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On my first date with Josh I fell down, in the middle of the street, for no reason at all. There was nothing to trip on. I just fell. When I picked myself up, I looked at him and said “I fall down” because, sometimes, I just do. He said “don’t worry about it, I walk into things.” At the time I thought that made us compatible, but now that I think about it maybe I should have never talked to him again to save us the agony of the ongoing injuries.

Yesterday, Josh managed to catapult himself out of his desk chair. He leaned back too far, and it shot him like a pebble out of a slingshot across the office. He injured his back, and is still having pain from it. I came home to find him flat on the bed watching tv. I started to make dinner, and took a box of pasta out of the cabinet. I dropped the box, and bent over to pick it back up. I forgot that the cabinet door was still open, and so when I raised back up I slammed the top of my head into the bottom of the open door. Really hard. I screamed loudly, and Josh tried to come see what was wrong, but of course he could only move so fast for his back.

I told him that we should adopt, and spare future generations our genes. If our children get this from both of us, they may not be able to make it down the street without breaking something.

One of the hardest things to remember about other people is that they don’t care about you. A few do - your family, a few close friends, and that’s it. No one else cares. And they’re not supposed to. Every time you think to yourself “I wonder if that person is doing that because of me”, assume you’re being egotistical, and they probably aren’t.

I was picked on a lot in school. I was weird, and smart in a way that doesn’t make sense to children, so that’s fine. I am still in touch with another woman from my childhood. She was picked on for being fat. She’s no longer fat, and I’m less weird with time, but being the social outcast has stayed with both of us into our adulthood.

I told this woman that I had seen one of the “hot girls” from Millburn Junior High, and that when I told the hot girl I still saw the formerly fat girl, she passed along her best wishes. The formerly fat girl was floored. She couldn’t understand why someone who made fun of her would wish her well. I pointed out that the hot girl grew up - in the real world she’s just a decently cute woman who’s got the same ups and downs as everyone else. She does not hate the formerly fat girl. She, in fact, has no feelings about her whatsoever, except for maybe “I knew that woman when we were young”. She doesn’t care. The popular girl never cares. The popular girl isn’t the one who earned the lashes and then had to wear the scars forever. You, the one who will always be fat on the inside, you’re the one with the horrible memories, the permanent wounds, the pain that makes you cringe every time you meet a new group of people. No one else cares, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. If the tormentors knew the pain they caused, they’d be the ones in therapy. And really, if you think about it, you don’t want them knowing the wounds are still open. The only thing worse than giving someone that power over you is letting them know they have it. The only way to recover is to pull out your resume and a mirror and get real about where you are today. Also, you have to stop caring too. It’s the only way to survive.

One of the hardest things to remember about other people is that they don’t care about you. A few do - your family, a few close friends, and that’s it. No one else cares. And they’re not supposed to. Every time you think to yourself “I wonder if that person is doing that because of me”, assume you’re being egotistical, and they probably aren’t.

I was picked on a lot in school. I was weird, and smart in a way that doesn’t make sense to children, so that’s fine. I am still in touch with another woman from my childhood. She was picked on for being fat. She’s no longer fat, and I’m less weird with time, but being the social outcast has stayed with both of us into our adulthood.

I told this woman that I had seen one of the “hot girls” from Millburn Junior High, and that when I told the hot girl I still saw the formerly fat girl, she passed along her best wishes. The formerly fat girl was floored. She couldn’t understand why someone who made fun of her would wish her well. I pointed out that the hot girl grew up - in the real world she’s just a decently cute woman who’s got the same ups and downs as everyone else. She does not hate the formerly fat girl. She, in fact, has no feelings about her whatsoever, except for maybe “I knew that woman when we were young”. She doesn’t care. The popular girl never cares. The popular girl isn’t the one who earned the lashes and then had to wear the scars forever. You, the one who will always be fat on the inside, you’re the one with the horrible memories, the permanent wounds, the pain that makes you cringe every time you meet a new group of people. No one else cares, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. If the tormentors knew the pain they caused, they’d be the ones in therapy. And really, if you think about it, you don’t want them knowing the wounds are still open. The only thing worse than giving someone that power over you is letting them know they have it. The only way to recover is to pull out your resume and a mirror and get real about where you are today. Also, you have to stop caring too. It’s the only way to survive.