Our blood is the same.

Goodmorning!

After I reread what I wrote in the last post, I have the sudden urge to make some things clear.

1. My parents are the best parents I could have. The fact that they don't know everything is entirely up to me.
2. I kindof have a good life. Compaired to other stories that I read the past couple of days, I was blessed.
3. This blog won't be all demons and such. I promise.


That being cleared up, I want to tell you about my family.


My mom and dad are happily married. I think for almost 25 years now, but I'm not too sure. They always forget their anniversary, so I don't really have a clue.

Twenty-one years ago, they had my sister, Inne (pronounced In, like INside + na: Inne)
Sixteen months and twelve days later, they had me.

My sister and I were never close. I don't know if there's a real reason for it, since I don't remember much from my childhood. What I do know is, that we fought. A lot.

We argued about silly things, that were meaningful at the time. Who could have the last cookie. Who could handle the remote control. Unimportant things.

Those things would become the trigger for fighting. As in real fighting. Kicking. Slapping. Scratching. Hair-pulling. Pinching. The whole ordeal.



When we wouldn't literally fight, we would argue. Scream at each other. Normally I would say that it was better than fighting. Normally being the key-word.

You see, when I was younger, I wasn't as verbally strong as I am now. My sister knew the exact remarks that would make me shut up, and therefore, she would win.

She would say anything to win.


One time, she said I was fat. Seeing the reaction that was provoced from me, she used it in all our arguments. For the rest of my childhood.

That basically meant that she would tell me I was fat, at least once every other day.



It was always clear to me that I was chubbier than my sister. It wasn't supposed to be like that, you know? The younger sister shouldn't weigh more than the older.

But I did, and it killed me. No matter how many times my mother told me I wasn't fat, I wouldn't believe it.
I weighed more than my sister did, and I was smaller then her. Therefore, I was fat.


My sister knew that weight was (and still is) a soor subject for me. But I don't think she knew what impact her words had.

I have to believe that. That she didn't deliberately hurt me.


When I grew older, the baby fat disappeared. Well, not exactly all of it, but my figure seemed to make more sense.
During high-school, I was actually pretty toned. Not that you would ever catch me saying, or even thinking that.

I rode my bike to school, every day. High school was 10 kilometres away from my house. So, that would make 20 kilometres of bikeriding, every day. 100 kilometres a week.

So yes, toned. But I still compared myself to other girls in my class. Girls that were slimmer than me, but also smaller. I never took that into consideration. I always just believed that I was fat.

Whenever someone would make a joke about me, goodnaturedly, I laughed along with them. But on the inside, I took that joke as the truth.

When I was sixteen, I started hanging out with a group of friends that made a habit out of putting you on the spot. Verbally.
In the beginning of our friendship, I couldn't respond. Never. Not to one single remark.

Somehow, I grew in that. I could actually turn the remark around, so that attention was off me. They somehow taught me to stand up for myself, verbally. Something I was never able to do.
They made it clear to me that although the jokes were funny, they weren't true.

How they made that clear to me, I have no idea. It wasn't something that was literally said. More like something that could be concluded from their actions.



In the meanwhile, my sister was still using my weight as a way to win an argument. When I finally responded, she was shocked. She scrambled to find something else to gain her win.
And it was suddenly clear to me. She never really meant the words. She just spoke them, without really noticing the meaning behind them.

I'm sure she knew that the words hurt me. Every time she spoke them. But I don't think she knew to what extent.



Before that became clear to me, I tried different things to lose weight. I only drank water and cut away all sodas, I would cut back on meat, I wouldn't eat sweets,...
But everytime my mother noticed these changes in my diet, she would throw a fit. Claiming that I didn't need to lose any weight.


She took me to our doctor. Hoping that he could make me understand that I had a healthy weight.
He tried. And maybe I believed him. For a second. Until I saw another girl, who was my age and slimmer than I was.



I remember watching a documentary about anorexia and bulemia with my mother. I don't think she noticed the internal battle I was fighting. Maybe she thought it would do me good. Seeing the disease.

For a moment, I considered it. Starving myself. Never bulemia.
My mind instantly threw that out of consideration. It was a waste of food. I couldn't throw up, deliberately. I hated throwing up when I was sick. I couldn't do it every day.

But during that mental argument, the fact that it's a disease never crossed my mind.

So I thought about anorexia. But I knew instantly that I just didn't have the willpower to cut out all my food. And I knew that my mother would notice instantly.


Luckily, it made me change my mind. It wasn't a possibility anymore. For the wrong reasons, yes, but I was one of the lucky girls.



The group that I hung out with, the one that taught me how to stand up for myself, was based on one thing.

Soccer.

All the boys in the group were soccerplayers. On the same team. So the girls went to watch every game.
I became friends with other boys on the team. With boys on other teams. Boys that were older than me.

And a lot of them were interested in me. Told me I was cute, sexy.
I found it hard to believe them. I don't think I ever believed them. But they set a doubt in my mind.
They could be so cruel to girls who were chubby. But they never were to me.


During that time I had a boyfriend. A real sweetheart. Considerate, caring. Too good to be true.
It didn't last long, but he somehow made me feel pretty.

He was the first one to call me beautiful.


From sixteen years old to now, almost twenty, a lot of things have changed.
I outgrew my sister. I was officially taller then her, and I had an excuse to weigh more.
And I had curves. Womanly curves. I had hips, a waist, but more importantly I had breasts.
A proud double D nowadays.

It was something I could use against my sister. She didn't have a curve to her body, and I knew that she was jealous of mine sometimes.
But I made sure that, every time I made a comment about it, it was in a playful manner.

So I wouldn't cause her the damage she once inflicted on me.


It's still a touchy subject. I gained weight the last two years, being in college, not riding my bike as often. It was hard for me to deal with.

I didn't want to change the way I ate. It's a healthy diet. So I watched my weight grow.
It took a lot from me not to change my diet dramatically.


I still compare myself to other girls. How they look, their weight. I take more things into consideration, yes, but I still do it. Even though I know I shouldn't.

I realised that when friends of mine asked me if my sister was anorexic.
If you saw my sister, you would probably think the same thing. Hell, I even doubt sometimes, but then I watch her eat.

She eats a lot more than I do. She eats candy all the time.
She doesn't gain any weight. Nothing.
Our doctor told her that, if she doesn't gain weight soon, she'll have to take medication to gain.

Kind of unfair, huh. I always tell her to take some of mine. As a joke, naturally. But not really.




My sister moved out of the house a year ago. Not officially, she just stays at her boyfriends house. This August, she's moving out. For real. They're going to rent a house.

And although I want to miss her, I don't think I will.
Our bond has grown stronger since I was sixteen. She defended me against boys (you'll hear that story later), and I defended her as well. She never makes comments about my weight anymore.

But still, I can't forget the damage she caused to my selfesteem. A selfesteem that already suffered from blows almost dayly in elementary school.

I've forgiven her, a long time ago. But I'll never be able to forget.


It will always stand between us. I don't see a way past it.

But she's my sister. I love her.
Even though you'll never hear us say the words, we know we do.
But I still won't miss her. Our bond isn't strong enough for that.


So, to every girl or boy out there, who is insecure about her or his weight.
Stop comparing yourself to others. I know it's an easy thing to say.

If you can't, take this into consideration.

- Some people are sickenly thin. That's not the way to go.
- If you're taller, you're bound to weigh more. It's natural, don't fight it.
- Boys like curves. Hell, they love them.
- Girls like them too. I do. Makes a boy way more cuddly.
- Everybody is different. If everybody was a size zero, zero would be fat. That's just the way it works.


Love yourself. Every part of you.
And believe that other people love you as well.


That's the best advice you'll ever hear from me.
Because it's a fact. People love you.

You just have to see it.


Until next time.

I love you. Believe that.

Jolien
xo