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The only time I feel pretty is in my over-sized, gray sweatpants…the kind I wear tucked into the dip of my back,tied tight over my belly button.Sweatpants…these miraculously marvelous, muddled bunchof too much fabric compliment my body…this body…the body society has shown meisn't worth complimenting.When you grow up fat,you are the butt of every joke…Every game of tag is just a little too fast…every stairwell and hill a little too steep, all the clothes a little too tight…at least the cute ones anyway,and with this fat ass,came a fat ass bunch of feelings,quick to send me sporadically spiraling into darkness.Working out wasn't working,and when I was no longer satisfiedwith the muscle memory of sucking in my stomach…trying to cement it against my spine,l began to dabble in strategically starving myself.Then when I didn't have the heart,but was still overflowing with guts,I made a porcelain friend in an attempt to expend my extra.But it never stuck,because throwing up was too much for me too stomachand even though I was aiming to shrink,I had a bleeding need to force feed because being too full to breathe,was my only salvation from feeling empty.And as I clumsily stumbled my way into adolescence,it became painfully obvious to my family,that my baby fat…had not been made aware that it was merely baby fat.See, it'd held its ground through the development process, and it felt that it was owed equal rightsto the finished product.After all,when friends weren't there… baby fat was there.But you see, even in those early days of scraped knees and "five more minutes, please,"I didn't see anything wrong with me…until everyone else made it abundantly clear that there was…that within this not so little bodyI was harboring too much excess to be loved.So,by the time I had traded "no-takes-backsies"for backseat passes,into what any arrogant teenage boywould tell youis the entrance way to the heaven in which he will awkwardly attempt to smoothly cast himself over you-while trying to convince you that a blowjob is his greatest blessingto your mouth,and that you…would be privileged to have his inexperienced flesh intrude upon you,I was already a PhD in hating this body.I had graduated from fat, black and anonymous and I was ready to be a skinny, white girl…or better yet a Puerto Rican.I was a 14 year old girl, dying to be fetishized because that's what every sign had told me,gave me value,validity. Life had taught me, that my worth lied in the hungerI could induce within the loins of onlooking menbut behind envious eyes, that reflected nothing more than the insecurities of other little girls, I was honestly just dying…for someone to see me…love me…on site…no alteration… no substitution…no prerequisite.See I could have given a lecture at Harvardon all my flaws…took up two hours of people's time just dissecting the things that were wrong with meand this was only physically.I don't think you get it. I could have talked for days.The trigger happy shotgun aimed at my self esteem was fully loadedand never running low on ammunition.When you're growing up fat,you're too ugly to be the girlfriend…but you're still the perfect shadeof "good enough" to be sexually assaulted…People will tell you,your self-loathing was a beacon…that your fragile state called out,"Make me a VICTIM!"That by having low self esteem you wrote,"Fuck Me Over" in red ink across your soul,but I was screaming to be loved and while I was shattering… he fucked me broken.From 5 years old, there were comments on my body,everyone so engulfed in Imani getting chubby…no one ever taught me how to love me.So tell me…How do you construct"good enough" from the words"you could be better"?When everyone around youis trying to make you your best self how do you notice when you're giving all you have left?When every compliment is undercut by a possible improvement,raining praise starts to feel a lot like a hurricane you didn't pack an umbrella for.So before I knew how to look in a mirror and like what I saw,I was gifted Eve's hereditary ability to contrast my entitywith the me I wasn't living up to being.When you grow up fat, and you're the only little girl who doesn't get a Valentine…you quickly learn that toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches can be your first love.And when your mother only wants to help you feel beautiful,but her idea of assistance is telling you, "You're a pretty girl; you just need to lose a few pounds…"You wonder if she realizes, she's teaching you your new life mantra.You wonder if she knows,you felt pretty until she said that…that when your grandmother added,"You'll be drop dead gorgeous,when you slim down,"your self love slimmed itself into a sliver,and "dropping dead"were the only words you clung to.They say,"We'll have to beat the boys off you…"but you WishSOMEONE would've beat the boys off you,when they decided that your torture had been deemed their new-found entertainment. From that point…hearing your family cheer on your weight loss,stopped sounding like "I love you",and degenerated into,"There'd be so much more to love, if there was less of you…"less fat…less feelings…less opinion…less words.When you grow up fat, you find yourself turning twenty,anxious and overwhelmed by the thought of another person seeing your body. You fumble over yourself,realizing that your self esteem has been gone so long, that now you're scared to shed the pounds because you're not sure that shaving down your body would even leave a scratchon the monument to self loathing that's been standing erect in your chestfor the last 15 years.So instead, you marvel… in the glory,that is your over-sized, gray sweatpants,and you let them swallow you, covering your stomach, rounding your hips,hoping to God they will spit out your insecurities,and leave you as comfortable in your skin,as you are in the.
Open Letter from a Fat Girl
For those who would prefer to here the poem in action. Here it is. Excuse my stutter at the end; I was a tad emotional.
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