southern peach
John (1) was a true Southern gentleman. On rare occasions, he wore cowboy boots around campus, reminding us of his origins. Fresh off any home visit, he would bring back frozen peaches, foie gras, and duck confit. It was a bit strange, but everything was always delicious. John was in our university’s journalism school, which was a perfect fit for him. He was really into politics and a great conversationalist. He had blonde hair, brown eyes, and a great smile that would be assets when he inevitably became an on-air personality. All of the girls in our dorm loved his subtle southern accent. I’m sure that worked in his favor, too.
Like most girls on our floor (and probably anyone who knew of him in the dorm), I liked John. He was charming and alluring but in a relationship with his high school girlfriend when we first met (college tested their relationship, and it didn’t last long). I had a crush on someone else, so I didn’t focus my energy on John. The main thing John and I had in common were our home circumstances. We were both privileged enough not to worry about money growing up (which, due to our school's (relatively limited) economic diversity, wasn’t the case for everyone). We shared a cultivated taste in food (I’m not sure I ever saw John eating Dominoes at two a.m.). We also both loved hiking and being outdoors. We were sarcastic in the same way and had a similar sense of humor. Other than that, we may not have had everything in common, but he became one of my best friends for a few years.
One of my friends suspected John and I liked each other and wondered if we were secretly dating. I was flattered at the thought that someone from the outside thought that John could be into me. After all, he was one of the most desirable freshmen in our dorm. I reevaluated and dissected every interaction. Maybe there had been some light flirting? Definitely not enough for me to confront him about it.
Soon after, John started dating another girl on my floor. John’s girlfriend and I didn’t exactly click. She was a cute, petite, and bubbly blonde. She had this unique, fervent, wild, childlike energy. John’s girlfriend was very eccentric. What I didn’t appreciate about her back then was that she owned how strange she was, which was strange because many kids are just trying to minimize how much they stand out in their first year of college. Not John’s girlfriend; she leaned into her eccentricities, and people either loved her or couldn’t get far away fast enough. (That’s an exaggeration, but it did annoy some people (primarily girls that may have been upset at how many boys liked her)). Even though she had her shadows, e.g., anxiety, intensity, etc., like everyone else, people thought it was endearing. To top it all off, she was so sweet, unlike me, who was incredibly dark inside. I did like that she loved cats because I also love cats. That’s about as close as we got.
I tried being friends with John’s girlfriend long before she was John’s girlfriend. During my first year, I vowed to be open to anything because I had spent the past eighteen years living in a bubble. She was just too herself, and I subconsciously found that intimidating. If anything, I was jealous that someone as weird as her (it’s a compliment, I promise) was not only comfortable being themselves but also loved. Meanwhile, I was stuck, always trying to be someone else to scrape by. It also didn’t help that not only did everyone think she was interested in my boyfriend (before he was my boyfriend), but also they thought he was interested in her. My jealousy compounded. Even though my boyfriend didn’t like her, the feeling of the possibility that someone would have chosen her over me never left. It grew more when I found out that she and John were dating because I liked John. How did she effortlessly capture the attention of everyone I wanted?
I can’t remember how long John and his girlfriend dated. It was long enough. Even while they were in a relationship, I got a nagging feeling that John could have still liked me. This feeling remained a speculation and was never confirmed. We were still close friends who didn’t seem to bother his girlfriend (of course, she was never insecure). John was very loyal. Not only was he in a committed relationship, but also my boyfriend was his other best friend; he would have never crossed that line. When she couldn’t go with his family on vacation, he took me instead. Nothing weird happened, and the break was a lot of fun. Even though I wasn’t his first choice, going on the trip made me feel special.
John would compliment me in ways that I still only felt “pretty for a black girl.” He never said those words because if he did, I hope I would have known better to run for the hills. Still, I couldn’t compete with his cute, sweet blonde girlfriend. The only thing I had going for me was that I was thin. I noticed a pattern when John described the girls he found attractive: they were all thin, smaller, and white.
I don’t know that I ever really liked John. Don’t get me wrong; I liked him because he was a good friend and, sure, he was objectively attractive. Still, I couldn’t imagine myself with him. It was always awkward in my head. So what was going on?
I wanted John to want me. It’s not even personal to him. If someone like John, someone traditional, wealthy, and white, wanted me, then it meant that I had succeeded. It would mean all those years I spent bending over backward to attain the unattainable weren’t in vain. It would mean that I was good enough. It would mean that I was beautiful. It would mean that I was desirable. I wanted to be wanted by him.
In the back of my mind, I knew that someone like John wouldn’t end up with someone like me. He told me once that his parents thought his college girlfriend was too eccentric. I imagined what it would be like if he introduced me as his girlfriend to his parents. They probably would have said I was too black. My relationship with John reflected the pain of feeling undesirable.
Wanting to be wanted by someone like John motivated most of my actions throughout college. I was always on a quest to prove that even though I was black, I could be as beautiful as someone like John’s girlfriend or become “someone like John’s” girlfriend. I did whatever I could to receive external validation; it was never enough. Maybe I would have the same freedom as John’s girlfriend to be me. I thought once I felt lovable enough, I could exhale.
Thank you for reflecting one of the more complex aspects of my core wound. Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to trace it back to its origins and begin healing.
When I was younger, I would always get compliments on how tall and thin I was. Nothing else. Consciously, I realized that the standard of beauty was based on being white and thin. I couldn’t control that. Subconsciously, I knew that there was nothing I could do about being black. I couldn’t control that either. Consciously, I did everything I could to remain thin.
My efforts to remain thin resulted in a full-blown eating disorder. It wasn’t as bad in college. I had rowing practice six days a week, so washing down my Trix cereal with grape soda wasn’t a problem (thankfully, I didn’t develop diabetes). I was aware of my body but didn’t feel the need to change it since it was pretty much “perfect.” (At least that’s what other people told me.)
Eating disorders (from my unprofessional perspective) rarely had anything to do with food. It’s always something else masking itself. My eating disorder was a manifestation of my inner critic. I can’t pinpoint when my inner critic showed up; it’s not something we are born with. I suspect it began to show its face in high school. I didn’t have the strictest parents, but they did expect highly of me. My inner critic made sure that I was always in check so that my parents wouldn’t have to instead. After that, it lingered around.
I began to notice how loud the inner critic depended on how much of my life felt manageable. College was mainly fine; I knew my path: do well and graduate on time. It was much worse after graduation because everything was spiraling out of control. I went to stay with some family friends just outside of San Fransico to find a job. I discovered too late that I didn’t want to do anything related to computer science; it simply wasn’t my calling. I enjoyed my time in Northern California because it felt like home. Nevertheless, it was incredibly stressful to be under someone else’s roof while they waited for me to get myself together. When I returned home, I stayed with my dad until he was frustrated and didn’t know what to do with me. Knowing that I was disappointing him was hard, and he assumably felt helpless. I chose to stay with my dad because my mom and I didn’t get along. I felt closer and safer with my dad. When that situation came to a halt, I had no choice but to show up at my mom’s doorstep.
My dad was quieter in his disappointment, whereas my mom had no issues expressing how furious she was with me. The things she would say to me were awful. I experienced a long-term sadness that I had never felt before. (Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Now I know she was trying to help because she loved me. It didn’t feel like that at the time.) I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. With no clarity or direction, I felt paralyzed. It felt like my mom loved me less and less every time we spoke about my job search. She called me sad and pathetic, which stood out amongst her cruel words. I felt unwanted and worthless.
The only quick fix I had to feel somewhat lovable and valuable was to remain as small as possible. The only reason I had access to a scale was I was staying with my mom, who had one. (I don’t know anyone under thirty who owns a scale, but I could be wrong.) Every morning I would run in the park, follow it up with a hot bath, and, while completely dehydrated, step on the scale. The routine helped me feel like I was maintaining order within my chaotic inner world. I wasn’t merciless; if the number deviated by a pound or two, that was okay. Anything outside of that, however, was a problem that could be remedied with what I chose for lunch.
The routine only ended when I eventually found a job and moved out. Moving out meant no more scale or way of knowing what that number was. I sure wasn’t going out of my way to buy one. (Somehow, in my mind, that would have been absurd.) I naively thought this issue would follow suit once my problems were solved. It didn’t. I engaged in that ritual for over a year. That kind of constant internal criticism doesn’t just disappear. Not having a scale didn’t stop me from nitpicking. Having a job didn’t stop me from relentlessly criticizing my body. To make matters worse, my mom and I began having dinner weekly on Tuesdays after I moved out. When I came over for the first time, I located the scale.
I am so sorry for everything I put you through. I am sorry for constantly comparing, judging, and criticizing you even though you have done nothing but support, nourish, and hold space with me from the day I was born.
Patterns that start small are virtually untraceable. It took me years to notice how bad my disorder was and to begin healing it. I’m not a fan of New Year’s resolutions in that you need to make a list of thirty things to accomplish by year-end. Maybe you can, but I am not the kind of person that can focus on thirty goals over a long period. I don’t know where this tradition originated, making it inauthentic. I do like the idea of reexamining the visions we have for ourselves to make sure we are in alignment with what we want to offer in our lives. I usually begin thinking about this around my birthday. This year, I decided that the one thing I wanted to do was heal my eating disorder. That’s it. (It is a lofty goal since I have had it for so long. That doesn’t make it impossible.) Also, “heal” doesn’t mean go away. I don’t know if they completely go away or remain to ebb and flow. I wanted to understand it better, know its origin and open a conversation. Truthfully, that was the impetus for this collection of essays.
People dream about a wide variety of things. Some people have lucid, fun dreams featuring them flying through Costa Rica; others have prophetic dreams about someone they know being pregnant or the impending death of a family member. My dreams are not that cool. My dreams have always pointed to things in my subconscious that I need to pay attention to consciously. The things I need to heal and integrate within myself without fail show up in my dreams.
I had a dream about a year ago that I was in a family friend’s childhood home. My sister and friend were in my energetic periphery; I could feel them around. I went to a bedroom in the house and found a scale in the corner. It looked old and gross like it hadn’t been touched in years. I began fiddling with it, not knowing how it worked. The unit of measurement was set to kilograms, so I tried to find a way to convert it to pounds. (I am always bad with numbers in my dreams; kilograms would have looked like ancient Greek to me). I remember standing on the scale but couldn’t tell what the number said. So I got off the scale and saw my friend’s stepmother vacuuming in the hallway. I was ashamed; I didn’t want her to see me on the scale. I tried closing the door but couldn’t get it to shut. She was about to enter the room.
This dream is pretty cut and dry. I only had this specific dream once; some shared some similarities, but they were more vague bits and pieces. Dreams don’t exist in a vacuum. When I analyze my dreams, I look to other dreams I have had to see if they relate. It took about a year to realize that this dream was connected to John’s dream.
Once a year, around John’s birthday, I would dream about him. I have had many recurring dreams, but none that have only popped by for a visit every year. I was accustomed to urgent dreams occurring at least once every twenty-nine days. I don’t feel a wide range of emotions in my dreams. When something desperately needs my attention, I feel angry or sad. I never fail to notice those dreams.
Every dream with John was happy. That caught my attention. It was an odd stray from my typical array of emotions. I wasn’t complaining. I loved those dreams.
I felt loved in those dreams.
This dream has been a subtle hint all along. What are the odds that it was with John in the one dream where I felt loved? It says nothing about us, specifically on the physical plane; we haven’t talked in years. (The most interesting dream characters are ones that I haven’t spoken to in a while. I’ve noticed that this means that it is less about them as a person and more about what they symbolize. John has transformed into a very powerful symbol of “desirability.”) I don’t know what this dream means entirely. Dreams are like slow-blooming flowers; they are multilayered and reveal their beauty one petal at a time. However, it reflects a narrative in my head that a part of me feels accepted when someone like John wants me. Desirability is a complex wound that I look forward to exploring further.
Whenever I acknowledge a dream’s message, they disappear. I will only know in several months whether I have honored the core message of this dream sequence. I appreciate the dream for showing me the more complex sides of myself. I don’t know that I would have been able to write about the nuances of this wound, let alone begin the healing process without it.
I love you.
(1) Disclaimer: Anything I write about anyone in my essays results from my subjective, human, and imperfect perspective. None of my essays aim to portray anyone negatively; that would be unfair, as this is my side of the story. I do not claim 100% accuracy of anything but my perspective, mainly because I have not had contact with some mentioned people in several years. We all grow and change.
