Sorell had gone too far. Mireille would have slapped her if Sorell wasn't horrified by her deed.

Her niece's misconceptions were inconceivable considering Sorells' level of education and cultural knowledge.

In Mirelle's opinion, Sorell wasn't a woman to be attained by image issues. Yet Sorell was fatphobic. For Mirelle, Sorell suffered from a form of Negrophobia where she had a solid aversion to blackness while pretending to be proud of it. Sorell was the fruit of years of living in a world where colorism trended and reminded her she wasn't and could never be seen as pretty.

Unlike those who fought for their likeness and representation, Sorell layered herself with nonsense.

The stakes were high, especially for a woman, correction for a black woman of her status. A wall of taboos stopped Sorell from overcoming.

She couldn't speak of her fears and uneasiness. From her eating disorder to her body dysmorphia Sorell was a tombstone who, from time to time, let the demons out of her Pandora's box.

The bathroom incident was a demon hour moment. Sorells' violent reaction forced her aunt to take drastic measures.

"You can't force me. I'm not going to pay for a cure."

"I'm sorry, Sorell. It's for your own good. I'll pay if it's the only way to save you from yourself. You must do this, Sorell. You can't continue living like this. You'll end up hurting yourself."

Mireille was scared. She didn't want to get a call from a stranger explaining something had happened to her niece.

Regie told their team Sorell had urgent family matters to attend to, and the anchor found herself hidden in a remote area of Normandy.

The institution Sorell got admitted to was private. No one except some secret service probably knew its existence. Each guest, as the administration called the patients, had mini a bungalow on what seemed like a Center park ranch.

The therapists came to meet the guest in their bungalows. Group sessions were optional, but many avoided them, fearing the eventuality of meeting other celebrities.

Sorell had a fortnight to get her head in check.

"So, Sorell, I have a question for you. What does being a woman mean to you?"

"Do you want the diplomatic mix or the gritty reality?" Sorell asked.

"Say what first comes to mind."

"It's a fantasy. A game of make belief where you run after a chimera of perfection. We're not born equal. Some start life with A-grade options. While others are leftovers from the beginning."

The doctor nodded and wrote on her clipboard, "you say some have better options. What do you mean by that?"

"Come on, doctor, the concept of privileges is real. Pretty privilege, white privilege, heterosexual privilege, able-bodied privilege. And to make sure things stay that way, you have patriarchy, religion, colorism, social media, and a whole armada of lobbies."

"Okay, but you must admit this depends on where you are. One can never be a victim of all," the doctor added.

"A black woman can because she comes into the world with something she can't wash off with soap. Something people have always loathed for centuries. Her skin. From then on, she spends her whole life battling. There's no privilege to be black. A black person has to fight and claim ownership of anything they create because no one will ever acclaim them. Being a woman when black is like someone added extra weight on the cannonball you're already trailing."

Sorell was on edge, and hearing her words; one guessed she literally brought a residence in burnout vile.

"Are you angry, Sorell?"

"Yes, I don't know what I'm doing here."

The first sets of sessions gave nothing. Sorell repeated what she had already told therapists in Paris. Her dread of food was finally less daunting. The real issue and the basis of most, if not all, of Sorells' phobias, were harnessed in the subject they tackled there.

The doctor rephrased, "are you angry for being a black woman? If you could be someone else, who would it be?"

Sorell didn't need to reflect. The answer wiggled to the tip of her tongue, but she refrained from unleashing it. Thinking it was dumb, as if some of her theories flew higher up on the intelligence scale.

"So?"

I'd wish to have a lighter complexion and hair. Actually, just the hair will do.

Yes, hair was the ultimate sign of womanhood. Before one tried to figure out if a woman could bear children, they saw the hair. Women who cropped theirs were often ones that had a full hair bed. For Sorell, it was a luxury. Hair was all that ever mattered.

The doctor saw things differently.

Sorell suffered from a severe case of inferiority complex that made her detest those who managed to find pride and happiness in what society considered as flaws or disgraceful features.

Facial features, weight, color, Sorell didn't understand how one could see beauty where most saw oblivion.

Ravan could say all the sweetness he wanted. Like most people, he only noticed her when she had it all.

Did he fancy Sorell the fat nerd? No.

Sorell was almost sure Ravan knew she wrote the letter back in high school, but it was more reassuring to assume it was beautiful biracial Petra than Charcoal-toned-fat Sorell.

That was the truth. Ravan would be a hypocrite to say the contrary; because of this, Sorell couldn't imagine the man appreciating her for who she was without the glam-up.

It frustrated Sorell to know she would have to pretend to be someone else with Ravan.

"What does being a woman mean to you, doctor?"

"Being a woman means having a strong sense of identity, owning yourself and your beliefs. ㅡAccepting your body as one that adapts and changes over timeㅡbeing confident and building up the people in your life. ㅡIt means having the wisdom to be grateful for what you have while still being hungry enough for personal growth. Having the will to accompany others on their path towards their better self," doctor Halimi answered."

Sorell laughed, "what essay did you dig that up from? You sound like me when I'm on talk shows."

The doctor smiled, "well, part of it is from you. I watched the empower episode on channel five on International woman's day."

Sorell chuckled and clapped her hands, "wow, I do say a lot of bullshit. I must sound like a bozo right now. Where are you from, doctor?"

"I'm French-Moroccan."

"I see," Sorell swung back and forth on the rocking chair, "so tell me, was your social ascension nice and easy?"

"No, I'm a Muslim. One can't say it's easy."

"You don't wear a hijab?" Sorell asked.

"My profession and French laws don't allow it."

Sorell nodded, acknowledging the woman didn't have it easy either, "It must cost you."

"It does, but I find gratification in helping others."

"You mean in helping twisted minds like mine. Welcome to my world, doctor. You see, the difference between you and me is still the skin. That olive tan of yours scales you up. Has anyone ever called you doo-doo or dog poop?" Sorell leaned back in her seat, "I doubt it."

"Who did that, Sorell?" The doctor asked.

The girl remembered the kids and her mother's boyfriends.

"Come here, you piece of dog poop. I'll show you not to speak back to adults."

Heavy slaps and punches, her mother wasn't the only one to see Sorell as a frustration outlet. Her mother's deadbeat boyfriends contributed to nourishing Sorells' self-loathing.

And then came the rivalry with her mother, who spat her venom when drunk. "ㅡDiou you think you're better than me? ㅡDiou you think you'll get betta men with that tarmac dark face of yours? ㅡYou betta study it's your only way out because no classi uppa-scale man with eyes to see is gunna want you. No man, Sorell, no man."

Where many drew strength from their parents, Sorell's mother drained hers.

The woman saw her identity blurred. Sorell saw no pride in being dark-skinned. Worse, Sorell saw how her mother's life changed as her skin bleached a few tones lighter. From drunken dicks her mother got men with nine to fives.

When her skin lightened a few more shades, and she lost weight, Sorells' mother began to reel in small-time entrepreneurs. Sorell didn't need to seek Beyonce or Rihanna to understand light-skin women's success.

Like her mother foresaw, Sorell had to work her ass off to get attention. It was after the session that the memory came back to her. Her first time and the guy's remark, "wow, I can't tell the difference between your breasts and areola."

Dark.

The guy brought Sorell back to her complex. He was white; perhaps a black man wouldn't have said something like that, but colorism wasn't reserved for non-black. It wasn't rare for sex to become a scientific experience where the man sought to spot the difference between her and women of other ethnicities. Sorell supported the good, the bad, and the mediocre. The woman made poor choices when it came to men. Finally, she held one criterion: money.

She closed her eyes on the red flags to fly in private jets and drink champagne. Poor love, Sorell bargained hers real cheap.

Did she love these men?

Sorell doubted because she knew the sentiment. Even if it was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, she could attest to having felt it once.

Child and teen Sorell loved every bit of Ravan. Quirks, kindness, and stubbornness, Sorell loved every bit of him. She adored the person but also appreciated his family and culture. Little Sorell saw no boundaries until she realized she represented the danger and limit.

She could show all the appreciation she wanted, but she knew there was no place for her besides Ravan.

"You must think I'm crazy, doctor."

"No, I don't. I see a person afraid of their own shadow and of showing people their vulnerability. I see a woman who can't forgive herself for existing because too many people made her feel unwanted.

"So it's my fault."

"No, but you're not helping yourself. Tell me what you like about yourself. It can be a psychical or mental aspect."

"I like being slim. I'm frank most times."

Silence.

"Is that it?" The doctor asked.

Sorell swung her gaze from side to side, "I guess I wouldn't be here if there were something else." 

Hi friends,

Sorry, the chapter is messy. I'm falling asleep in front of my computer, but I just wanted to publish.

I hope the chapter didn't trigger anyone. Sorell has many opinions that can poke one's sensitive cords, but she puts the finger on many subjects and experiences women of color encounter. It's from a black woman's POV, but there are some topics many women come across.

It's another difficult chapter for me. As always, I wish Sorell could overcome and accept the beautifful powerful black woman she is.

Take care!