Fat and ok

The scale has to be lying. Sure, my clothes are a little tight, the size that I used to be isn’t anymore and I have developed 4^th, 5^th, and 6^th boobs, but I can’t have gained weight. Especially not that much weight. I can still walk place. I walk to work every day! I am constantly in the gym; I can’t have gained weight! But it’s true. I was 326.4 lbs., 148.05255 kg, 23.31428578228572 stone. Even in zero gravity the fact was undeniable. Morbidly obese one doctor said. From my smallest size I had more than doubled. I didn’t have anything that would make me gain so much weight; no thyroid problem, children, no real money. I was fat.

This was just another point of disappointing daughter that I had added to my resume; never graduated from college, wasted potential, incapable of being independent, no prospects, and now fat. If only I could just get my shit together. If only I was hit by a car. Or a train. I deserve to be dead. I don’t even have the guts to gut myself. If I don’t even have the willpower to stop eating, let alone make myself disappear. No one likes me fat. My own mother bemoans the fact that she has a fat daughter. How embarrassing! My father refuses to acknowledge my existence now. If he knew I gained weight? My sister, who has never been average weight (let alone overweight) had angry outburst about the fact that we do not address my weight properly, because I need to face the fact that I am fat.

I am a praying person. Not the person you see on bended knee for what seems like hours. But every time I get an angry thought about my body, I would pray to change it. Please make me skinny. If you make me a size 6, I will go to church every day. If I lose 10 lbs., I will never look at bread. I would deprive myself of everything, then binge on it later. I would meal prep and meal plan, eat things that I hated. I would absorb any negative thing said about me in the hopes that I would get some sort of inspiration to finally want to be skinny.

My mom has this photo of me at my sophomore year Homecoming. It’s a terrible picture, blurry and you can barely tell it is me. I am about 160 lbs., wearing this dress that I bought 2 hrs. before, super uncomfortable shoes. My shoulders are slumped; I have a pained smile on my face. My best friend’s mom took the photo. I remember afterwards I had to reapply the make-up that she put on me. I cried twice that night. Once when the guy I had a crush on rejected me. But the first time was because my mom and I had an argument. Not because of my grades or even because I dropped out of a prestigious private school. It was because I had gain 15 lbs. over the summer. The argument was basically my mother wondering where she went wrong, how she ended up with such a train wreck for a daughter. My mom now looks at that picture as what could have been she has it on the fridge to remind me that I can still get down to that size. I often think about that night. I also thing about the people who use me as a cautionary tale for their kids, the people who see me and think, “well, at least I am not that big”. It’s a thought that keeps me in bed on days that I don’t go to work. Every negative word I heard would carve out a piece of my being, which would be filled with food, as clichéd as it sounds. I would often sob as I ate whole cheesecakes, a burger and fries, and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s strawberry cheesecake. My mother hates my appearance; my father hates me. Food would never hurt me, except now I am the biggest I have ever been. How do I achieve my dreams now? What are my dreams? All I have even been focused on is losing weight, and I failed at that. If I couldn’t even do that, how was I ever going to do whatever it is I wanted out of life?

So now I am ready to admit that I am fat. I am now ready to admit that there is no shame in being fat. I am in perfect health, I can still exercise, I still try to eat as healthy as I see fit. I will do my best not to beat myself up (still a work in progress). I am going to go after what I want, because of what I look like. I am going to dedicate my life full tilt to being my authentic self, which is a fat black woman who is aware of the criticism and stigmatization that she will face and is ready to welcome it with open arms.

It is unnerving how normal it is.

So the other day my mom and my sister were talking about how I am jobless and take no initiative. In this conversation my mother mentioned that had we been in Liberia, she would have had me raped. I said nothing. It is statements like these that make it hard for me to get along with any of my family members from the West African region. This is not the first time that my mother said something of this caliber or that my sister has gotten angry enough with me that this statement was just let loose to fly. It is ESPECIALLY galling considering that all of us are sexual assault survivors in some form. The fact that my mother, of all people would even consider such actions and then (in the same breathe) state that she loves me? Wut??
I just don't understand how frustrated a loving family member has to be to wish for a time and place that orchestrating the trauma of a family is an option. Is this how normal rape is in the African community? Is this really what we want to pass down to our kids? I for one do not and if it means that I have to tie my tubes then so be it. But this is not something that can be allowed to prosper.

Yeah, but I really am.

I knew Chrys from college. She was you average All American white woman; blonde hair, blue eyes, pretty, used to be a cheerleader and a pastor's daughter. Chrys and I were in the same Chemistry course ( for the third time). We studied together for test, quizzes, did homework together, everything. On the surface, it would seem that Chrys and I were friends.
Thing is, Chrys was a racist. Not Racist lite, either. During the start of our friendship, there was no real definitive moments where she said or did anything overtly racist. She was always cordial to me. Friendly, even. After our last final, Chrys and I went to a restaurant to celebrate our most trying failure of the class yet. Halfway through our basket of wings, she says, " I like you, Ophelia. You aren't like the other ones. You aren't a Nigger".
Growing up, I was an anomaly. I was raised in Texas by a Nigerian father and a Liberian mother. I did not have a southern drawl. Though we grew up poor, I lived an affluent life. A life that always seemed to throw me in the path of people like Chrys. I was always surrounded by racism and prejudice that I could never tell if it was normal or not. Two months after the encounter with Chrys Trayvon Martin was killed. At the time, most of my friends were Caucasian or Nonblack POCs. As you can imagine, they blamed Trayvon for his demise. Most went so far as to demonize him. While this was normal for me, something about it didn't sit right. This happened with Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, etc. Every time these sort of things come up, I sit back and watch as my surroundings become a hostile environment to be in. People who I smile and joke with on a daily basis distort into prickly know it alls. Colleagues demand to know why it isn't "All Lives Matter" or why this person didn't comply or why would a 13 year old boy play with a toy gun in the park. I watch as white privilege allows ignorance to blossom and stomps out nuance conversation. And you can never call these people racist. They just have questions. They just don't get it. They want to understand, but it's confusing. They don't understand how a portion of the country can feel the way they do. They don't see it happening so is it really true. Even after I share my past experiences with my peers, it still becomes "well, you are pretty sensitive, so that might be it." Huh.
And now, with Tyre King and Terence Crutcher, we are here again. It is a never ending cycle that America as a whole seems to be going through. And the obvious way to move forward (confront the issue head-on) is a problem for most of the country. That is why most people are up in arms about Colin Kaepernick and not about the murder of a 13 year old boy or a pastor.
In other words, this country has to stop worrying about its perception, and start worrying about its actions

Full

You don't know me. You have never allowed the space to get to know me. I have let you all back me into a corner and I am over it. I am done. You don't get to make me cry anymore. You don't get to hurt me. You no longer deserve my obedience. You have earned my anger. I am done.

Graduation day

I graduated from high school in 2008. I wasn't an honor student, so I wasn't allowed to see my best friend before she left for school and I had a super small gathering of kin. My father showed up (yay) and embarrassed the Hell out of me by grinding on my mom in front of my step dad. And he lived, which..... After that he pulled me to the side and informed me that I was a disappointment. At the end of the night,  he crashed his car into the ditch in front of the house so, you know, karma comes quick.

An Impasse

I could scream from what I have become. I have let you belittle me, make me feel worthless, take my hopes and dreams and drain them. I cry sometimes, imagining all that I have lost. My pride, sanity, dignity.

I want to leave, but I have no where to turn. No one to run to. I have cut ties just to lay myself at your feet in mercy. I don't trust myself anymore and I don't trust you.

The real tragedy of the situation is you have moved on. You don't see what has happened to me. You don't care that bleeding out on the floor. You have moved on from me and my heartache.

And still you drag me here. To prove that you are better. To show me that I broke myself, and that you had no hand in it. You beg me to let you in. Like we haven't done thus before. But we are stuck together, neither of us willing to budge. I don't know where this leads but I will not back down. Not this time.

Dear

You don't want me. You never did. I was the filler. I was the replacement you could hold when you missed her. And now that we are both here I am tolerated. I can't even tell you this because you will laugh. You will share a moment at my expense with your favorite girl. I will never be as fit as her. I will never have the experiences you both share. As you have said, we are not the same. I am not yours. The tragedy is it took me this long to see it. We were not meant for each other. You belong with her. I belong.....alone.  You deserve happiness. And if I could I would wipe the memory of me from you. Instead, when I cross your mind, you get a bitter taste in your mouth. I am so sorry that I did this to you. And to her. I hope in time you will forgive and forget.

Favorite aunties

I am a terrible person, right? You never spread anyone's business, huh? The best of your father's children? You are a spiteful, rancid little woman who can't keep it together for your kids. You wanna know why people avoid you? It is not because you are truthful. Any child can be truthful. Everyone avoids you because all of the shit you point out in others is what you project. So please, check thyself.

My second mother? Really?  You ain't my second shit! How. DARE you feel entitled to any part of my psyche. Just like your father? You are closer to your mother.  Refusing to get old, even though we all see it. Getting your hands in everyone's business without offering assistance.  Meddling with careful plans just to say you had a part in it. Please ma'am,  sit down.

You bush.....you know what? I don't blame you. We don't know each other and I thrust myself upon you. I tried to fight for someone who appreciates the status quo. Like your daddy? Nah, try again. But honestly, I hope you get what you deserve in the end.    

Do Oghene.

I've got this feeling inside me. It claws at me, eating away, hollowing me out. Making way for the foulness in my head. I try to fill it up myself, with anything I can hold onto, but the factory can produce faster than I can.
I can't scream it out. I can't block it out. I can't find another avenue to live. I can't shield myself. I never got that piece of armour. I can't keep on going down this road.
It hurts me. I can feel it in my skin. My bones are cracking underneath my fragility. I can taste it. It's creeping up. There is no in or out for me, just uncertainty. The relief I am looking for is a complete expulsion of toxic personalities in me.
I can't scream it out. I can't block it out. I can't find another avenue to live. I can't shield myself. I never got that piece of armour. I can't keep on going down this road.
The hardest part is every time I try it's never far enough to get my mind and soul in peace. I give it all. I give it up. I give it all, I give it up. I leave it all upon the floor, my heart, my mind, my soul, the piece of me I don't show. I leave it all.

I am tired.

Birthday girl. Woot.

So today is my 27th birthday. I have moved back to Texas and I am currently jobless and penniless. It is frustrating because I have experience working in a hospital setting and I work a lot, putting all that I have into my employment. But I am not getting calls back. I don't know what else to do and I am very close to losing all of my shit. So. That's me, how is everyone else.

One sided mirror

You are two sides of the same heart. One shared experience, all knowing eye. No matter how many times I am pulled into the building, I am always left in a room with a one way mirror. You will never see me. From now on, you get the same illusion as everyone else. You will forever greet the hollow store front. I will leave the fixing for me.

Hypothetically

Why keep me here when all i do is disappoint? You do not want me around. I am a reminder of your supposed shortcomings, all the failures you have. You never see me, the person you project your disgust on. That pariah you keep as an albatross. My wish is that I step up to your desires, or that I make a pretty corpse soon.

American Bre(a)d

My gratitude does not come with a thank you. It does not present itself on bended knees, face to the floor, begging for acceptance. It instead provides an invitation to its happiness, to revel in all that is worked towards. It might not be customary, but my gratitude is the best I have.