I reach deep within myself. Legs shoulder width apart. I grip the bar and squat down low. I break parallel. My lungs fill with oxygen. My eyes burn with the drops of sweat leaving my forehead. My legs quiver with devotion. That’s how I know it’s working. You see the 203.4 pound me. But, as I watch myself perform each rep in the mirror, I see the 145 pound her. Her, not me. I do it for her. And I won’t let her down.
It is amazing how lucky I truly am. I have all my fingers, and all my toes. I have a full head of hair. My face is fully formed. My arms are in perfect proportion to my body. I have two lungs. They breathe in just the right amount of air. My heart beats steady and fast. My legs are long and strong. My feet are sturdy. I wake up each and every morning. Yet, still I complain.
Little Jalene has a massive tumor in her brain. She is tiny and frail; only four years old. Her hair. All gone. Her lungs. Collapsed. She doesn’t want for cars, or money, or clothes. Her greatest wish: to live forever. Tomorrow morning, she will not wake up. And yet still, she doesn’t complain.
Because I am fat, I don’t matter. Because I am fat, I am irrelevant. He could never see me like that. Because I’m not a female. Female is synonymous with beauty; beauty with thin; thin with her. I am not her. I could never be her.