She's So Heavy, Part 1

This ends with why I want to take up running.

But what was going to be a longish post got so long I had to divide it into 5 posts. And it’s a bit rambly, so stay patient. It may also contain much more information than you really want to know about me. But then, you should find something more edifying than my blog to read if you don't want to know personal shit about me.

Since my late teens, I've had weight issues. Like many women, unlike many women. During high school, I was pretty normal - always wanted to lose 5 or 10 pounds, like most of my cohort, but 134 lbs. on a 5'7" frame ended up pretty average. Normal: not skinny, not fat. Leading up to graduation, I started dreading the fabled freshman 15. Didn't think I could afford to gain 15 pounds and still be hot. Lord knows my grip on self-confidence was shaky to begin with.

A couple months into university, it became apparent that point would stay moot. My weight changed, alright, but dropped, alarmingly, so that I'd hit 118 by the end of first year. Freshman minus 15? Why hello, come on in, nice to meet you. Here's a nice padded chair, sit your skinny ass down.

I've now had a lot of time to think about this. Living with a fuckwit roommate opened up the skinny girl door. The disgusting meal plan food kicked it another few inches wide. The disillusionment that was university? Oh yes, I point my finger pointedly at the door knob now stuck in the wall. The total student body at York U was twice the size of the *township* in which my small village (Ballantrae, for those who care) was located. From where I'd sat, trapped in the purgatory of Stouffville District Secondary School, York seemed like a mecca of intelligence. Writers! Feminists! Everywhere! I did meet some great people, but jesus, intellectual rigor? The classes weren't any more challenging than high school and by and large my classmates weren't 1) more intelligent or 2) more interesting than the yobbos that mostly peopled my high school. My body ate itself with disappointment.

And depression. Looking back, I realize this was my third major depressive episode - the first being when my relationship with Greg Cummings, the first love of my life, went to hell and I thought the process was going to kill me. I spent a lot of time in my room, crying. Or curled up on the kitchen floor, attempting to muster the guts to cut my wrists. The second time was after Ken O’Leary. Why is too complicated to go into here. But I didn't lose a pound, those times. Which has certainly fucked up most theories I've been trying on as explanations for all this sad shit.

I remember being a little worried, but mostly taking a secret guilty pleasure in my new body. It's what I'd always wanted. And sure, my clothes didn't fit quite right, but I could see my hipbones, and cheekbones, and wasn't that sexy? So what if my curves weren’t quite so curvy. I got a lot of support for having lost weight. Old family friends congratulated me. My high school friends asked how I managed it. My new friends didn’t know any different.