Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body

by Roxane Gay

I (want to) believe my worth as a human being does not reside in my size or appearance.

The past sometimes feels like it might kill me. It is a very heavy burden.

They share anecdotes that make me seem like I was interesting and not as unbearable as I remember myself.

I was scared of so much as a teenager.

The medical community is not particularly interested in taking the pain of women seriously.

As a woman, as a fat woman, I am not supposed to take up space. And yet, as a feminist, I am encouraged to believe I can take up space.

I try to walk as quickly as I can when I feel someone behind me so I don’t get in their way, as if I have less of a right to be in the world than anyone else.

I do this until I feel safe again.

And still, I am envious because these girls have willpower.

I might remember how low I feel when I overindulge. I never remember.

“Why is my hair falling out?” I asked the Internet, as if I didn’t already know.

My parents were not thrilled to hear that their only daughter was gay. My mother made a comment about how she knew because I once told her I wanted to get married in denim.