. Not fat but not quite “thin”, I still compared myself to the elegant, long-legged girl moving next to me. I had tried in agony for years already, but it didn’t seem to matter. I realized that I would never look “ideal”. The less I ate, the harder life became. Returning home to the bathroom, I weighed myself like one would a sack of potatoes in the self-checkout line of a grocery store, dreading if the scale tipped over a little more.

You might as well just starve.  

Coming home from a sixteen-hour whirlwind, I found it hard to breathe. I reached for something to eat in the fridge but stop suddenly. Tears threatened to escape my eyes again. I painfully recall the events of that day, hoping with all my heart to play that beautiful role in the musical that year, only to hear that I just “didn’t fit the part”. No more insulin injections, because insulin equals fat. Months seemed to roll on and on with waves of uncontrolled sickness, digging the hole deeper and deeper. Self-hatred and depression bubbled inside me. But I had to shake it off. It was all in my head, and there wasn’t anything wrong with me. After all, I needed to be that “sunshine girl”.

I felt myself wade in a pool of molasses with every passing day. Unwanted attention shoved himself in front of me. I can still feel the anxiety from when practice started to when it ended like I was slowly being boiled alive. I can still feel him lurking there, his eyes undressing me. It was moments like this where I resented the fact that God made me a woman. Grabbing my hand forcefully, he asked, “You scared of me?” Yes. It was years down the road when I saw abuse for what it was. In those moments I was an object, like a rag doll or a throw rug. You can’t say anything really. Technically it wasn’t rape, why are you making it such a big deal?

           I shoved it down deep, so far that I couldn’t bear to reach. For years no one knew- not my family or my friends. The concept of trust slowly faded away for me, because no one understood. How could they? And if I did open my mouth and speak, would they really care to listen? As far as I could see, vulnerability and trust were pointless delusions.

In a college dorm, I put on eyeliner for the first time in ages. Another night and another strong attempt to find a connection. But for some reason, I knew it would be just like all of the other ones: left feeling used, misunderstood, and manipulated. My heart wasn’t just closed off at that point, it was put in a safe that had I lost the key to. Every time I tried to break it open, I would be reminded why the box was made of titanium.

So, where was the sunshine?

The rays that I so desperately tried to catch and keep were just that-rays. I couldn’t seem to make them stay even if I begged. I sat in darkness. The “sunshine girl” seemed to be just a figment of imagination.

           Yet…I remember being a little older and speaking in a language that I had barely learned. The humid heat suffocated my neck as I walked through a concrete jungle day after day. I noticed my missionary nametag shine in the sunlight as I walked. Some days were easier than others, but there was always something that made my heart beat again.

           One night, I retreated to a familiar home and a familiar face. A small, aged but beautiful brown-skinned woman stood in front of me. She spoke very few words, but her expressions spoke for her. She looked at my worn, troubled face with a light so familiar. She gently took my hands into hers and said only three words:

“You are beautiful.”

These three words that I had heard before, but never allowed myself to believe. Warmth seeped through me from vein to vein. I didn’t look “ideal”. I did not have money, a degree, or a ring on my finger. I was still sick. I still felt broken, and the past couldn’t be erased. They were scars that no one could see. But at that moment, the rays started to seep in through the cracks. Her voice held power, surety, and strength. And at that moment, it was like a God, a father, was speaking to me.

“You are still beautiful…my sunshine girl.”

Today, I am still beautiful.