Fatima C. Oliver
Bio
I am emphatically working to make my future Self proud. Sharing bold, honest, comical, and often taboo-inspired events about my life's journey that have helped shape my thinking. Mutually, carrying me to a place of self-love and healing.
Stories (3)
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Scarred For Life
I never understood why I had to be the one with the burned legs and feet. Growing up, my one and two degree scars seemed to be an eye sore for all who interacted with me. I will never forget a cousin telling me I was ugly because of my burns. Of course, they may not have really meant anything by it, but it cut like a knife to hear. This sentiment was echoed by adults through the request to bring socks to cover my feet when I visited. These types of consistencies gave me a lasting infamy over what I looked like.
By Fatima C. Oliver5 years ago in Motivation
The Prison In My Mind
Sadness has been closer to me than my deepest love, and more committed than any dear friend. I do not remember a time when it has not been nearby. From childhood, the cloud of melancholy hovered over me like an umbrella for one. In my youth, I knew not what it was, but began to welcome it as a secret indulgence. Being a young adult, it remained challenging to adequately expound on what I was feeling. So, I acted it out with numerous suicide attempts. In the beginning, I was merely screaming for help and hoping someone would pay attention. Over time, my approach changed to a deep desire to permanently hush the cries inside my heart. On those few occasions I would confide in someone about my bleak moods, my words would be quickly dismissed with, “Girl, ain’t nothin' wrong with you.” So, I would work to convince myself that there was nothing wrong with me, despite my manic behavior.
By Fatima C. Oliver5 years ago in Psyche
Unconventional
Fatima (pronounced Fa-tee-mah) is a name I had to grow to appreciate. My mother named me after a little girl she met while in the Labor and Delivery unit. My mom shared the room with her sister after having me. The young starlight was too tiny to visit the new addition to her family, and was often spotted outside the door peeking through the glass, her big, bountiful eyes peering through bared hope and excitement. This tickled my mother enough to inquire on who she was. She carried an exuberance my mother wished for me to have one day. Her rich and dark melanin, matched mine, so smooth and pure like a black pearl. I guess it was only befitting to name me after her.
By Fatima C. Oliver5 years ago in Humans
