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Chapters (67)
  1. Big Boned
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. One Month Later
  60. Acknowledgments
  61. About the Author
  62. Copyright
  63. About the Publisher
  64. Backad 1
  65. Backad 2
  66. Backad 3
  67. Backad 4

My lungs were on fire and I’d tried to come up for air, I really had . . . at first. But every time I did, a strong hand forced me back down. First hand, Bradley. Second hand, Mandla. Third, Johan. Forth, Bradley again. Pushing my head back underwater, again and again and again until I stopped fighting, gave up, and let myself sink deeper.

And in that moment of giving up, an unexpected feeling of calm washed over me, and I remember thinking that I could just close my eyes now and let go. It would be so easy. It would be a matter of moments until the blackness came and swallowed me up, and then I would never have to hear the teasing again. See their taunting faces. Listen to their jeers and manic cackles, the venomous words they spat at me on a daily basis. Words that cut through me like blades, leaving me red and raw and bloody.

I’ve never told anyone that before. That I let go like that and no longer fought. That I was quite happy to watch those laughing faces above me vanish entirely. Not even Dr. Finkelstein, who would probably read something into it that wasn’t there. Or was it there? Sometimes I think about that moment and wonder why I was so okay with it all ending like that. I could have tried harder to swim away, I could have fought harder with my nails and teeth. But I didn’t. I went under and stayed under.

A teacher finally jumped in and pulled me out, and when I opened my eyes again, I was back in the world I thought I was going to leave behind. That was when all my panic started and my parents sent me to therapy. The kids got suspended only for three days over that, but my suspension has lasted years. Because even though that moment physically ended, it has never really left me. It’s always inside, lurking just below the surface. Waiting to pull me back under again. The only thing that got me through those years was art—sorting through all the pain and anger and fear, and rearranging it all into beautiful brushstrokes. Tears mixing into the paint from all the crying, blood mixing in from me pulling at my cuticles in utter panic.