While No One was Looking . . .

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Kindergarten MJ

Everything made sense in my life at this age. Every day was the same, and so were the people around. Occasionally, my mom would attempt to introduce me to new environments, with varied results. What I remember about my life at this time, was all positive. I don’t think I understood any negative things in the world. I just wanted my rabbit (security blanket) and my Mommy. This was a Happy Ass Lil’ Girl. Everyone used to tell me how smart and pretty i was. I was always the teacher’s pet. I was friends with everyone I encountered, because I presented well. I was a very articulate, polite, well put together, petite little girl. I didn’t understand that any of the “isms” even existed.

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Middle School MJ

My grandfather introduced me to Pork the summer before 6th grade.  I know that sounds random, but most girls in my family can tell you when they started gaining weight.  I spent that summer with my father in Pittsburgh, and it was spent at my grandfather’s house. He had a freezer full of food in the basement, and every night he would cook some kind of greasy ass meat.  Joyce didn’t cook like that, we had baked chicken every night.  My grandfather would let me eat any and everything while I was there.  I gained so much weight that summer my cousins in Detroit didn’t even recognize me.  I wasn’t ashamed of my weight, I just saw that people looked at me differently.

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College MJ (I looked like an Auntie)

By the time I got to college, I was used to being fat. I was used to being the fattest person in the room, and used to chairs being uncomfortable.  I still lived my life. Just slower than most people.  I went to parties and danced my ass off.  I made friends of all sizes, but my main ones were smaller than me. I started hating going to the mall with them tho.  Because we didn’t shop in the same stores.  When I was with them, the staff in those stores looked at me like I was beneath them.  Because I was fat. So I stopped shopping for clothes.  Everything came from Lane Bryant anyway.  I had brief moments of “Feeling Myself” but it was mostly because all my friends were gay men Junior/Senior year and they made me stop wearing turtlenecks even in the summer. I started wearing colors other than blue and green. I started buying sexy bras and showing off my chest.  It wasn’t all the time, I grew into my body.  I stopped thinking it was this thing, and realized I could control how I felt about it.

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Post College MJ

I lost my virginity at 26 years old.  This matters.  Boys in college weren’t checking for the Big Girls, they just weren’t.  It was already weird I was a virgin in college, the conversations were just so damn awkward after college.  A Grown Ass Man, 11 years older than me, was the first person I slept with.  It was the 1st time I had felt pretty in a long time.  Desired or wanted. It was a one time experience, but it gave me hope.

I was just gone have to find more men who knew I was fly regardless of my size.  That was the goal.  I started trying to be cute on purpose.  I wasn’t trying to lose weight, just look better in the clothes I had on. Then I went to a conference in 2009, and meet the most beautiful BIg Girls.  They were well dressed, wore makeup, and looked GOOD. There was no shame in their game, they knew they looked good and were HAPPY being Big. What if I didn’t let my weight make me sad? What if I stopped thinking I could only be loved by men who liked BIg Girls?  What if, I just lived my life?

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2012 MJ

This is me at my heaviest and Happiest (until now).  I was in all types of love.  I worked from home, and lived a homemaker’s existence.  That man would never love me back tho, because I couldn’t keep up with him. I couldn’t dance at the same speed he could, I couldn’t join him for a quick run in the morning.  I could barely walk our dog. When we broke up, I wasn’t surprised.  A large part of me felt like I wasn’t good enough for him anyway.  Because I was Fat.  So I came up with a plan.

It felt like my weight kept me from being happy for the last time!  I worked out every day for 8 months after we broke up.  It was the first time I’d ever made an effort to lose weight.  I lost it to prove him wrong.  To show him I was attractive, and cute, and worthy of his love. Thank God I finally realized he was just an asshole. I think I was a Size 20 at my smallest back then.  I lost the weight, but I didn’t learn anything from it.  So I gained it all back, and more.

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2017 MJ

In July of 2017, my mom was diagnosed with cancer for the 2nd time. I was 2000 miles away, and unable to travel freely because of my job/finances. I stopped eating.  It wasn’t a conscious choice, it’s just how my depression choose to manifest itself.  Before I knew it, I’d lost about 20lbs.  People were telling me how good I looked, and asking me my secret.  When I answered, “Depression,” they didn’t quite know how to take it.  Before I took 2 months off work to come back home and see about my mom, my therapist said to me, “What if you actually made the effort to keep losing weight?” It was a simple question, but the answer changed my life.

I had stopped making an effort to do anything.  Because my weight was a burden.  I stopped going to public events, because I didn’t want to have an issue with the seats/bleachers.  My body was my depression manifested.  I got to Michigan, joined a gym, and worked out for 2 hours every day. I lost an additional 30 lbs in the 1st month.  I made an effort, and I didn’t let myself make excuses.  I held myself accountable, and let others do it as well.

I figured out so much shit, released so many traumas that were attached to my size/weight/body along the way.  3 weeks ago, I bought a pair of pants at were a 14/16.  My original goal was to be a size 18 jean, so I can buy jeans at Walmart. [Because cheap}

While no one was looking, I lost a whole person. 

While no one was looking, I figured myself out.  I found out who I loved, and why I loved them.  I see this new girl in the mirror, and she’s so damn cute. I was so used to looking one way . . . I didn’t even notice when I stopped looking that way.  It’s only when I put on clothes that used to fit I realize how much I’ve changed.

I’m this . . . sexy girl, with a Phat Ass, and everything is real.  Imma BAAAAAAAAAAAAAD BITCH, and proud of it.  I can walk up stairs without running out of breath. I can park at the end of the parking lot and not be sweating by the time I get to the door of Target. I don’t have to ask for a seat belt extender on a plane. People don’t move over if I sit next to them.

Society sucks.  The fact that fat people aren’t accepted as “normal” is bullshit.  People who never used to pay attention to me, talk to me all the time. I’ve lost friends because of this weight loss. I’ve also gained relationships I wouldn’t trade for anything.  My size has been part of me my whole life. It’s not anymore.

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While No One Was Looking, I became the best version of myself.

You’re Welcome.

 

 

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Pick Me! Choose Me! Love Me!

(This Blog’s Soundtrack is located below)

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I remember this episode so clearly, and how it made me feel.  I knew that feeling, begging some dude to pay attention to me.  To be in public, what he said you were to him in private.  To acknowledge my existence in some real way, instead of just via text or phone call or inside a hotel room.  Meredith was basically saying . . . ‘I’M RIGHT HERE, THE FUCK????‘ It felt like every conversation I’ve ever had with men I was genuinely interested in.

Things have already started happening to me that are brand the fuck new.  Random dudes asking for my number, people actually acknowledging my existence instead of ignoring me.  It’s a heady experience, being seen for the 1st time in a long time.  I’m still trying to rap my head around it, and how to properly react to it.  Personal trainers at the gym commenting on my progress, people I haven’t seen in years hitting me up to hang out.  Lil’ Ole’ Me.

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I’ve started talking to people I’ve always wanted to talk to.  Just shooting my shot all in folks DM’s.  Racking up numbers and Peen Pics.  Reopened my OKCupid account, and updated the pictures with my new slimmer face and body. Walking with the switch in my hips my brother told me NO ONE is ready for. Put out some feelers to some old Beauxs, and lined up my #Summer2018Heauxtation.

JUST as I was already feeling myself, enter the Man of 16 Y/O MJ’s DREAMS, LightBright.

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I’m not bragging, I’m just setting a scene.  All 16 year old MJ wanted was a light skinned boy to like her (This is a whole nother blog.  Save your comments for that one.) I just wanted somebody cute to hold my hand in public, and make other people jealous.  Yes I USED TO BE petty . . . SO.

Below is 16 Y/O MJ’s Boyfriend Wishlist:

  • Taller than me
  • Skinny
  • Have Light eyes, and
  • Have a cool car.

Don’t this negro fit all my shallow ass criteria to a got damn T. Where the hell did HE come from, and how long is he staying?  Because YES PLEASE. For some reason, this fine ass man asked me for my number, then actually called!!!!!! HE SAW ME, and wants to keep doing it. What is my Detroit Life?!?!?

LightBright makes me feel a way when I see him.  I giggle.  Anyone who knows me, knows this makes no sense, because I don’t do that lame shit. Stupid girly shit … that ain’t me.  But it is when LB is around.  Just . . . hands in front of my face, stop looking at me type shit.  I would be ashamed, but that shit is FUN.

Simultaneously, ENTER THAT nigga.

The great thing about THAT nigga, I can be myself.  I don’t have to dumb shit down.  I can be me, and 85% of the time, it’s just fine. 10% of the time, I’m in my feelings and/or horny so I say and feel dumb shit. That last 5% . . that’s when we are both too intoxicated to function and the entire conversation is just us laughing at each other.

WHY DON’T I DESERVE THIS?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!??? 

Why can’t I have this be my everyday?!?!?!

Why do I get to find these fucking people who make me want to spend every fucking second of my life with them? Then they are like . . . “I mean, U cool and whatever . . . but you ain’t good enough for me.  Maybe some other nigga, just not me.

Some Facts that should be now stated:

  1. The most important thing I need to remind myself, is THAT nigga came out of nowhere.  I didn’t expect him to be who he is.  I didn’t expect him to be able to hold a fucking conversation.  Let alone, turn me on, or know all my kink without me telling him.  Shit like that . . . knowing my private shames without me telling you.  I feel like there HAS TO BE a reason we connected.
  2. LB is younger than me.  He’s not supposed to be anything other than what he is . . . I’m fine with that for right now.
  3. A bitch is . . maybe was . . . all up in her feelings for THAT nigga.  I really can’t even be mad, because he told me what he was doing, did it, and then reminded me he did it. It’s my own damn fault for thinking I was different
  4. I like giving men power in most relationships, it’s prolly the submissive in me. Then I met THAT nigga. And he was like, “Thanx Simple Bitch, Imma use this to fuck you all the way up.  You’re Welcome!”

Who did I call to cry about it???

#Him . . . the one THAT nigga was supposed to help me replace. 

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Because #Him is the Prototype, and has probably always been.  I’d murder someone for #Him, like plead guilty and er’thing.  Spend the rest of my life in jail, knowing that he is with his family and safe and happy.  That’s the reason I know it might actually be some real shit. . .cuz I can MAYBE count 8 other people in my life I would do that for, and he’s attached to 4 of them.

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Talking to #Him is like being held . . then choked while being dicked down . . . then held again.

Talking to LB is like being caressed . . . then dicked down . . . then caressed again.

Talking to THAT nigga is like being part of a whole . . . then ripped apart . . . then held . . . then choked within an inch of my life . . . then caressed . . . then dicked down. . . then patched back together with some of the pieces missing . . . then told its my fault for losing the pieces. 

So the real question is . . . How long is it going to take me to get out of my feelings for THAT nigga.  Because it’s not even worth being mad at him.  Like not at ALL.

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I feel unstable right now. Spotify isn’t helping me at ALL.  They keep hipping me to all these emo ass rapper/singer groups and artists.  Like the hell.  Can I NOT be in my feelings for a day? Like is that a thing???

 

Dear White People . . . I Have the Right to Be Angry

*If you are my friend and you are White, – if this offends you, contact me.  Have the difficult conservation with me.  If you aren’t willing to have a conversation with me about this, we aren’t really friends.*

I’ve started to see every white person I don’t know as the enemy/a threat.  I’m not exactly sure when it first started, but it was probably around the time that Mike Brown was murdered.  I didn’t grow up afraid of White people. Even though my mother made sure I knew the history of the United States, I lived the first 32 years of my life believing in the goodness of all people, regardless of their skin color.

I THOUGHT I understood racism.  I thought racism was dying out, and racism was just based on old ideals, in the south. I thought as we spent more time conversing and getting to know each other, racism would die.  After all, “Some of my BEST FRIENDS ARE WHITE.” They love me and I love them. They’ve never treated me any differently because I was Black*.

Racism is the herpes of -isms. Sometimes you forget it’s even there. But then, there is a flare up that very lewdly reminds you, “Oh Bitch, I NEVER Left.” It’s been there, lurking under the surface just waiting to ruin your whole got damn day. Be it the random white dude who won’t let you over on the freeway, to the lady checking your math, right after you give her the total, about money She Owes You. Or even, The News.

Before Mike Brown, I felt like the bad apples would eventually see the error in their ways, and we would all live together in harmony. Post-Ferguson, when people I’ve known my whole life wouldn’t stand up and speak up, I was . . . lost/hurt/angry/frustrated/devastated/other words that mean angry.

Why aren’t you fighting for me and my people? Why aren’t you in the streets, and talking to your family members about what is going on in the news? How could you even let the words come out of your mouth, “Well if he wouldn’t have . . . “

Strangers were livid about the collective rage coming from Black Millennials. They were livid that we were standing up for ourselves and being vocal about injustice. I’d never seen such ugly comments on internet articles. The wave of unarmed children, women, and men, killed by police officers, that followed Mike Brown’s murder has done nothing to illicit rage in some my White Counterparts.

They keep killing my people! Even children in the park aren’t safe! My skin color puts me in immediate danger every hour of every day! I’m afraid when I drive at night to get pulled over by a cop.  Help Me! Speak Up for Me! Can’t you see my pain! HELP ME!

It was at this point I realized the real issue.  The ROOT of Racism, is WHITE. PRIVILEGE. {a term for societal privileges that benefit people identified as white in Western countries, beyond what is commonly experienced by non-white people under the same social, political, or economic circumstances.}

Add to that a sense of Entitlement, and we are all pretty much fucked.  Because YOU don’t want the status quo to change.  You are safe, comfortable, and happy with the way YOU are treated in the world we currently live in.  In your bubble, nothing is wrong.  Because you don’t worry about your children when they go out to play, why should you notice/protest that I have to have that worry?

Enter All Consuming Rage.

I am WORTH your concern.  How DARE you live a life of blissful ignorance, with my people’s blood running in the street?!?!?!?! My Life Matters.

BLACK. LIVES. MATTER.

That’s not a fucking Slogan. It’s a truth. And the fact that your response is, “All Lives Matter,” is not only insulting, but Bullshit.  The correct phrase should be, “All Lives that Mimic My Own Matter.”

I’ve started to re-evaluate everything I ever knew about the people around me.  I’ve started to look at certain situations, and ask new questions. I find myself assuming motivations, before I start a conversation to actually understand motivations.

Then I’m pissed again, because that’s what YOU do. It’s why I’m angry in the first place. The difference between me and YOU, I catch myself.

I do the FUCKING WORK. I take the next step, acknowledge my hurt/pain/fear and it’s affect on the situation, and try to make sure I’ve done everything to understand your point of view and/or educate you.

I’m tired. I’m  FUCKING Exhausted.

Because I have to do my work, your work, and extra work.  I’m So Damn Tired. Why won’t you do the work? Why won’t you talk to the people in your life that refuse to listen to me? Help Me Please!!! I’m so tried of carrying this burden on my own.

{I went to the doctor because I was feeling off last week.  My blood pressure was 200/148. That’s no hyperbole. This is why I’m tired. It’s a miracle I haven’t stroked out yet.}

And this has caused my current mindset to be, “If you aren’t For Us, you’re Against Us.”

I have the right to be angry.  The fact that I haven’t started fighting people in the street is a testament to my fairly decent upbringing, and my need to keep my job. Stop telling me why I should turn the other cheek.  Stop telling me it’s going to get better, especially if you aren’t actively working to make it better.

I’m done trying to be nice, and quiet, and calm.  I’m Fucking Angry.

Do something, or shut-up. Point. Blank. Period.