Runt Of The Litter

There I am, shy of 14. I never thought I was the runt; a little weak soul that didn't grow just like it should have. Never noticed the strange stares or sniggers and sarcastic remarks - I just laughed along too. Being the start of every joke wasn't so strange to me and even if it hurt my feelings, wasn't there peace in just smiling it away? Because where had standing up for myself ever got me. The answer you wonder? Nowhere. There was no happy place in confidence because my circle did not embrace me for who I was.

Childhood was a breeze because not a soul could shake me. I did what I felt and said what I did. How simple the mind of a child is. I didn't sweat the small stuff or stumble over the inaccuracies. There weren't tears when another child told me something mean; only a shrug of my tiny shoulders and a wave."Good day," was my way. Laughter was like magic and making mud pies was the beginning of all great afternoons. Life was simple even as a runt.

But then I got bigger and the sayings got less easy to stomach. I couldn't shrug them away with a simple phrase. Now, even the adults joined in to pick on something new. My weight, my height, the eyebrow hair between my eyes, the way my skirt wasn't long enough, or the amount of makeup on my face. If I laughed too loud or spoke too excitedly, if I was too passionate, too enthused, or not enthused enough. So then I got quieter, spent my evening buried in my journal screaming into those pages instead. But then everyone asked: "Why are you silent? Where are your words? Come on, speak up stupid girl!"

How do you win a game like that, runt? You don't. I started to see that my friends were not true. I was just easy to fool; easy to get things out of. A homecooked meal, a day away, someone to cry your heart out to on a rainy day. And when I turned my back I was a conversation starter galore. My traumatic past being the theme of a new joke or rhyme. I would just block my ears and hope it wasn't another new punch line.

It was always too much or too little, no matter what I tried. I wonder if I ever knew myself as I'd journal and cry. Who was I from the start when all anyone had ever done was try to change my course or blunt my arrows? How would I ever understand my direction?

So then I went quiet. The runt killed the lights. Turned the switches off and waited for replies. A sincere message was all that was needed. But only pleas for help lit up the screen of my phone and that was the moment the runt realised that home was never home. Suddenly, the puzzle formed and the runt wasn't such a runt anymore.

It was never about what I wore, what I did, or what I saw. It was the circle I paced in - people who could not embrace their own individuality but I could. I could wear the brightest lipstick without a care, the boldest and strangest earrings while skipping down the street. Who could really stop me? I could dance to the music I loved and groove to a beat in front of strangers, and who should stop me? I could speak my mind and cut the joke short, and who would really have the right to start up a new line?

Why does a runt accept being a runt? Because you never want to feel like you're worth more than the value people assign you. But devoid of any narcissism, to imagine yourself at your true worth is living. I didn't have to be the centre stage cue for laughter forever or the quiet voice that didn't usher a word. I could be bold and brave and have ugly cries too, and who could really stop me?

Admittendly, every now and then, I still feel like the little runt who can't climb out of the nesting box - a little caught in my own feet. I still get afraid that passerby's eyes are watching with malice. But then I realise, who are they to judge because at some point we're all a bit of a runt.