Jesus, Carbs, & Purity

“pasta is my spirit animal”

I do love carbs, carbs alleviated those morning hunger pains,

a light stabbing

s c r a p i n g

across the abdomen

As a kid, I would have to coat my stomach in calories. Hunger pains came every morning, despite loaves of bread with milk and butter. Plain, untoasted bread with butter. Sneaking into the kitchen pilfering whatever I could reach.

My little brother would be the stepping stool, we had to be quick. I had to pay off the dog and fast. The dog, Sheba was very particular about here bribes. Sheba could and would go and get my mom, before we managed to scramble to the top shelf past the countertop, above the cupboard to the promise land. Far beyond the reach of… a less inspired toddler. My little brother a year and a half younger. Everyone thought we were twin girls, we were as thick as thieves.

We were fed. We were fed all the time. We had Free and Reduced Lunch, free lunches in the park, and food banks. Washington State has some resources for the starving, for the poor. There was always bread. I found solace in bread.

I was a string bean, so I took it upon myself to prove that I didn’t have an eating disorder. I became that kid that everyone gave their leftovers too, the kid that always had a snack on hand.

I was insecure, at home I was compared to my mom’s former self when she was my age. She would say, “I was even smaller than Johari!” She was so small that she had to gain weight to get pregnant, so she says. She was smaller as a child… but I was the child, she was the adult.

Snacks gave me life as a child and the energy to move forward and as a teenager… snacks are the reason I am still here today.

Depression isn’t just feelings of hopelessness, it takes you down. Energy stripped and without defenses, hopelessness takes on a fatal meaning. The akes and pains fluctuate…

PTSD and poverty, it sinks to the bottom of my intestant, its feds before I can. Depression drains the joy out of daily life.

E a t i n g,

w a n t i n g

c r a v i n g savory or sweet food turns to gray-beige clay in my mouth. If I can eat one forkful of clay, then I’ll have one forkful of clay to sustain me. I can sustain myself with less, I have.

Stress makes it worse, trauma really nails it, tagging my flesh. I was nailed to this loss of free will, of want, of wanting of food. The struggle between a calm fed tum or the crunching nibbles of starvation.

Back to that child, that kid. That tiny 5 feet 6 inches, age 16 and about 100 pounds give or take depending on the yearbook.

I was forced to wear clothes far too large for my tiny frame. It was the religion of modesty, form-fitting clothes made me look “too grown-up.” I was tiny, taught, and then there’s that baby bubble butt.

Wearing clothes several sizes too big, while being compared to a smaller version of my mom really fucked with my body image. Not to mention, the constant battle between their definition of modesty.

– I don’t care –

Not then and not now.

Skinny jeans, Vogue, a straight-A student… go fuck yourself if you have a problem because she doesn’t want to live up to this man-made ideal, this man-made religion.

Christianity is manmade, all religions are. That’s my theory, religion is untestable after all, how convenient.

Also, the bible forbids bikinis because that leads to sex which is evil. My purity is all I have, my one note of value. Thanks, Jesus!

I didn’t get to wear bikinis, a tankini with shorts or a one piece was all I should show. That navel clearly leads to sin, I do have an innie belly button… When I was young and small I wanted to show off my tiny frame in tiny swimwear.

But as a teenager, I felt shame, I was taught to be ashamed by any part of me that connects with the secular world. My body had to be covered to protect me from the world of ‘moral damnation.’

I developed this dystopic relationship with my body. I felt that I was fat despite being underweight. Fighting to become Christ-like when every part of my being was screaming at me to stop. Stop letting my worth be defined by a bunch of dead people who even then couldn’t come to a consensus about the meaning of life.

Thanks for reading my rambles of woe, there will be more.

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