Fat
When I was born,
I weighed 6 pounds, 4 ounces.
My head barely filled the palm of my father’s hand,
My body rested on his arm.
The last time I was “small.”
By third grade,
pictures show me
plump, chunky,
Whatever the name was then.
My mother, bless her heart, wanted to make me thin.
I was restricted on my eating…
I was eight years old…
I was watched…
nagged…
monitored
to make sure I didn’t eat too much.
By fifth grade, my playground nickname
was Hungry Hungry Hippo.
I hate that game.
Kids would throw things at me,
telling me to eat them up.
Oh yeah. Fat.
By high school,
I knew I wanted to play soccer, to be more involved,
and that required a physical.
Nothing better than a doctor
Grabbing my stomach,
telling me “My we are a little chubby, aren’t we?”
I wasn’t.
And my mother?
Still nagging, still concerned
I would be “too fat.”
I began sneaking food,
eating on the sly
so no one would know-
shovelling to fill the hole inside
Craving...craving what?
My life’s journey has been to answer
that specific question.
Once I wrote, “Plump like a pumpkin
she struggles…”
equating myself with a round vegetable.
I am no better than
a Gourd.
Here I am
Cancer warrior...
Teacher...
Mother...
Wife...
Daughter...
still Fat.
Still defined by my
clothing size.
