Comics That Say More: Porky
When I was 8, I wore an oversized, baby-pink sweatshirt to school. My friends called me Porky Pig. They claimed it was because of our shared pink hue…
All I saw was our shared pot bellies.
When I was 11, a doctor prescribed me Paxil. The pills replaced my anxiety with water retention, plumping me up.
I became Porky Pig all over again.
When my new friends shoved balloons under their t-shirts, doing their cruelest impression of me, the wound opened deeper.
I couldn’t see then, how their words and actions were about something that hurt—or that they didn’t like—within themselves and not me… Without understanding that, I couldn’t have compassion for them.
Instead of understanding, I feared them and how easy it was for them to find my insecurities.
I thought everything they said about me was true.
Until I learned to free myself. Until I forgave them with:
I forgive you.
I love you.
I never had to say it to their faces or in letters. I whispered it in a loving thought and let it carry itself where it needed to go.
I set myself, Porky Pig, and all the other cruelties free. Free to be and strut around in the bliss of loving ourselves for exactly who we are.
When we don’t forgive, or at least be willing to, we allow ourselves to relive the trauma. Letting it define us. Making us believe a false reality. And we deserve better than that. We really do.
I know if I ever see those friends again, it won’t deepen the wound. I’ve given myself the gift of transforming it beyond hurt, bitterness, resentment, and victimhood.
I’ve felt it.
Listened to it.
And let it serve me as I hadn’t been able to before.