solodynamite

hungry

i push myself as long as is possible. i resist. i refuse. i ask myself over and over again, “why am i hungry?” at some point i determined that being hungry required something of me; i didn’t just get to be hungry i created a relationship with food that maintained that i get what i deserve/i get what i am worthy of receiving/i get what i have earned – no more…no less. my relationship with food, at the core, is about three issues: control over my life, relationships, and worth/self-worth.

Journal Entry November 13, 2013 7:58 p.m.

i resent that my stomach is growling and rumbling loudly. the noise is loud enough to disrupt my sleep. my body and mind battle silently over eating or not eating. it is difficult for me to eat when i do not believe i have earned the right to be hungry. what have i done to be hungry? when i am going through one of these cycles it often takes hours before i give in and eat. at the point that i decide to eat i have reminded myself that i am worthy of eating no matter what i did or did not do. i have reminded myself that what i am doing to myself is rejecting God’s love for me. i have reminded myself that i know better. finally, i have a little something to eat. i only eat enough to quiet the noise and just enough to not be guilty. i cannot afford to add to the weight(s) i am trying to lose.

i learned at an early age that hunger pains are not easily satisfied. my denying myself satisfaction is also a survival tactic. attempts to control my hunger or limit my hunger is also my attempt to control other things for which i am often hungry. however, those other things i cannot open the fridge or cabinet to get. those other things, i cannot just grab and go. those other things cannot be easily purchased or prepared. so maybe, just maybe, if i can manage this hunger for food i can manage the other hungers.

i do not recall ever going to bed hungry or a lack of food in my home growing up. i do remember that seconds were not an option. for me that was a difficult reality to stomach. prior to moving to live with my dad in Baltimore, i lived with my mother, great-grandmother and mother. there was four of us versus the family of eight i became a part of in Baltimore. at night once in bed i often cried over the matter of no seconds. after a period of time the need or desire for seconds went away. i learned how not to be hungry for more than what was on my plate. that same skill i applied to all my other hungers.

i stopped being hungry or at least i tried to stop being hungry for more than what was on my plate, hungry for space, hungry for attention, hungry for love, hungry for affection, hungry for me. i silenced my hunger. i denied my hunger. i pushed my hunger down, way down to the bottom. i accepted there was not enough for me and that there would likely never be enough for me. i accepted what i was given. i learned to deal with the pain and frustration of being hungry. i understood that hunger pains were not easily satisfied.

eventually my stomach will quiet. my stomach knows that sometimes i win. i remember quickly how not to be hungry. if i can manage this hunger, i certainly can manage the other hungers even if for just for a short while. the waves of hunger will pass. today i ate. though the food was not satisfying in taste, it pacified my hunger.

the beginning

creating

i have been told i should write. i have been told i am a good writer. i have been told i would make a good writer.

i have not believed i should write. i have not wanted to write for public consumption. i have not thought myself a good writer. i have not thought i would make a good writer. i have not wanted to add to all the talking and writing that leads to more talking and writing. i have not wanted to be selfish or to appear selfish. i have not wanted to worry over punctuation.

i have kept a journal consistently since 10th or 11th grade. this summer Changa Bell told me i was already a writer and an author. he pointed to the five bookcases in my living area and pointed out to me one full shelf of my journals. it never occurred to me that i was a writer or an author because i had a shelf full of journals. it never occurred to me that i had been bold enough to shelve my journals as i do the books i have completely read. it never occurred to me that my writing was right there with all these incredible thinkers and writers.

since Changa’s observation over this past summer, i have thought about what he pointed out on that day many times. i have wondered if he was just wanting me to feel better or do more or if he really meant what he said, “You are already a writer and an author. There is a shelf of your journals.”

yesterday after writing in my journal, i asked myself, “why it is so easy for me to write in my journal yet so painfully difficult for me to write?” my response. my journal writing is authentic. my right hand and my soul are connected without a filter, other voices, eyes, critiques, or fears. my right hand tells my truths and my stories. my right hand is not afraid. my right hand is my witness. my right hand works it all out. my right hand feels density, texture, movement, and grasps colors. i connect to the process of my right hand touching the fully blank pages of my journal. there is enough space for my voice, my stories, and me. the pages of my journal can bear the weight of me, my voice, and my stories. the pages have no boundaries. i can write in any direction diagonal or horizontal. the blank pages do not reject me, deny me, or correct me. the pages of my journal and my right hand ask me lovingly to show up and require me to show up…all of me to show up. in my journal writing i get to be me, myself, and i. i am free to be me. a Black girl. a Black woman. a believer. a scholar. an idiot. a reader. depressed. discouraged. delighted. determined. hopeful. and so so much more.

this is the beginning of my writing beyond the journal pages. word processing is not my preferred way of writing. i believe that so much of my story and my voice is eclipsed by not seeing my varied handwriting. in the world of word processing i am forced to choose a font but i will aim to get past this for the sake of my beginning. this is the beginning. i am choosing to show up. i am choosing to come out of my journal. i am coming out.