Somebody

I always wanted to be somebody. Having felt like nobody and nothing for most of my life. Yet strangely I was always compelled, to try and be, and aspire to somebody.

Always told that I was smart when young, but that I didn’t apply myself, didn’t smile enough, and didn’t know how to get on with people.

My math was bad, my spelling atrocious, I was lazy, I was moody, I was nosy, I was judgemental, I was prideful, I was impulsive, I was over-enthusiastic, under enthusiastic, angry, and sad.

I was too thin, too fat, dressed too revealing, dressed too plain, my ass was too small, my ass was too big.

My boobs too sexy, but then too large like a fishmonger's wife.

My mother said to me once, that I looked like a fishmonger's wife when I was young and much thinner than I am now.

Oh, you are so heavy she said, I worry about you having strokes, you look like a fishmonger's wife. Your feet hit heavy. Boom, boom. Boom boom, boom, she said laughing.

You better be careful, use it before you lose it.

I guess this was all said in encouragement, or that is what was claimed. When I think of it now, how trim I was, and healthy, and how cunty her words were. . .but then I took her words as gospel, and while they hurt, I thought they weren’t intentional.

That my finding cruelty in her words was my fault, my lack, my misread.