by Shauna Reid
It was also sufficient to convince my mother, my counselor, and myself that things were moving in a positive direction. My studies went so well that I scored a great job before I finished the course: a Web editor with an Internet start-up company. Finally I was gainfully employed and financially independent. On the surface it looked like a complete transformation.
But I didn’t stop eating.
Six months ago Rhiannon moved in with me. She’d spent a year in the U.S. and returned to Canberra to finish her degree. She came into my life like a cyclone, strong and confident with exotic tales of her life in New York and Chicago. She’s two years younger than me but has always seemed to be made of stronger stuff.
“As soon as I graduate and earn some money, I’m going back overseas,” she declared. “There’s a whole other world out there, Shauna. There is life away from that farm.”
It shocked me to hear her mention the past. Despite growing up under the same roof, we’d never talked about what was going on, mostly because we were always hiding away in our separate rooms behind almost-closed doors. We ate our meals and did our chores but otherwise avoided the main thoroughfares of the house.
On her first night back in Canberra, we got McDonald’s and shared a bottle of wine, sitting on the living room floor.
“Does this feel weird to you?” Rhiannon asked suddenly. “Sitting here in this silence?”
“You mean this genuinely peaceful silence?”
She laughed. “Yeah. That one.”
Finally, after twenty years, we were talking and comparing notes. Part of me had always wondered if I’d just imagined things were bad, if it was just my messed-up head interpreting events that way. But as we talked over that bottle of wine, I was relieved and comforted to hear my memories being confirmed. Rhiannon made me feel I could stop pretending that I didn’t feel bad about it. And the stories of her overseas adventures seemed to prove it was possible to move forward. For the first time I felt a tiny spark of hope that my life could be different.
Last month Rhiannon and I visited Mum in Cowra. I found an old photo album with thirteen years of my annual school pictures, carefully arranged in chronological order. As I flipped through the pages, I was completely shocked to see a perfectly normal-looking kid looking back at me. Where were the hideous thighs I remembered? Where was the belly? I just looked like an ordinary, freckle-nosed, red-haired child.
It wasn’t until the Year 11 photo that you could see the childhood chub turning into proper fat. But I’d thought of myself as repulsive since I was five years old. How did this happen? Why did Mum put me on all those diets? Why did they tell me I was fat when I wasn’t? I’d spent my entire childhood letting my self-loathing dictate everything I said and did. If I hadn’t carried that belief for all these years, would my body have turned into this massive, impossible mess?
It wasn’t until that moment I felt the anger. I’d dulled my emotions with food for so long that I’d blocked out all the pain, but now I just wanted to point the finger. Perhaps I felt brave knowing Rhiannon was there to back me up.
Mum was in the kitchen starting dinner. I charged over to her, thrust the album into her chest and shouted, “Why did you do this to me?”
Two decades of repressed fury came tumbling out. Every resentment, every memory. And then Rhiannon joined in with her own list of grievances. My stomach churned with guilt because I knew Mum wasn’t the only one involved and she was hurting too. But we couldn’t stop the avalanche.
We argued bitterly for hours, right through dinner. Harsh words flew as we chopped up the chicken and stir-fried the vegetables. There was a brief cease-fire when a saucepan of rice boiled over, but once that was cleaned up we began round two. We kept arguing as we ate, between bites or with mouths full. Rhiannon kept the battle raging even with her hands in a sink full of bubbles while I dried the dishes. Eventually it was all too much and everyone was crying. Mum stormed out onto the front veranda.
“Maybe we should go out there,” I said nervously.
“No! We’re not backing down,” said Rhiannon.
“But it was hard for her too.”
“I know. But we can’t carry this shit around forever.”
“I guess.”
“This isn’t about blame. She just needs to know how we feel.” Rhiannon yanked the plug from the sink. “We’ll drive back to Canberra tonight if we have to.”
After decades of doing everything to avoid conflict, it was terrifying and thrilling to deliberately walk right into it. The guilt was overwhelming but I knew Rhiannon was right. I couldn’t lock it away any longer.
But we didn’t have to drive back to Canberra. Mum came inside and after twenty years we sat down and finally started to talk. In the end I knew she heard us. She simply said, “I’m sorry.” And that’s all we’d ever wanted to hear.
Since I crawled out of the shadow of the past I’ve felt lighter, almost hopeful. But now the present has finally come into full focus. I’d convinced myself I’ve been happy these past two years, pulling out of the depression and getting a grown-up job and a nice flat and a car that works.
But now all the things I tried to block out are coming at me in little bursts of awareness. How I don’t have a life outside work. How I buy a bigger size every time I go to the shops. How in summer my thighs rub together until they bleed. How no matter what fancy things my hairdresser does to my hair she can’t disguise my chins. How I’m breathless just walking from the couch to the fridge. How I write e-mails to my friends instead of meeting them in person. How no matter what crazy angle I hold my camera, there’s no such thing as a flattering shot.
I looked in the mirror tonight and saw a stranger. I don’t recognize this body. There’s the same red hair I’ve always had, but it looks almost comical sitting on top of my big round head, like a cheap toupee. My eyes are just two little dots, lost in the vast sprawl of my cheeks. I look modular and disjointed, as though you could take me apart like a plastic Lego man. I don’t look quite real. I wish I could crawl out of my skin and leave it behind.
In that moment under the clothesline, gazing up at my colossal knickers, I saw my life spinning away from me, out of control. I’m twenty-three years old and the highlight of my day is opening a fresh bar of chocolate. Instead of writing or traveling or partying, I’m wondering if I can go to the McDonald’s drive-through again without the staff recognizing me. At some point I convinced myself that this was how my life was meant to be, and I’ve let my weight smother all my ambitions and dreams. I’m not really living. I’m just idling, merely existing.
So that’s why I’ve got to try and fix this, even though it feels impossible. I’ve got to see if there’s anything on the other side.
YEAR ONE
WEEK 1
January 16
351 pounds
186 pounds to go
Day One dawned bright and full of hope. Sunshine blasted through the wooden blinds, bathing my bedroom in an optimistic glow.
Actually, it pretty much looks like that every morning; it is the middle of summer, after all. But maybe it was a dazzling sign that this Day One would be different from all the failed Day Ones that came before.
I’ve never been an optimist. I like to expect the worst; that way if something good happens it’s a nice bonus. But this time I’m desperate to believe in sunshine and new beginnings, because surely there can’t be anything worse than last night, sobbing on the scale in front of multiple witnesses.
As the great philosopher Yazz once said, the only way is up. Otherwise I’ll die of a heart attack by twenty-five. Or I’ll burst out of my trousers in a public place, which would be even worse.
Rhiannon was already up and pouring herself a bowl of muesli.
“Four POINTS with half a cup of semiskimmed milk!” she announced with a grin.
“Bargain!”
The Weight Watchers POINTS system really irritates me. Why must the word POINTS always be in uppercase? It sounds so loud and bossy. And t
he word point itself feels like an accusation, like a nagging schoolmarm poking you in the chest with her bony finger. Why did you eat that cake, don’t you know it’s 120 POINTS? Spit out that pizza, it’s 35 POINTS per slice!
But points are my currency now, the new language of my mealtimes; so I will have to shut up and obey.
I sat on the couch with my own bowl of muesli, looking at my Weight Watchers leaflets neatly fanned out on the coffee table. Diet paraphernalia always fills me with a great sense of purpose. Bring on the guidelines and graphs! Gimme the tools and rules! Lately my only rule has been, “Stuff your face with wild abandon then hate yourself afterward,” so I want to be told what to do. It gives me hope that I could become less hopeless.
I picked up the official points tracker and stared at all the optimistic white spaces. There was a column for each day of the week, each divided into four boxes for Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, and Snacks. So… that’s twenty-eight chances not to fuck this up.
I have to make this tracker perfect. I want to show it to Donna next Monday and have her tell me it’s the best tracker she’s ever seen. I want to be the Model Weight Watcher! I can’t bear to think about the horrific amount of weight I must lose, but I can focus on seven little days and this stupid tracker.
I wrote muesli and milk in the Breakfast column in my best handwriting.
Rhiannon and I both had the day off work so we launched ourselves into Operation Lard Bust.
My usual halfhearted attempts at losing weight involve me buying a few apples and some rubbery low-fat cheese then hoping for the best. But this time we were on a serious mission. It involved precise planning and organization!
We made lists. We consulted cookbooks. We paced the kitchen like curmudgeonly generals in the Second World War.
I must admit, Rhiannon is the brains behind the operation. She’s the real superhero of this story; I’m more the bumbling sidekick. At twenty years old she’s by far the most intelligent and mature person I know. She tackles problems with a calm and practical mind, whereas I throw my hands in the air and howl like a kicked puppy at the first sign of trouble.
I couldn’t ask for a better ally in the fight against flab. The girl doesn’t even need to lose any weight, if you ask me, but she says her jeans are a bit snug and she wants to be healthier. I feel so overwhelmed by my mountain of lard, but Rhiannon’s support makes me want to try.
After we mapped out our meals, we went shopping for all the wholesome ingredients. Then we tackled the pantry, tossing all the dodgy food straight into the bin.
My heart ached and my stomach growled at the memories. The near-empty box of Ritz crackers that I’d demolished while watching the tennis. The bag of chocolate chips that I’d been scoffing by the handful. The dozens of ketchup sachets from my endless sorties to the McDonald’s drive-through.
“Goodbye, old friends,” I said solemnly. “I’m going to miss you!”
“It’s not forever!” said Rhiannon. “We just need to make healthier choices for now.”
“I know,” I sniffed. “We’re on a mission.”
Tonight we cooked mandarin chicken stir-fry from an old Weight Watchers cookbook I’d purchased on an aborted mission. I felt so smug and wholesome as we chopped up vegetables and weighed chicken breasts. The air filled with the aroma of sizzling garlic and ginger, which was a pleasant change from the usual french-fry fug. We huddled over the wok, plucking out stray snap peas and carrot strips to sample the sauce.
“This is bloody beautiful!” said Rhiannon.
“I know!” My tongue was alarmed by bright and lively flavors. “Maybe this healthy shit won’t be so torturous after all!”
“Maybe! Shall we dish out the rice?”
“Half a cup each, right?”
I carefully measured out our allotted portions of sensible brown grains.
“Holy crap, is that it?”
“I know! I normally have four times that amount!”
“We’re going to starve, Rhiannon. Starve, I tell you!”
But oddly enough, I didn’t starve. I felt pleasantly satisfied instead of my usual painfully stuffed.
So that was Day One, perfectly done. My points tracker looked so tidy I almost kissed it.
WEEK 2
January 22
341.5 pounds
9.5 pounds lost—176.5 to go
The Triumph of Day One spurred me on to behave myself on Day Two. On Day Three, I thought my body would explode with longing for a Mars Bar, but miraculously, I settled for a chicken salad sandwich. Boosted by that small victory, Days Four to Seven were executed with robotic precision. Before I knew it, it was Monday again and we were back at Weight Watchers.
Why was I so nervous? I knew I’d been an obedient Weight Watching automaton all week long. I’d counted my points and filled in my tracker to perfection. I’d eaten all manner of fruits and vegetables. I’d guzzled the recommended two daily liters of water. I hadn’t driven through any drive-throughs.
But I worried that it just wouldn’t work. I’ve been fat for so many years—what if my body isn’t capable of shrinking? What if the blubber plain refuses to budge? What if my fat cells have mutated into a strain of superevil fat cells that laugh in the face of celery sticks and lean protein? What will I do then? Hack at my belly rolls with a chain saw?
Once again we waited until after the meeting to get weighed.
Rhiannon hopped on first; she’d lost three pounds. Woohoo!
My heart hammered as they hung the special weight on the scale. Oh please let this work. Please, please, pretty please.
It took an eternity to balance. Finally, Donna grinned at me. “You’re our biggest loser this week! Nine point five pounds off!”
Holy crap. It worked!
Rhiannon cheered. The weigh ladies went crazy. Donna stuck a gold star on my card and gave me a hug.
What a difference seven days makes. This time there were no tears on the way home, just me gurning at my gold star.
Veteran dieters call this the Honeymoon Phase, when you’re flushed with enthusiasm and losing weight almost seems fun, in a perverse sort of way. I know I shouldn’t celebrate too much, but I’m on my way! Just watch me do it again next week.
WEEK 3
January 27
320.5 pounds
30.5 pounds lost—155.5 to go
“Are you reading the scale properly?”
“Of course I’m reading the scale properly!” Donna laughed. “I’m a professional!”
“But twenty-one pounds in a week?” I spluttered. “How is that possible without sawing off a limb?”
She patiently explained that when you are extremely large, it’s common to have crazy results in the first few weeks. She said it could be water loss too. Personally, I think my body is so frightened by all this salad and fruit that it’s dropped ten pounds from shock. But Donna reassured me things should settle into a steady pattern soon, so I’ll just count myself lucky.
I’m getting obsessed with points. It’s not enough just to count my own, now I’m snooping at my colleagues’ lunches and mentally calculating the damage. At the supermarket yesterday I was peeking in people’s shopping trolleys and crunching their numbers.
Just for fun tonight I worked out how many points I scoffed the day before I joined Weight Watchers. This was my menu:
BREAKFAST: Bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk
PRE-LUNCH: A cheese and bacon roll and a half liter of chocolate milk while watching Minority Report at the cinema
LUNCH: A donner kebab, extra large fries, and Fanta at the mall food court
POST-LUNCH: Chocolate croissant
DINNER: Big Mac, extra large fries, and chocolate shake from the McDonald’s drive-through
POST-DINNER: Two bowls of homemade trifle
I know that sounds bad. But it was my Last Supper! On the eve of a new diet, it’s traditional to gorge on all the sugary, fatty, salty delights that will soon be forbidden. For who knows when they’ll touch your li
ps again? Although with hindsight, perhaps I should have stuck to a single meal, instead of making a whole day of it.
And the damage? Ninety points! I’m only allowed twenty-six per day. I ate enough for a family of four!
But the Last Supper is not just about stuffing your stomach. You have to fill your mind with food too. There are many dreary salad days ahead, but I’ve got plenty of full-fat memories to feast on.
WEEK 4
February 5
319.5 pounds
31.5 pounds lost—154.5 to go
It was 105 degrees today! I’m sure the weight I lost this week was pure perspiration. I feel like a great sweaty hog, slowly rotating over the coals.
The Australian summer seems designed to torture the morbidly obese. While the majority of the population is rejoicing with their tiny shorts, bikinis, and barbecues, us fatties must sweat and suffer on the sidelines … or just lie in dark, air-conditioned rooms and wait for the end.
I’m never more aware of the complete wrongness of my body than during a heat wave. The Fat Girl Logistics Department has to work overtime, figuring out how to maneuver my bulk through the day with minimal sweat and embarrassment.
The key is to keep your moves small and precise. I drove to work at 7:30 A.M. and nabbed a space right outside the building, thus minimizing (a) the distance I’d have to shuffle across the car park and (b) potential for witnesses to said shuffle.
The foyer was mercifully deserted too, so I could take the lift to the first floor instead of feeling obliged to huff my way up the stairs like normal people. The early start also gave me a good hour to catch my breath and blot my shiny face before the office got busy.
By ten o’clock the office was a furnace. My colleagues looked cool in their short sleeves and floaty frocks, but already my standard issue Fat Girl black trousers were glued to my thighs. Luckily, I had no meetings today, so I could stay at my desk and not have to thunder along the corridors, getting even sweatier.
