She hated herself for thinking it.

She lived in the Portland neighborhood. Her aunt had been murdered; her dad, too. Her mom wouldn’t let her play outside, and the kids on the bus called her fat yet she was one of the smaller kids on her block.  For months, she paid the kids at her newest school in stickers, lunch money, and snacks so that they would be her friends. It never really worked though, and one afternoon, alone in her room, her mom found her clutching a handmade card, rocking back and forth, undefinable tears streaming down her face. Her teacher had made everyone in the class decorate and sign the piece of purple construction paper. It was meant to act as an apology. 

“I’m sorry we say your fat.”

“U R nice.”

“You arn’t ugly. That was mean.”

“I hope that we can play Wii soon.”

Her mom furiously called the school. Yelled at the bus driver. Told the teacher that she should be a better role model. None of this made life better. This wasn’t why her daughter was crying.

Aneysha was 8 years old. She ate because she loved food. She loved thinking about food. She loved the comfort and momentary control that planning a meal gave her over her unreasonably confounding life. Her mom weighed 408 lbs. Every one she knew had diabetes. Aneysha took medication because she was a Type 2 diabetic, too, not to mention asthmatic and arthritic. Her knees hurt all the time. Her uncle lost his leg last spring to diabetes so every time she has knee pain she thinks that her leg is going to need to be amputated. It doesn’t help that her mom constantly tells her she is going to end up just like him.

She prays every day. 

Her mom doesn’t know how to just be a mom. She takes on too much, and feels obligated to say yes to everything, to help everyone.  Child protective services were called to her home because her children are “obese.” She is to blame. Her doctors tell her Aneysha is dangerously obese, even though they went to the doctor for Strep throat. She is to blame. Because he thought it made for a funny picture, her brother used to feed Aneysha Big Macs when she was a chubby cheeked 2-year-old. He now tells her she is to blame. Aneysha just wants to play games with her mom, spend time with her mom, laugh, and be loved by her mom. Her mom doesn’t have time for that.

Can’t there just be some pill that takes away hunger? Why won’t the doctors give her that for Aneysha? She knows there has to be a pill like that.

Aneysha didn’t ask to be part of an extended family of 12. She didn’t ask to be moved from complex to complex whenever “Uncle” ____ no longer wants to be part of the family. Did you know that food stamps only buy you $7 worth of fresh fruits and vegetables a week? Aneysha probably wants more than that.

Her older cousin has a job and makes his own money. He brings McDonalds home every night. He’s got a high metabolism.  Metabolism is one of the only five syllable words that Aneysha knows. She wants to be like her older cousin.  He calls her fat and tells her that he hates her, her mom, this house, and everything else since his mom abandoned him and custody was given to his fat aunt.

One day, Aneysha’s mom never came home. She didn’t abandon her family. She was 42 years old and her youngest was only two. Her heart was big; she was Big Momma, after all. She just couldn’t make it anymore.

Aneysha was sent to her grandmother’s. MeeMee, as she was known, was embarrassed by Aneysha. She did not want to be seen in public where people would associate her with this child. This wasn’t the cute chocolate baby that MeeMee remembered. Her skin had darkened, especially around her neck, a side effect of diabetes, and MeeMee always made Aneysha cover her neck. MeeMee was 70, there were no children in her building, and she was too old for an 8 year old child. As exercise and a meal, MeeMee had Aneysha walk to the corner to pick up her dinners every night. She got what she could with $3.

When Aneysha was 9, her late mother’s self-proclaimed worst fear came true. Aneysha was over 5 feet tall at that time, and could be mistaken for a teenager if a stranger didn’t take the time to talk to her. She wasn’t sexually active, but her body had developed prematurely. On her walk to get dinner, she was raped, her plastic wallet was stolen, and she was knocked unconscious. Her grandmother, too ashamed to see her, had to be forced by a doctor to sit by Aneysha’s bed in the pediatric ICU.

“Aneysha is not pregnant,” the doctor said. Aloud, the doctor quietly informed MeeMee that Aneysha would probably never be able to have children. Silently, the doctor prayed that the cycle of pain would end for this poor child. At least the cycle ends here, the doctor thought, but she hated herself for thinking it.