Losing it
Tuesday, July 1,2003
By Shalagh Knight


I find it hard to lose weight. Really, very hard. The rules are simple enough: if I can keep my mouth shut and move my arms and legs, I should be able to do this thing. I find it ridiculously hard. All I need to do is pump, pedal, push, and pull various things, and my body should come into some sort of order. It does not.


What I want is health. I want to look around and see that I am not one of the biggest people in the room. I want my body not to hurt all the time. I want people to be attracted to my outer self, not just my inner. I want to be able to run, jump, twirl, spin, and leap without revealing more about me than needed, and without being such a spectacle. I want to meet society's standards, even though I hate them with the fire of a thousand suns. What would that be like?

I want my clothes to hang loosely. I would like them to be tapered, tailored, and shapely. I would like to pick up something that slips onto my body and clings slightly here and there, modest but appealing. I do not want to buy things large to hide what everyone sees anyway. I fool no one. The only fool is me. Doing something about this has been stunningly hard.


To attempt to lose weight is to beat myself up. I stand on the scale and ask, how the hell did I become such a screwup? What is wrong with me that I do this to myself? I always thought I was the strongest person I know. Could I really be the weakest?

Sometimes I look at old pictures of myself as a slimmer, more attractive young woman. I have long red hair, a beautiful young face and a nice figure. I look at the smiling, dark-hair man standing next to me and think about him. Why did you have to be such an asshole? Why did you have to inflict onto me the cruelest of things a man can inflict on a woman? Why was I not enough? Why the kisses and slaps? Why did you take my softness for weakness, in turn making me weak? Can I really lay all the blame on you? I guess not. Some people stuff their pain and fear with drugs, some with alcohol, some with self-abuse. I used food. I guess that wasn't your fault. But still. Shame on you. Even now, after all this time, do I still hate you for it? I don't think so. I think I hate you for all the other ways in which you are an asshole. I can shed the weight, I can change the outer to reflect the inner. You, however, will always be a jackass. That is a healing thought all on its own.

Looking at him, thinking of the cruelty, usually makes me want to go lie down. I then toss and turn, angry, with bad thoughts and sharks in my belly. When I arise I decide I will make a change. I have many motivators. Revenge is one of them. This "perfect woman in every way, except the shell she lives in," would love to shed that shell and scream, "Do you see what I did? You poisoned me, you gave up on me, you left me, and even though I am 33 years old and it is too damn late, I overcame. So fuck you."

I could give more reasons for being overweight. I am a good cook; I enjoy food; I have protected myself; my family carries the gene; it is a spiritual thing; it is a body mechanics thing; it is a fear thing. But all that is crap. I am big because I lost myself for a few years. I completely indulged myself to bring pleasure where there was very little for such a long time. I can be lazy, I can be weak, and I can embrace denial. And now, after a period of eight years, I find myself here. Desperately seeking a change. My body is a result of neglect and excess. Frankly, I hate that more than the reasons I gave for why I am here.

I am tired of being tired; I am afraid of what could be the rest of my life if I do not change; I am afraid my daughter might end up like me. If I can change me so that she never relives what I have gone through, it would be motivation enough. I must be strong, diligent, and focused. Sometimes you can do things for others much more easily than for yourself. I want to turn heads and know I do. I want for once to be the thinnest person in the room. I want stamina and much more energy. I want to see myself on TV and not be ashamed. I want to be admired for more than my talent. I want men to want me, even though I do not want them back. I want my life to be filled with fullness, not the brokenfullness I now have. These things are good motivators. I will list and re-list every reason I have to accomplish my goals. If I have to be mad to do it, I will be mad. If I need to be sad, I will be sad. If I need to be positive, I will be positive. I now stand in the place where I am willing, ready, prepared, and able to do this nasty thing I must do.


Inspiration comes from many places. This time it was a conversation with my doctor about a friend of hers. This woman is developing a wellness program which deals with several things, one of those being weight loss. She needed guinea pigs and I thought to myself, what the hell. I have nothing but weight, shame, and demons to lose. So I met with her. It is going to be three months of scrutiny. I must empty my soul and stand naked for myself to see. It is ugly, yet so-very-enlightening work. I constantly remind myself to knock off the bullshit and speak out loud how it really is. I must say out loud what I have not even muttered to myself in secret. It is humbling, yet empowering. I am learning and, for once, getting a grip. I am surprised that phase one seems to be anger. I am just so angry at all the people who have written me off as a mess, less capable, weak, and unable to get a grasp on the simplest of my being. Everyone who didn't give me a shot, everyone who was cruel, and everyone who wrote off my potential as lost. I am even mad at myself. I see very valuable years wasted, hiding in a shell that was no protection at all. This anger drives me, and for that I am glad. I will use it and move forward, doing the things I know I should do. There is a saying I like: If all you've ever do is all you've ever done, then all you'll ever get is all you've ever got. I like that. Right there, right now, is where I stand.