It is strongly conveyed that women should never be seen without jewelry and light makeup, even in their own homes—that is, unless they want to fluster their spouses and partners. I am taught that they should revel in cooking abundant, hearty meals for their families, but must not partake too liberally themselves because that svelte figure does not come cheap.

If I have reservations, I am not immediately aware of them. All of this is entrenched in the experience of being a woman: it is normal, no more, no less. I want to be like Senegalese women because even if my dialect is heavily tinged with English and French inflections, even if I don’t live on the continent, even if my Westernized experiences are not the same, I can still belong, in a way

My examination of culinary shows is now colored with a heavy dose of scorn; I can better appreciate my mother’s dismissive attitude toward them. These people, gathered merrily around heaps and mounds of food, savor and salivate, while I exercise utter restraint, while I remain debonaire, following from the corner of my eye like I’m not interested.

As a pseudo-woman, I am finally understanding what this all means. It means that if I supposedly have an eating disorder, I should be proud of it. The inverse attitude would imply that it is a problem, and that I want it to go away. But I don’t want it to go away. If it is acceptable to change oneself to fit a standard, why should my eating disorder be the exception?

I don’t yet understand that I am not thinking straight, that I have spent my life listening to the grisly connotations of womanhood in the Western and African worlds; I don’t yet understand that I have been lulled by them for so long that they are now a litany I am unable to stop reciting. This epiphany tastes coppery. I am a live wire, ablaze with vindication, because there is a method to my madness after all.

*

I am twenty, and my dalliance with anorexia and bulimia has lost its poetic tint. This, because everything else I’ve relegated to the backseat has finally caught up to me. Self-harm no longer offers me the prompt relief it had for so long; what I dismissed as a lifelong propensity for quirk has become full-blown OCD; my anxiety severs me from people and wonderful opportunities; my mood free-falls so frequently I am not surprised when I am diagnosed as bipolar.

My eating disorder, the ward I’ve been nursing all my life, is what backfires most cruelly. I no longer feel vindicated, no longer feel in control. I no longer feel the savage rush of pleasure when I throw up or spend an hour on the elliptical. I am fainting regularly, my hair is falling out, my menstrual cycle is out of whack, I am always cold, my teeth are always hurting, my muscles constantly ache, my heart burns from the acid reflux I’ve subjected upon myself.

I’ve nearly died, people no longer consider me attractive, and suddenly, it just doesn’t feel worth it anymore. I come to this realization with a leaden, ashen taste in the mouth.

I still watch cooking shows, but there’s a desperate edge to that form of entertainment now. I have grown from the teenager who feigned disinterest to salvage her ego. I am listening, actively. Whenever I feel the familiar pangs of restlessness and the uncontainable agony, I make the pilgrimage to the Food Network. As my thoughts wander ever predictably toward the nourishment I will not allow myself, I settle down in front of the television to see it praised and worshiped by adoring gourmands.

My emotional collapse is a blessing in disguise, because it permits me to take a clinical look what I am doing; what I find doesn’t sit well with me. I have gradually come to resent the lessons doled out in my parallel worlds. I no longer admire the women around me who have dieting and self-criticism imprinted in their DNA. I examine my mother now, try to find, between her impeccable lines, an anguish that echoes mine, an anguish that surely, must be there. I study models on n American runways, try to prod beneath their inscrutable veneers for something resembling actual suffering.

Always, I am disappointed.

Americans, when confronted with the unseemly, look the

other way, after they have had their say. We’ve all heard a variation of “you need some meat on your bones.” Sometimes it’s an insult, sometimes it’s a well-meaning but ill-phrased expression of concern, which highlights a similar sentiment: if one could only eat, one would get better (which, in this case, means to be “normal”).

I witness friends of mine succumb to their anorexia and their purging disorders and they are met with similar attitudes of resignation, as if slowly killing oneself is merely a rite of passage reserved for girls. I watch a friend of my sister, who is clearly unwell, become the center of hushed gossip: she exercises constantly; what a freak.

The opposite reaction is the norm in most African societies. Bold commentary on another person’s appearance is not only expected, it’s encouraged: other people keep you in check. Unlike Western societies that espouse individualism, most African cultures operate on a sense of community. Caring about others’ opinions is considered wise and selfless, and as strange as it sounds, it’s not all bad. There is always someone to rely on, people watching out for each other. Everyone can become surrogate family. But this also means that you live under constant scrutiny. When you fail, you do it loudly, for all to see. When you show unacceptable signs of weakness, you become a public spectacle.

Senegalese women are stunning. They are fascinating creatures, a paradigm of beauty as comparably unattainable as the polished one American magazines shove down our throats, and this is no mere accident. I know how hard they work for it, and I know how hard a Senegalese woman pays when she doesn’t walk the line—seeing a popular news anchor shamed off television for her weight gain, only for her to return months later, much slimmer, apologetic for the mishap, is permanently seared in my memory.

You are expected to shed your baby weight soon after you deliver, or you become the butt of fond-ish jokes about your appearance. Strangers are allowed to give you unsolicited advice, criticize you for looking seemingly old, plump, tired. One constantly excuses oneself for one’s appearance, as if to say pardon my rudeness