It was the type of day where I scrambled my outfit like a pair of eggs, hastily, a dash of spice, and I'm out the door, bumbling a honey bee prance to the car. Where my voice is that deep growl that makes me feel like a badass but probably sounds like a frog croaking. I've got my mason jar JAM PACKED with the freshest tap water Willamette can buy. It was the type of day that rained enough I remembered my feet aren't wet because I was given new shoes. They have really hard soles, like I'm walking on stoic father tropes. It was a building that had so much of the same art on the wall. The kind of art that says, "hey, a 12 year old could have painted this, but we bought it for 200k at an auction and it looks just like our others." They were all fields of flowers that were just color balls but I thought of a playpin for the forest scene. They called my name with a smooth tone and had to way me like I'm produce and they've got a tight budget, "you can weigh less if you strip" I think to myself. I'd strip all the time but I don't think people are ready to see an ass as hairy as my beard. I was taken to a small room and asked some questions that they always ask, but they never ask the questions I would ask like, "how many dogs do you pet in a week?" Or "what kind of melon are you?" I was really surprised when they didn't even ask me about my latest selfie that got 63 likes and counting on Facebook. Instead they asked how many cigarettes I smoked and how many miles I ran. I think these are pretty boring questions because they ask everyone those questions but have a sign hanging on the wall that says "you are special." The assistant leaves like a mini boss, and I have a long load screen. I felt my stomach shake a bit. Not like the ice creamy beverage but tremors of energy telling me to stay on the defensive. She hid her vibes when she walked in the room and was good at it. She knew how to talk and break the ice and make me forget all the words I practiced that I wanted her to hear. Then she said I needed to lose weight. Then she asked if I was always big. Then she asked what my dad looked like. And when I answered then asked for help about my brain, when I told her sometimes I want to tear my throat out, when I filled out a form that said I panic daily, she told me I should stick to my medications. We don't want to change them too fast. Then she asked me about my weight again, like maybe it's changed again. And then I thought I could lose some weight if I tore my throat out. But I didn't tell my mom that. Then she told me that I needed blood work done to test for diabetes and thyroid issues even though a month ago I got the same work done and I had nothing. I guess we have to stay on top of my weight. When I told her I had lost weight though, she brought up the record from last month and said I hadn't. So she knew I had this blood work already done. If you have to ask who first notices someone's weight: it's themselves. I was thankful that after explaining to my mom that my mental health was trivialized in favor of my weight she had become more sympathetic. But she never knew it was an issue. Maybe I just stored up all the insults and remarks and comments I got in my fat cells. If that were the case though, I would be the size of the moon just from my own thoughts. I know she had the best intentions, but believe me: I know I am fat. I know I am not the typical depiction of beauty. I know I look at myself in disgust every morning. I know I over eat out if anxiety and it's not healthy. But informing me of my weight as if it's the long lost voice of God spreading words never heard before, makes me feel as bad as you say I look. I was shaking on the ride home. Because I wish every night that I wasn't this big. But right now I don't have the time to think about that, on top of bills, pills, cheap thrills. I have to write poems. With my fat, chubby fingers sitting on my fat ass. If this imagery makes you uncomfortable, imagine being me.
dededos
kianamaiart
izzy806
blakekathryn
