I used to pride myself on being self-aware. I thought it was one of my best traits, that I knew myself, because knowing who you are and what you’re capable of is the best way to protect those around you from... well. What you’re capable of. I’ve shied away from every friendship and romantic relationship I’ve had at the first sign of my own ugliness, thinking I’d rather leave someone with a decent impression of our time together than to subject them to my worst. It makes for a lonely life, because we’re all our worst selves sometimes. And the people who love us have to be able to see that, in order to make informed choices about how best to interact with us. We rob them of that choice when we run from them. We assume the worst of them when we assume we’ll be abandoned by them.
I started writing this wanting to say something altogether different, about going back to Baltimore for the first time since we moved to Durham in March.
As soon as I stepped in the door at the apartment we used to share with my mother and grandmother they both said I’d gained weight. I hadn’t noticed that about myself at all since I’d been away. And no one’s commented on my weight, one way or another, in nine years, the entire length of time I lived with my mother and grandmother after giving birth.
I starved myself there. Not just of food but of desire altogether. I taught myself to want very little. I was undernourished, drawn and gaunt in ways that had little to do with my appearance.
But I was thin and I liked being thin. I’ve always liked the way my body feels when it is lighter than my bones intended. My body’s undercarriage is built for weight. It’s supposed to be bigger than I’ve allowed it to get. I know that because no matter how little I ate or how much I moved, I never got thinner than I was. It was as though my body was insisting on its space, insisting on my notice.
When we moved, I grew. It didn’t take long; we’ve been here just over three months. I had to grow, right away, to begin doing by and for myself what I hadn’t for almost the entire time I’d been a mother: making a home, running a home, heading a family. And working full-time. And learning a new city. During a global pandemic. Rarely have I been more at peace than I am here, in this quiet freeing space where I answer to no one but myself and, on occasion, to my daughter. I have grown. But the weight gain that came from that growth must’ve escaped my notice.
It didn’t escape my matriarchs’, who for the duration of our four-day stay, said things like, “Do you still wear the same size? Do your clothes still fit?” and “You always said if you got to be plus-size, you’d still dress fashionably!” and “Wow! You’ve really got curves... but it looks good, though!”
I felt gaslit, at first. I couldn’t have possibly gained enough weight to warrant so many remarks on it, right? Not in three months? My clothes still fit fine. I eat just as little as I did when I lived at home. How could I have had such rapid weight gain and not realized it?
Every time I was in front of the bathroom mirror during the visit, I found more evidence that I had, in fact, gained weight. But that wasn’t all I found in the mirror at home. My face, across which not-so-fine age lines have been etching themselves, in addition to a series of breakouts that have left a significant smattering of dark marks in their wake, looked more haggard. My gray hair, which I’ve never minded much, seemed suddenly unsightly. I started to question who I was. If I was the last to notice I looked so different than I thought I did, what else was I missing about myself? What else didn’t I know? Maybe I’m not self-aware at all. Maybe I only delude myself.
It wasn’t a fun weekend for me, though I’m glad that I went, glad that I visited the matriarchs. I’m grateful they were healthy enough for me to visit.
When I returned to our new home, where no one’s voice intrudes on my self-assessment but my own, I took the photos above. I also compared how I look in these to the photos I took when we first moved here. I have gained weight. There are probably several reasons for this. I’m not moving around as much each day; we’re quarantining, staying indoors for days on end. I’m 40 now; my metabolism is slowing. I drink a lot of wine.
Beyond all those reasons, there’s this: I was never meant to be slight, never meant to under-eat. I wasn’t supposed to starve myself, in order to take up less space in a two bedroom apartment that did not comfortably accommodate four people. I wasn’t supposed to try my damnedeat to escape others’ notice. The weight I gained is the weight I should’ve carried all along. And if I gain more, I’ll learn to welcome that, too.
I am aware that this is the least I can do for my self.
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