Read Online Secrets of a Former Fat Girl by Lisa Delaney - Free Book Online

on me. I was prancing, bathing in the limelight, completely ignorant of any imperfections in my step and oblivious to the way I looked as I bobbed along. My parents watched, encouraging, approving. I made it a point to avoid glancing in my brothers’ direction; I knew they’d do anything—stick their tongues out, thumb their noses, moon me—to make me mess up.
    As it turned out, I didn’t need them to sabotage my performance. I took care of that by myself. All of a sudden, right before the big finish, it happened: My black patent Mary Janes slipped out from under me on the slick floor, and I fell— smack —right on my butt. I sat there a minute, too stunned to cry. I could feel my face burning with shame. My brothers dissolved into laughter, unable to restrain themselves. And who could blame them? This was almost as good as a front-row seat at a Three Stooges show.
    My mother lunged to help me up. I pushed her away angrily and struggled to my feet. Dad was yelling at my brothers to shut up as I ran to my room, tears filling my eyes.
    There I was, full of myself, performing, putting myself out there (even if it was just for my family). I had allowed myself to shine like never before, and what did I get for it? I ended up on my ass and in tears, the butt of a family joke for years to come.
    From then on, the last thing I wanted was to be in the spotlight. I wasn’t safe there. I didn’t know how to laugh it off. I didn’t have the strength to set my jaw, dust off my bruised backside, and try again. Why risk that kind of pain when you can stay in the shadows, on the sidelines, a comfortable, content nobody?
    Oh, I suffered through the class recital, of course. I was too much of a good girl to make a stink and quit. During the performance, I shrunk back into the second row, tapping very tentatively, too afraid to let myself go and enjoy the moment. Once the dance ordeal was over, I receded further into my imagination, into my books, into my own little world. As young as I was, I knew exactly what I was doing. No way was I going to give my brothers, my family— anybody —a reason to laugh at me. I’d show them. I would disappear .
    It’s not like I ever ran away or anything (that’s not a good-girl thing, either), but I began disappearing, hiding, emotionally and physically. I simply stopped trying. I stopped trying to be heard in a household of constant noise and interruption. I stifled my interest in any kind of after-school activities. I abandoned any effort to pull myself out of my comfort zone, the safety of my own inner world.
    Only part of my motive was self-preservation. The other part was the childish hope that someone would see my pain and rescue me from it. Like the runaway who secretly wishes for her parents to come after her, I yearned for mine to recognize my silent protest. I was trying to make a point, to let my family know (my parents in particular) how much the ridicule hurt me, to shame them for shaming me .
    I actually devised a test for the family, a little game of hide-and-seek. I was the hider; they were the seekers. But here’s the trick: They didn’t know they were playing. They were supposed to notice my absence and become concerned enough to come looking for me. The problem was that no one ever did. I’d hole up behind one of the burnt orange and gold chairs in the forbidden living room, waiting to hear, “Has anybody seen Lisa? Where could she be?” Instead, the household clicked along without me, never noticing my absence. I’d give it about an hour—which seemed like forever—and then I’d resurface, going back to my books or my Barbies as if nothing had happened, all the while aching inside.
    Sad, wasn’t it? And I’m just getting started.
    I struggled to conceal my emotions, afraid of being teased and laughed at. Crying was a big no-no. I remember when the movie Brian’s Song was on TV for the