Nice, but a little bit violent.

I’ve been a little morose lately. I thought it was one thing – something that happened recently that was a shock to me. The fullness of my own self discovery, or something like that. It’s amazing to me how much I’ve learned to hide from myself just to function like a normal human being. Of course, all that hiding makes me abnormally weird to others and so my strive for normalcy ends up taking me further and further from it.

Anyway, new crazy feelings coursing through my mind, new thoughts, and things I didn’t want to feel were all sitting in my psyche, taunting me. But I was also getting more and more sad and I thought it was the thoughts and realizations that were doing it.

I was wrong and what a relief, although the realization of what was truly eating at my emotions makes me even sadder.

People around me have been wondering about me because I’ve been drinking more. I made a promise to my husband that I wouldn’t get hammered every night, but I did not promise to stop drinking. I do things to limit myself. Instead of bringing my entire bottle of gin to a party, I just brought a flask worth. Three drinks later, I’m done for the night. Poverty helps with the rest, although every now and then my efforts are foiled by people who want to keep me drinking because they are. Because I’ve only been a heavier drinker in the past couple of years, I hadn’t figured out the triggering factor. Until now, that is. Read more

When I was younger, I used to love holidays. It was the one time I would get to see all of my family. We would sit or stand in the kitchen while the adults told stories about the past and other things that held our attention and captured our imagination. We ate great food, prepared by women who wanted to show that they had earned their spot into womanhood by the quality of dish they would bring. It was a glorious time of family, sharing, thanksgiving and love.

Now, going home is like finding an unpaid parking ticket in last year’s jacket pocket. You know you have to take care of it, but it’s been so long, you’re not sure what the repercussions are going to be.

This year, if I hear my grandmother say something about my weight, I’m going to scream. This year, if my brother shows up drunk and disorderly, I’ll probably disown him. I will get to see my sister, which is good, but we won’t spend the quality time I would like to spend with her. Holidays with family has quickly become a hot mess. Read more

I’ve talked about this before, other places. The whole weight thing. I’ve lost almost 20 lbs and I can see it. Unfortunately, I’m still big. Bigger than I want to be. I look at my arms and my waist and my thighs and I sigh because I also look at my appetite and my metabolism and they don’t match either. I can feel my clothes getting bigger. Pants that hugged my curves a bit too tightly now slump a bit and while it feels good, that good feeling is very fleeting.

It’s an esteem thing, of course, and that thing girls perpetually do. We never think we are good enough. I wonder, sometimes, if my weight is the cause of some of my problems. Then I think, that’s not fair, he gained weight too. But in the end, it’s just me staring at myself in the mirror wondering when this other skin started covering the real me up.

I tell myself that I don’t want to go to my weight when I was 25, but really, deep down, I do. I tell myself that weight will be too skinny for me now. I’ve seen too many girls who have gained a lot of weight feel like if they get back to the weight they once were, they will be beautiful again. The thing is, I didn’t feel beautiful at 25. I didn’t like anything about myself except my feet and my lips. Those are weird things to like, but once upon a time, I had oddly beautiful feet. People would comment on them. I painted the nails and wore sandals often. I treated my feet better than my hands. My hands are utilitarian, after all. Typing, fighting, popping my knuckles, more typing. The finger nails are brittle, not like my toes. My toe nails were even beautiful. But beautiful feet do not a beautiful person make. I liked my lips because they were, to some people, the only symbol of my blackness. Okay, so my ass was also a symbol. No matter how much weight I lose, I will always have a huge ass. The thing I hated about my behind is that, because it was so prominent, it made me a sexual target. Not a beautiful person.

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