The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

by Shauna Reid

  “I’m not one of those quick fix people,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. “I didn’t want to come here. But I just need a boost so I can get out of bed, so I can get up and try to fix things.”

  “OK.” She reached for her prescription pad.

  I started to cry from sheer relief.

  I feel guilty about picking up that prescription. Depression doesn’t sit well with me. No matter how many people tell me it’s an illness, it feels like a failure of my character. I can’t help thinking of my grandfather, slowly dying in his armchair. I come from a long line of resilient farmers just like him. There’s no time for emotional shit when there’s sheep to be shorn and crops to be sown. Depression seems so indulgent. Surely medication should be reserved for genuinely ill people, not just some fat chick who’s lost her way. Surely if I just snapped out of it and stopped eating so much crap and found a new job everything would be fine.

  I hate admitting I’m down here again. I hate admitting that I have failed to solve this on my own. But right now I can’t see a future beyond hamburgers, unzipped jeans, and bar code stickers. I need to find some self-respect again. I know that doesn’t come in a pill, but I hope the pill will help clear my head for the search.

  WEEK 80

  July 22

  Rhiannon and I met Jenny for laksa at the Asian Noodle House. Such an innocuous thing to do, but I was anxious. After two weeks of antidepressants I’m past the initial delirium and have settled into feeling quietly functional. Boosted by a fresh haircut and a clean set of clothes, today I felt ready to try engaging with the humans again.

  As always, I was awkward with the chopsticks. Just take it easy, I told myself. I stabbed the squishy tofu and slowly reeled in the noodles. But somehow I lost control of the vehicle. The chopstick flew across to the next table and landed on someone’s shoe with a plasticky clink at the same time as I schlooped up the noodles. Dots of spicy liquid pelted my T-shirt like tiny gunfire. It’s the curse of the fat chick. You reach a certain point of fatness and you don’t really have breasts, it’s more of a flesh trough from chin to stomach, always ready to collect food stains.

  “Jeez, you wouldn’t want to have laksa on a first date, would you?” said Jenny as we all snorted with laughter. “It’s not the most becoming dish.”

  I smiled as I dabbed at my chest with a tissue. I had no idea how many points were in a laksa but I didn’t really care. I know I’ll be ready to get back to my lard busting soon. Even in my most bleak, bingeing moments I had no intention of giving up forever. But right now I have to focus on little things like getting out of bed and opening the curtains.

  Perhaps it was the dried chillies, but I felt ready to sob at any moment. I was so overwhelmed by emotion, just to be out of isolation and surrounded by their presence. I talked and laughed and sprayed more dinner on my shirt, trying to remember what normal feels like. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Rhiannon or Jenny about the depression, but at least I wasn’t hiding from them anymore.

  I’m starting to see why things fell apart. I was so obsessed with my weight loss last year that I shut out everything else. When work went down the tubes, I didn’t have the resources to handle it. I switched my obsession to job hunting instead, and let everything else slip. I know I’ve got to find a way of doing things without the extremes.

  But for now I feel a little better. As soon as I admitted that I wasn’t coping, I started to cope again. I’m not so angry now. I’m trying to be forgiving and not let my moods be defined by my job woes and giant knickers. I don’t need to hide. I will get through this.

  WEEK 82

  August 5

  My new boss Amanda is gorgeous. She has beautiful almond eyes, a creamy complexion, and a delicate frame. I feel like a hulking lumberjack standing beside her. But today she announced she’s on a diet.

  “Why would you be on a diet?”

  “My jeans are so tight I can barely breathe,” she said. “I’m all belly. Soon I’ll have to lie down on the bed and haul up the zipper with a coat hanger.”

  “I see.” I thought of my self-unzipping jeans, now tossed in the back of my wardrobe. You think you’ve got a fat belly? I’ll show you a fat belly, baby.

  “I’ve joined SureSlim,” she went on. “Have you heard of it?”

  “No.” I honestly thought I’d heard of every diet.

  “My friend did it and she lost forty pounds in eight weeks. It’s amazing!”

  “Eight weeks?” Now she had my attention. “How?”

  “Well, they give you an individualized diet that’s designed to boost your metabolism,” she explained in authoritative tones. “They customize it based on your blood test results.”

  “I don’t like the sound of bleeding to lose weight.”

  She laughed. “They only need a little syringeful.”

  “So what do you eat?”

  “You get three meals a day. You’re not allowed to eat in between meals.”

  “Not at all? What kind of barbaric system is this?”

  “It makes your metabolism more efficient. I have yogurt and fruit for breakfast, then protein and salad for lunch and dinner.”

  “Sounds … thrilling.”

  “You can only eat certain veggies, mostly green ones. You have to weigh them first.”

  “No way!”

  “But you don’t have to weigh cucumber, lettuce, and celery. They’re unlimited.”

  “That’s generous.”

  “But only at mealtimes,” she added.

  “Well, no wonder your friend lost so much weight, she must have been starving.”

  “Oh no!” Amanda gasped defensively. “It’s nutritionally balanced. Lots of lean protein, and you get all your essential fats from the seeds.”

  “Seeds?”

  “Linseeds, sunflower, sesame, and pumpkin seeds. A tablespoon of each per day.”

  “Are they awful?”

  “Yes!” she confessed. “I feel like a budgie. But I want to get back into my jeans.”

  “Tell me about it,” I sighed, eyeing the Dairy Milk wrapper on my desk. After a month on the loony pills, I’ve been feeling rather good, bouncing out of bed and attacking my job search with renewed vigor. But I’m still gaining weight. I need to do something before I’m right back where I started.

  “They have free information sessions every Tuesday. You could check it out.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I said. “But it doesn’t really sound like my cup of tea.”

  WEEK 82.5

  August 9

  Today I gave a pint of blood and a one-off payment of $700 to SureSlim.

  OK. I know I’m a sucker. But I’m a desperate sucker. Try and understand, people.

  I went along to the information session with no intention of signing up. They had a short video and a PowerPoint presentation, full of scientific jargon and graphs to make it all sound very important. I remained skeptical, but then they told us about the individual weigh-ins. Apparently it’s just you and the SureSlim lady in a discreet cubicle. No Weight Watchers queues, no hissing at the weigh lady to please not say your weight out loud, no more overhearing everyone’s boring tales of fluid retention. Just me and one person devoted to my weight loss needs. That sounded good.

  And finally the killer punch—a slide show of Before and After photos. Mary Bloggs lost 28 pounds in five weeks. Seventy pounds in four months. One hundred pounds in six months. Page after page of slob morphing into slender.

  My heart swelled with longing. I want this to be me. I want to be a loser again. I want to be a success story. I don’t care what I have to do.

  So I signed up and sent my bank account into the red. I know I would have spent all that money on chocolate eventually.

  WEEK 83

  August 12

  286 pounds

  37.5 pounds GAINED!

  65 pounds lost—121 to go

  The SureSlim scales are digital and can assess your fatness to two decimal places. If I’d known that, I’d h
ave removed my watch and shaved off my eyebrows today.

  Two hundred eighty-six pounds.

  These past few months of gloomy gorging has set me back nearly 40 pounds. I’ve regained nearly half of what I lost last year! I blinked back tears in the little cubicle, completely stunned and almost impressed by how I’d managed to screw up in such a swift and spectacular fashion.

  My consultant was babbling on about my so-called Customized Eating Plan. It was exactly the same as Amanda’s but with bigger portions since I’m twice her size. My yogurt ration is 200 grams, whereas she gets 90 grams. Except they don’t call them portions at SureSlim. They say grammages.

  “It’s important to eat all your grammages,” said my consultant. “There’s your protein grammages and your veggie grammages.”

  That’s not even a proper word! I snorted inwardly. But I kept silent, because I had paid her $700 and given a pint of blood for her to have the answers.

  “And in addition, you get four crispbreads per day or one slice of Mountain Bread, which is like a flatbread.”

  “Is that all the carbs I get?”

  “Well, there’s carbs in your veggies as well,” she explained.

  “Oh yes. Tasty.”

  If I didn’t feel so crap about my massive regain, perhaps I would have argued that there was no way this program was sustainable. But right now I’d do anything. And I have to admit it: I need my hand held again. I have a reassuring list of rules and instructions and I will obey them. I’m just going to let someone tell me what to do until I feel strong enough to figure it out for myself.

  WEEK 83.5

  August 16

  I’m on Day Four and feel I can officially declare that I hate SureSlim.

  I hate the natural yogurt. I hate the dull green vegetables. I hate the lack of carbohydrates. I hate the stinking birdseed, and most of all I hate myself for thinking this was a good idea.

  They told me I might experience some headaches and irritability on Day Three as my system adjusted to a new way of eating. I swear I felt the precise moment the last granule of sugar dissolved from my body. The withdrawals were my punishment for all those months off the wagon. Last night I was so fucking desperate for a piece of bread I actually threw myself on the floor and pounded the carpet.

  “Tell me, what is so wrong with a piece of bread?” I cried to Rhiannon.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a piece of bread,” she replied patiently. “But you told me not to let you eat any bread if this happened.”

  “Well, clearly I was an idiot.”

  “Just think about the seven hundred bucks.”

  “Fuck this! I’m going to bed.”

  It was only 7.30 P.M. At least I was safe under the covers. I almost asked Rhiannon to lock my door so I wouldn’t raid the fridge in my sleep.

  WEEK 84

  August 19

  275 pounds

  76 pounds lost—110 to go

  I’m a loser again!

  I weighed in at SureSlim today. Eleven pounds gone! I made the lady weigh me three times just to make sure it was true.

  I can’t believe I made it through the week without kicking any puppies. I’ve been having nightmares about linseed, and my poo has turned an alarming shade of green from all those vegetables, but … eleven pounds!

  I was worried sick that it wouldn’t work. I thought my body was defective, that I was destined to never be any smaller. But eleven pounds have disappeared and I can’t wait to crack on this week and make it happen again and again.

  I’d forgotten how good it feels to be good to your body.

  WEEK 85

  August 26

  273.5 pounds

  77.5 pounds lost—108.5 to go

  Someone in the UK did a study and found that there’s been a dramatic increase in the number of soppy pop songs being played at funerals instead of traditional hymns. On Friday, I was at a funeral that featured the number two tune on the list, “My Heart Will Go On.”

  Usually I hate that song, but on Friday in a tiny church in Grenfell, with the sunlight filtering through the stained glass, it was suddenly the most soul-wrenching tune ever invented.

  Mum’s cousin Rick had passed away from a heart attack. He was only 48. I barely remembered him from all those family reunions, so I thought I’d breeze through the day untouched. But that song ripped me up. Something about you being here, so there’s nothing to fear. What the hell are you on about, Celine? He’s not here.

  As her mournful voice rose higher, my throat felt like cement and I was glad I’d bought tissues. When I die, I said silently to no one in particular, I want you to play “Pyramid Song” by Radiohead. That song makes me cry, but at least it’s not Celine. If that’s too depressing, then please play “Bootylicious.”

  The wake was back in the old church hall. Her Majesty smirked down at us from a faded portrait above the stage. All those little things you only see in country towns seemed so comforting now. Egg sandwiches and sponge cakes made by the ladies of the church committee. Rumbling urns of tea and coffee; pale green cups and saucers.

  I hovered around Mum and Rhiannon. I didn’t want to be far from them at that moment. I gazed at the glorious buffet for a full ten minutes before I finally buckled and had a cheese and tomato sandwich. Sweet, forbidden carbs.

  My Aunty Marg came over for a chat. Rick was her nephew; she’s one of Poppy’s four sisters. I’ve always adored my great-aunts, so tall and warm with peaches-and-cream complexions. We joked around and talked about how sad it is that people only seem to catch up at funerals. Mum, Rhi, Aunty Marg, and I all stood there for a minute holding hands. In another context I would have felt ridiculous, but right then it felt like the perfect thing to do.

  “We’ll have to head off,” said Mum. “We need to visit Poppy before we head back to Canberra.” Poppy’s deteriorated even further in the last couple of months. No one’s saying it but we all feel the need to see him as much as possible while we still can.

  Aunty Marg nodded. Her expression clouded and she clutched my arm. “It’s the hardest thing in the world to see my big brother like that. When I lean down to kiss him goodbye and he squeezes my hand, I swear I can hear my heart breaking.”

  I hugged her tight for the longest time.

  Suddenly she grabbed my hands and looked right at me. We’re a family of jokers. We’re not ones to get philosophical or serious. But she squeezed my hands and said, “Shauna, you have dreams, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, you have to make plans. You have to make your plans then go out and make them happen.”

  I squeezed back and nodded.

  “Look at what’s happened to us all lately.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “You don’t know what’s around the corner. Promise me you’ll make some plans.”

  I haven’t stopped thinking about that since.

  WEEK 86

  September 2

  270 pounds

  81 pounds lost—105 to go

  After two more weeks of SureSlimming I’ve lost another five pounds. I think it’s safe to say I’m BACK, baby!

  Right now I’m full of that insufferable smugness that comes when you find your dieting groove. The wheels are back in motion, you’re in control, and it seems impossible that you could ever feel any other way. This time I’m not naive enough to believe it will just carry on indefinitely, but I’m going to cling to the feeling for as long as I can.

  Now that I’m over the sugar withdrawal, I’m enjoying the simplicity of my SureSlim diet. Almost everything I eat is fresh and wholesome. Yogurt, fruit and seeds for breakfast. Chicken and salads for lunch. Stir-fries or lean meat and veggies for dinner. The most processed I get now is a can of tuna or a crispbread. When I was doing Weight Watchers, I was so obsessed with keeping my points count low that for me nutrition was often a secondary concern. Lord knows how many dodgy chemicals were lurking in all those sugar-free fat-free taste-free yogurts.

  I also don’t mind going cold turke
y on the junk food. Last year I was forever plotting ways to fit a sundae into my points allowance, but now I’m content with my three meals a day with no fancy stuff.

  That said, I know I can’t do this forever. A life without bread is not a life worth living! And the diet is impossible if you want any sort of social life, as not everyone serves up big bowls of birdseed and lettuce for dinner. For now I’m sticking to it as much as possible so I can blast off this regain, but in the long term I’ll need to borrow the best bits of the plan and come up with something more sustainable.

  So it feels like I’m heading down a healthy road. And already when I zip up my jeans, they’re staying zipped again.

  WEEK 87

  September 9

  266 pounds

  85 pounds lost—101 to go

  I dreamed of how I’d find my perfect job. After searching for so long, I thought there’d have to be some sort of dramatic moment. I’d spy the ad in the newspaper and hear a sudden chorus of angels. “Yes!” I’d cry, raising my hands to the heavens. “This is the one!”

  I’d write a stunning application, spend a ridiculous sum on a new suit, then dazzle ’em in the interview. They would drop to their knees and beg me to work for them.

  But in the end it was quite an anticlimax. Yesterday morning one of my recruitment agencies called about a job with a company downtown—a twelve-month contract with a view to permanency. Ho hum. I sneakily knocked out an application while pretending to type up meeting minutes. Two hours later the agency called back—the client wanted an interview.

  Here we go again, I thought. This morning I told Amanda that I was meeting a friend for lunch, then changed into my suit in the car. It started to rain as I scurried into the building, so my hair was glued to my temples like limp spaghetti. But as soon as they started talking about the job, I realized, Holy shit! This IS me!