Who are you, Really?

This weight.
This… weight.
This pain in my ass, love of my life, unwanted partner I can never seem to rid myself of.

This. Weight.
I’ve been holding on to this weight since I was 10. I remember the first time my aunts called me ‘fatso’.
I’ve been embracing this weight since I was 11 or 12 when my cousins doled out nicknames for everyone and mine were either ‘big red’ or ‘solid’. This weight is literally the reason why I detest Ashford & Simpson’s ‘Solid as a Rock’. Shame, it’s a good song. Smt.

This. Weight.
I’ve been holding on to this weight since I was 15 and mentally volunteered to make myself the emotional crash pad for all my friends’ insecurities, self-doubt, worries. I became a sin eater of sorts, willing to embrace the hurt of others because I could take it. ‘If you’re fat then I’m a beached whale!’

Talk about speaking shit into existence.

This. Weight.
I’ve been holding on to this weight since I had the abortion when I was 24. The miscarriage at 25. Yes, I did write that down but do not come for me unless I send for you. Govern your gossip, side-eyes and whispers accordingly. I’ve already hashed this out with God so
STAY.
IN.
YOUR.
FUCKING.
LANE.

This. Weight.
I’ve been holding on to this weight forever. Surrendering to it. Moulding it. Sacrificing other parts of myself for it. Using it as an atonement for my sins. The fat on my body has somehow become a nagging, relentless, ever-present punishment for my bad deeds.

But that’s not what I want anymore.

I want to let it go. To release it. To value myself again. To morph into the royalty, I was created to be.
Not the fat chick in the pictures. The one who can’t huddle in close because her stomach is in the way.

I don’t want to be the person who cancels a date with friends because the restaurant everyone is going to doesn’t have chairs my 64-inch ass can’t comfortably fit in. I don’t want to suffer the embarrassment. I no longer want to be the girl crying on the inside every time she goes to exercise because kneeling down is not just a chore, but an undertaking.

I don’t want to be the 40-year-old woman who can’t sleep through the night, any night, because she is mindful of the fact that sleeping on her left side means stockpiling all the fat in her chest cavity on top of that centrally vital organ that pumps blood everywhere else to keep her alive and she can’t afford for that sacred ticker to tap out anytime soon so she wakes up and turns over even though it’s uncomfortable.

This… weight.
My fat is this literal, visceral ball-and-chain I am desperate to get rid of, but my mindset is a dogged bitch of a lock I cannot seem to penetrate. Even my nutritionist is over my bullshit. Until yesterday, I wasn’t truly aware of my actual reality until she helped me define it for myself.

You see, I excel at self-sabotage.
I left that university as summa cum laude, the valedictorian, the mutha fuckin guvnor!

I’ve been juicing my nutritionist, my fitness instructor and personal chef. Yes, I have a fuckin personal chef and still cheat on his ass with $8.12 worth of temporary bliss with my side piece. Bamboo Shack is my jackrabbit – the ultimate dildo with a vibrator that gives me 10 minutes of satisfaction…

UGH! I’m getting wet just thinking about the betrayal. With every great climax comes an even greater crash, and not in a good way. Oh, if only she were a pussy, and I were a dick. This would be so much easier.

        ‘take it bitch!’
        ‘yes baby, fuck me harder. Fuck me away. Fuck me out of your life!’
        ‘shit I’m about to cum…’
        ‘yessssss, I’m almost done. Just a little more… do it now baby. Obliterate me!’
        ‘FUUUU- wait, where did you go?’

Smt. Shit ain never that simple.

My weight haunts me. She is food, self-loathing, self-doubt, self-hate, anger, frustration, enmity, fucked up desires. One big pile of shit that I cannot seem to evade because she has been entrenched in my corner for decades. I realize I’m gonna have to fuck myself up to get her gone.

But what does that look like?

What does it feel like?

Shit, I need to get out of my box.

Burn the fucking box.

Dig deep.

Stop being ok with just ok.

Set boundaries for myself.

I mean, I set boundaries for all the dicks in my life, but I cannot do it for myself?

I hate my fat.
I hate her because I love her.
I hate her because she is a comfort zone that I don’t know how to live without.
But who am I without the 56.2% of fat currently grafted to my muscles, arteries, and ligaments?

Really, who am I without her?

That’s what I want to find out.

—

Song: Who Are You, Really?
Artist: Mikky Ekko
Album: Teen Wolf (Original Television Soundtrack)
Release date: 2017