A Wirlwind of Emotions


Today, I’m angry. I’m angry because older sister, K thinks it’s okay to tell me about her plans to enter her son in private school despite the fact that he is not even a year old yet. I’m angry because a member of my cohort told me she wouldn’t respond to my texts very quickly because she had a friend in labor. I’m angry because my child was due to enter this world on this day. She did. Three months ago. I’m angry that my grandfather won’t call me, yet he talks to my two older sisters. Apparently, my pain and suffering is too unbearable for him. I’m angry there are plenty of little Black girls that will roam this Earth looking for someone to love, I wish it were me that had the privilege to be loved. I’m angry because I didn’t ask for much—just a healthy child and all I received was a closed-eye, closed-mouth, little girl who never cried in my arms. I’m angry because when I looked at the scale this evening, I saw 184.4 pounds. That means 184 pounds of grief that I’m scared I will never be able to lift. That means one hundred-eighty-four pounds that I can’t fit into any pair of jeans or slide between bookshelves in the library. One hundred-eighty-four pounds that weighs me down, every day, every night. I see people judging me. I see people looking at me thinking, “how could she gain all that weight, so fast”. I was 151 pounds this time last year. That means one hundred-eighty-four pounds is what my family will see when I walk in the door. They’ll instantly pity me and think I have completely lost it. Whatever, I’ll say. They don’t understand what I’ve been through. They haven’t been there to get me through. They don’t know that some days I’m just…through. I’m just so tired, so angry, and so weighed down my depression, anxiety, and the fear to carry on, that I don’t know how long I can carry this weight.

My mother has visited me in my dreams lately. I don’t know what this means. In one of my dreams last week, she literally was back from the grave. She had gained weight. Actually other people around us pointed that out. I didn’t care. I was just so happy that she was there. Sometimes I wish she were here. Actually I do all the time but I don’t want to. You know what haunts me? Those last moments. When her body just couldn’t take it anymore. I want to ask my grandparents so many questions. What was it like? How did she seem? Was it quick? Did she suffer? I want to know. I need to know. After everything she put us through, I swear I never wanted her to suffer. I think of my own daughter. Did she suffer? I asked my mother to just give me one thing. One thing—Marième and I couldn’t even have her. I just knew having a girl was a sign. I knew it was a sign that everything would be okay. That I would have a piece of me and a piece of my mom. I just knew that I would be close to her. That she would have everything that she wanted and needed. Most importantly, she would grow up with something that I didn’t—the knowledge that her parents loved her more than life.

I’m so empty so often. I want to see the light. I’m tired of the darkness. I really am.


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