1
Alina
My bully and I were first introduced in October. I had just turned thirteen the week before. And it wasn’t by accident, either. It was a consensual, premeditated meeting. My intentions were clear; Hers were not so transparent.
Part of me had been somewhat aware for years of the bully that had been lurking in the back of my mind. Waiting. Growing—with each negative comment or attack slung my way—waiting for the opportunity to come to the forefront and let herself be known. I was simply looking for control. But She was looking for a victim.
It may have been a conscious decision that led me to her, but if I’d have known the hellishness I was about to unleash upon myself, or how one split-second decision would impact my life like a torpedo, I’d have done things differently that night.
Cheesecake.
It was my favourite, but I was full.
So, I made room.
Out of spite, and the need to gain control.
Lucky and I had been living with our Aunt Liz and Uncle Virgil ever since our parents had “passed away” (as we’d been trained to say) three years earlier. It wasn’t the best situation, but it was okay because at least I had my brother, and that was all that mattered to me.
Like my mom, Aunt Liz—Mom’s sister—wasn’t my biggest fan, and it was made clear early on. A perfectionist to a fault, she was never one to show affection to others, especially me. Always dolled up and immaculately dressed, my Aunt Liz role modelled how a woman should look and act when not behind closed doors. I had often wondered what my mother might have said to Liz to cause her to so easily pick up the fallen reins and continue my mom’s tradition of treating me as if I were the most disgusting thing she’d ever seen, acting as if I could never uphold her standards.
It had quickly become clear to me that my aunt had her own issues; Liz was a control freak, too, dictating what my uncle wore and which friends my cousin Dean could associate with. When it came down to it, everything had to have the Elizabeth McQueen stamp of approval. Especially me.
Initially, things seemed fine. I thought Lucky and I would finally be a part of a loving family, and was relieved to be living with my aunt, my uncle, and Dean, rather than us being placed in a foster home. I longed to have a mother again. Unfortunately for me, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, because it seemed that no matter what I did to try and please my aunt, I could never get the approval I longed for so badly. Maybe there was truly something wrong with me.
It began with Aunt Liz’s subtle comments about my weight, and how I needed to be careful how much I ate or I’d let the world know what large meals I was eating in the form of my growing tits and ass. Or how, one night when I’d poured myself a glass of chocolate milk, maybe I should start getting up at five in the morning every day to go to her aerobics class with her because my waist was getting sloppy. Then, admonishing me a few weeks later with a disapproving look at my bowl when the family was finishing making ice cream sundaes to celebrate Dean’s baseball team winning the championship. I was eleven, and had just added some whipped cream and chocolate syrup to mine, but not nearly as much as Lucky and Dean had put on theirs. Yet, for some reason, I’d been the only one on the receiving end of her disgusted look.
As time passed, the comments and not-so-passive ways of telling me to watch what I ate got worse. I was denied seconds at dinner. I was offered only a small portion of oats and fruit—matching the serving Aunt Liz ate at the breakfast table each morning—while I watched Lucky and Dean eating all the sugary cereal they pleased. My aunt’s concern that I might “balloon out at any minute” became her stated motivation. Despite being an average-sized girl for my age, I’d always been made to see myself as being destined to be a “fatty”, and it seemed it was Liz’s new lot in life to ensure I didn’t let myself go, that I stay lean and fit; her version of perfect.
Over the next couple of years, the put-downs about my size came more frequently, and then comments about my looks became the norm.
A scale was given to me for my twelfth birthday.
The jeans I’d wanted so badly for Christmas were given to me two sizes too small.
New diets for me to try were suggested, and then a tutor was brought in to hopefully help rid me of my stupidity and laziness.
Aunt Liz’s special brand of nastiness was always reserved especially for me. Sure, my Uncle Virgil and the boys got some of her wrath, but in less intrusive ways. And it was rarely about their weight or the way they looked. How they dressed, yes, and sometimes about their acne, but they were never subjected to the constant barrage of displeasure that I was. It was often done in private or in passing hisses, comments, and leers, and the blatant disdain was always plain as day on Aunt Liz’s face, aimed right at me whenever opportunity knocked.
“Don’t sit there with your mouth hanging open. You look like a trout.”
“Please, Alina, refrain from bulldozing the food into your mouth. It’s a fork, not a shovel. Lord help you.”
“Alina, look at yourself. You cannot possibly wear those pants, your back fat is practically hanging over the waistband. Change into something else before you embarrass us all.”
Avoidance was a strategy I began to adopt—and eventually mastered—over my years living with the McQueens. Never wanting to rock the boat, I kept it all inside, never telling Lucky what was being said. He’d already done so much for me, and he seemed happy now. He and Uncle Virgil were close, and Lucky and Dean had become inseparable, out partying, drinking, and dating “Liz-approved” girls. Lucky had enrolled in Air Cadets, and was leaving for military activities more and more often, having finally found his way after our parents’ death. He was smiling again, and that was all I ever wanted for him.
So, instead of opening up to him about Aunt Liz, I became a circus act, mastering the art of walking on eggshells during family gatherings so I didn’t draw attention to myself, always treading especially lightly when Liz was near. Especially when I didn’t want to hear again how useless I was, or how it was no wonder that my mother had turned to drinking. Even though Uncle Virgil was nice to me, I worried that if I told him what was happening, he would be forced to take his wife’s side and turn against me (because she’s his wife and he’s stuck with her forever, so it would be much easier to simply eject me, the interloper, from the home) and I might lose the only kindly parental figure I had. I also worried that he wouldn’t believe me, since Aunt Liz always abused me on the down low. I also stressed that even if he did believe me, and even if he did choose to try to help me, that Aunt Liz might turn on him the way my mother had turned on my dad, and he’d be powerless to help me at all, which was terrifying. Then there were the thoughts of Aunt Liz going so far as killing him and then herself, like my mom did, which also crossed my mind. Which would once again leave not only Lucky and me with nowhere to go, but also Dean. And it would be all my fault for telling.
As the years passed, the comments became worse, and I started to believe them. Over time, my mind became so fatigued at struggling to disbelieve the comments that after a while, the dam just broke, and all the comments hit me, piercing my heart. Hearing the same things often enough, over and over, had the effect of almost brainwashing me, and I started believing there must be some truth to what Aunt Liz was saying, even if I didn’t want to believe those things about myself. There’s an unstoppable power that lies within such negative comments—an unparalleled ability to grow and root themselves deep in your soul in spite of whatever superhuman efforts you try to put in place to protect yourself. There comes a point where it’s impossible not to give in.
“You’re not worth the effort, Alina. Really, I wonder sometimes why we took you in at all,” Aunt Liz would say disapprovingly at breakfast, as she gave the outfit I’d chosen that day a not-too-impressed once-over, an outfit I didn’t match or accessorize quite like she would have.
My stupidity was reiterated at report card time, when I’d come home with a mix of a few A’s and mostly B’s that would make most parents proud. Virgil, yes, but never Aunt Liz.
Never her.
“This isn’t good enough. Not by a long shot, Alina. You want to end up as a lazy-ass cashier at the dollar store? Keep up bringing home grades like this, sweetheart. Go right ahead. Average is for losers, you’ll fit right in.”
Aunt Liz made me put in extra hours of study every night at the dinner table, while Lucky and Dean sat—with B’s and C’s, at best—playing video games for hours or hanging out with their friends.
As I hit puberty and developed more pronounced curves, Aunt Liz’s attacks became more focused and direct.
“Do you really think you should be eating that? That ass of yours will need its own postal code soon,” she’d say when I was looking for something sweet to snack on.
“All that food is going to go straight to your waistline…and nobody likes a fatty,” she’d hiss, staring at my dinner plate.
“Don’t eat so much, Alina, you’re already heavier than most of your friends. We obviously need to start taking more classes at the gym,” she’d say under her breath, when I’d ask for seconds.
I weighed 116 pounds. According to Ms. Fazzari, my physical education and health teacher, the average weight for girls my age and height fell in the range of 82 to 138 pounds. So, I thought I was average…until I didn’t.
“You fat bitch, tell me you aren’t thinking you can try out for the talent show? Honestly, singing? Trust me, Alina, no one wants to see all that up onstage under the bright lights. I refuse to have you once again embarrass me, so forget it.”
We all have a breaking point.
Mine came when I was thirteen years old, on Thanksgiving Day.
That’s when I fell victim to the worst bully I’d ever meet; worse than my Aunt Liz, worse than my mother, even. It all began over a delectable slice of pumpkin cheesecake…