On Yellow Teeth and Scratchy Voices 

Lex Chilson

In freshman year and I ate six meals a day. Breakfast, brunch, lunch, siesta, dinner, and the taco bell drive thru. I became baby fat and overeating, chub rub and side boob, one size does not fit all. I started high school in the fall and by then I knew I was the reason we had double doors. While skinny girls sipped on seltzer water and talked about how good it felt to be thin, At this point I couldn’t even throw up right. 

When I went home it was easier to keep silent when Mom complimented my weight loss, “oh honey, dad would be so proud of you” ten minutes later I was spitting and flushing, and spitting and flushing 

and thinking of all the times I came this close to sticking a finger down my throat. 

I walked back to my room on tiptoes to keep the house from shaking, I stayed fat. I lie still enough to fall asleep, 

I stayed fat. Midnight snacks feel like giving up, but I stayed fat. 

In sophomore year and I stayed fat. By this time I had heard all of the fat jokes, and none of my chins were offended. Obesity didn’t run in my family because well, nobody ran in my family. 

My teeth still bled when I brushed them, and I always kept mints in my backpack. I told my friends I could make myself throw up, no fingers needed and they said “cool” like making stomach acid burn my throat and crumble teeth was some sort of super power 

By junior year I try to learn how to whiten teeth and eat again. And I know it’s hard to fix yourself when fat girls with eating disorders are considered success stories. I know there are no sharp corners on this body to raise concern, nobody trying to feed me, nobody asking why my teeth are so yellow or why I haven’t gotten my period in months 

Thin girls ask me why I don't want to be pretty, as if attractiveness is contained by volume. 

So I tell them I’m fat. Not chunky, not on the heavier side, big girl, curvy, plump. I am fat. 

I tell them I am fat, and I don’t sugarcoat it because God only knows I’ll eat that too. 

I tell them about the kisses my thighs share, the rolls of love around my back, the stretch marks striping my stomach. I tell them of stockpiled baby powder to combat chubrub and prayers for no more boobsweat. I tell them I’m fat, let them know I’m a size 16, and I look good. 

On my 17th birthday, I eat whatever the hell I want, and try to forget about all of the excuses. I carefully walk to the bathroom after dinner, scrub my teeth until they bleed, 

look at myself, curves like sand castles, double chin like Ursula, and for the first time, my heart stays quiet, and I will stay fat.