N is for Name
Names never leave me.
Grandpa had one of those unfortunate names: the kind of name people always reference when discussing horrible names. Dick Biggers. After my grandparents divorced, my grandma took back her maiden name. My mother didn’t want to hyphenate. My mother. I sometime wonder if her maiden name was a prediction, an omen for what was to come, or something she was running from. She found me sitting on my bed surrounded by the remaining pieces of my Precious Moments comforter.
“What could be so bad?”
“Nothing.”
“Melissa.”
“That’s not my name anymore.”
“Okay. What’s your new name?”
“Big Fat Melissa.” She knew the book; she gave it to me. Closing her eyes, she saw her take a deep breath. I started to feel guilty when her eyes filled with tears.
“I always hoped that you wouldn’t have to go through what I went through; I hoped you wouldn’t have to struggle with weight.”
It would be years later that I would understand how very painful it is for my mother to see me in pain. The next day I started my first diet. My mother thought losing weight would make everything right again: “They can’t call you fat if you’re not!” It’s funny; my family also thinks ice cream makes everything better.
F is for Found
Wait. Back up. Back step.
That never happened. He never saw ME.
Well, we did have sex. A lot of sex. J told me I was beautiful, but sometimes he looked a little pained when he said it. He never saw me because all he saw was my fat. Apparently it disgusted him. For almost two years. Even after he told me he loved me.
He thought I was too fat for him.
Looking back from the aftermath is difficult. Even though he told me things like, "Even if you lost weight your body wouldn't be my ideal" and "I don't want to wait for you to lose the weight," I still miss him or the idea of him or my idealized vision of him that only exists in my written fantasies. I still hope beyond logic.
So on his birthday I sent him an email and offered to buy him lunch. He accepted said offer. I emailed him on Sunday to make plans, and he said he was "booked" and would have to take a rain check. It was curt, cold. I emailed him and suggested some other times and then said if he did not want to ever see me again, to please tell me. I offered the olive branch; the least he could do is say, "sorry, no thanks."
Or, maybe the least he could do is say he's sorry. Because while I've found that I have strength, resilience, and determination in the months since the break-up, I'm still looking for something, some acknowledgment of his ill treatment of me. One thing I know: I may never get it. One thing I hope: That eventually I won't care.
E is for Epiphany
Evolving epiphany in the elephant eternity of my body, I am home.
Naked, but I’m not alone. He’s looking at me like he’s fascinated and I look at him and am fascinated. There’s a foot between us; we’re not touching. “I want you to look at me.” I have to concentrate: I’m not going to suck-it-in hoping that my tummy will concave somewhere past my spinal cord into the bed.
“Look at me.”
“I am.”
“What do you see?”
“You.”
I want to ask him if he likes what he sees, but I don’t. He reaches out to touch me and smiles; the lines around his grey-blue eyes become more apparent. I touch my fingers to my lips and then reach out and touch fingers to his lips. Holding my hand, he kisses my palm, the veins in my wrist. I can feel my pulse in my ears, his body against mine.
Flesh like falling, falling, falling. Ferocious. Female. Fat. Fucking Fabulous.
It’s not that easy. I couldn’t just make the switch and wake up one day loving my body. I relapse. Standing in front of the mirror. I stare. Breaking up my body into parts, I analyze each one. Feet: damn my feet are cute. Calves: okay. Thighs: skip. Ass: booty is in, right? Stomach: pass. Arms: my elbows are nice. Breasts: check. Face: cute when I suck my cheeks in. I wrap myself in a towel and curl up on my bed.
I’m starting to think it may be difficult to get through the whole alphabet. Are you okay? Are you shocked? Disgusted? Would you kiss a fat person? Or would you be worried about how you would look together when you’re walking down the street? Would you do it on a dare? I dare you. Double-dog dare you. Are you there? Brian? Grandma?
B is for Birthday
August 26 was JY's Birthday. The day the man I would eventually love (and who would crack my heart) arrived in the world, and I am at this moment strangely moved.
I remember sitting at the Lake in my youth and thinking that if I moved my foot a little in the water, each molecule would bounce and affect the next molecule to eternity. I hoped that somewhere in the world my water movement would cause the earth to shake beneath the man who would eventually love me.
I wonder if JY ever loved me. He told me so. But did he feel the earth shake even just for a moment?
Each time I encounter a new person, I visualize myself touching his arm and sending him off like molecules of water to affect the world to eternity. I suppose we all bounce off each other as we wander through life, sometimes a bounce in a good direction, sometimes in a bad.
E is for Eulogy
Eulogy.
My funeral would be a festive affair because us fat people are damn jolly. I would be there in spirit and squirm when they did a slide show of pictures showing my happy face and many iterations of fat pants through the years. She had such a pretty face, but a Mack truck really did a number on it, so my coffin is closed. My friends go up to the coffin one at a time. Placing flowers and sentimental offerings. Wait a second. This is not how I want my life to end. Back up, back step.
Dead, I’d be better off.
I pass the yellow line. I think of the speedometer on the truck as if it’s the weight on a scale. Too fast to stop. I run. I run. Too fat to stop. I’m on the other side.
