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Rhap·so·dy 1: a portion of an epic poem adapted for recitation |
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You have a story to tell. You're afraid to tell it, because you fear it will sound trite, melodramatic, but nonetheless, your story needs to be told. You're having lunch with your ex-girlfriend, and this is the second restaurant you've tried to go to. At the first, the seats were too small, made of wicker, arms on the sides. You immediately vetoed the place because even if the arms of the chair were wide enough, you were afraid that the fragile wood of the chair would crumble beneath your weight. You don't know why you continue to spend time with your ex. It was a lousy relationship -- she lied to you, cheated, but you have few friends, and tell yourself that spending time with her is better than nothing. You second-guess every word she says, because you can't trust her. You wonder if this is a pity get-together. You hope she doesn't try to fix you up with another one of her annoying and politically correct friends, because ironically, she feels guilty for treating you like shit, and hopes to atone for her sins by playing matchmaker. She pointedly orders a light chicken salad, and although your stomach is growling you do the same. "Get what you want," she says. "I had a big breakfast." You shake your head. "I'm not feeling hungry." But you are hungry. Starving, in fact. Something about her presence
makes you want to eat a double cheeseburger with a side of fries.
But you don't want to hear her lectures about eating healthy and
you don't want the emaciated waitress to smirk, and repeat your
order in a too loud voice. When the food arrives, the lettuce
wilted, dotted by a few chunks of pale chicken, you're no longer
hungry. The leaves are soaked in oil and vinegar, and pushing
the food around the plate with your fork makes it even less appetizing. You smile politely and nod, but hope you never see the damn couch. You hate going to her apartment because it's a constant reminder of the fact that after two years, she left you to be with the woman she cheated on you with. She and Emma seem to conveniently forget that bit of history and now, three years after the messy fact, they live in wedded bliss. In their minds, they've created a tabula rasa. But really, and they've told you this, you put up with it, so you don't have a right to be bitter. And as much as you hate to admit it, you know they're right. You stayed with Alex because you figured that no one else would want someone like you, you figured that you better hold onto her because she could be the only one... the last one, and no matter how bad things got, being with her was better than being alone. "You're quiet," she says. You shrug. "I don't have a lot to say." She rolls her eyes. "That's what you always say." You take a sip of water, averting her gaze. "I'm a quiet person." "Have you met anyone new?" "I'm a loner...you know that." "That doesn't mean you can't try and make friends...start dating again." You've been single for the past nine months. The two relationships you had after Alex were equally disastrous, and you don't have the mental energy to try and make friends or girlfriends or anything in between. You tell people a loner, that you're shy, but that's only a half-truth. You actually love being around people, but you're not only fat, but you're tall, so you're too self-conscious to possess a decent set of social skills. "When it happens, it happens," is all you manage to say. "Well, there is a woman at work. She's a dyke and I think you guys would get along great. She's very open minded and has a wonderful personality." What Alex is really saying is that she's told her co-worker that you're fat, but you have a great face... wonderful personality... that you're worth a try. Alex sighs and daintily wipes her lips with her napkin. "I'm full," she says, pushing her plate away from her. She's barely touched her salad. You stop chewing, leaving partially masticated lettuce leaves and slivers of carrot drenched in tart vinegar resting in your mouth. It's a terrible flavor, but just the thought of swallowing this last bite is unbearable. "How's school?" she asks. Grudgingly, you swallow, and you can feel small bits of roughage still lodged in your throat. "It's going well, as usual. School's the one thing I can count on." She smiles. "You're a brilliant woman, I've always known that." "How could I tell?" "Don't go there," she says, reaching for her wallet. "Should we do this next week? You can pick the place." You want to say no... you want to say that you'll never see her again, but instead, you smile brightly and agree. She leans across the table and kisses you on the cheek. You want to slice her lips off with the table knife, but you resist, and instead, compliment her on the cloying scent of her perfume --Eternity for women - it's her signature scent. You look around the restaurant.... its crowded and there is little room to maneuver between the tables. You briefly consider trying to revive the conversation, but she's pulling her coat on; you have to get up. So you slowly slide back from the table, remove your napkin, and stand up, hoping that no one is watching as you suck your stomach in and squeeze between chairs and tables and waiters and waitresses working the floor. You have errands to run. You could go to the library and do some
research, but you're tired, so you go home, because when you're
at home, you can pretend that everything is fine. When you're
at home, you can ignore the stares and snickers and looks of pity,
disgust, or both. You haven't always been this way. There was
a time when you were thin, happy, outgoing, but it's getting harder
and harder to remember that time, and sometimes, you think it's
all a daydream, a mental pacifier. And that's because you daydream
a lot. You daydream while standing in lines, and walking across
campus, and hanging out in the mall, or drinking at the club,
because when you're day dreaming, you can pretend that no one
is watching you. And when you day dream, you can pretend that
you're living a different life... a life where you're not tired
after climbing five steps, or standing up from your couch. Rubbing your forehead, you sit down and open your father's letter. He's talking about how your little brother is doing with his soccer team and how the construction is going on their new house. And he's included two brochures for weight loss programs at Rice University and UCLA. "You should take time off from school," he writes. "All those degrees you're getting aren't going to do you any good, because no one is going to hire you at your size. Frankly my dear, you're wasting your time, and although it is painful for you to hear this, I'm telling you what no one else will." The only problem is that everyone tells you... strangers in grocery stores, your friends who only want the best for you, little kids who don't know how to lie ... In fact, you've developed a paranoid fear of children. When you see a child walking down the street, you hide behind a tree, or turn in the other direction, because your heart is already aching from everything else you've dealt with that day. If you hear that young voice saying, "You're so fat," or some other brutally honest statement, you're afraid that you'll die right there. Which is another paranoia you've developed... an abiding fear of falling or collapsing and being only conscious enough to hear the paramedics struggling to lift you onto the gurney. Some nights, you're afraid to fall asleep because if you die before you wake, it will be days before someone finds your body, bloated, evacuated, and then everyone will stare as eight people try and remove your corpse from your fourth floor apartment. "Don't forget that we love you," your father says, ending his letter, which you throw into a box filled with the other detritus of his campaign. For Christmas, he gave you Richard Simmons' Deal-A-Meal, which is stuffed in the back of the hallway closet. For your birthday he gave you Oprah Winfrey's Make the Connection, which you sold at the used bookstore. Just once, you wish that he'd give you a gift you could enjoy, or even use, but since his retirement, he has made the project of your weight loss his personal crusade. You never knew he was so resourceful. And you're torn, because he has been an amazing father but it is hard to remember that when the only thing he can concentrate on is your weight. More than anything, you know he wants an explanation, he wants to understand how you could do this to yourself, and often times, the words dangle from your lips and the tip of your tongue, waiting to be spoken, but you can't say anything. |
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Later that night, you're watching Nightline -- an expose on the horrors of eating disorders. You are morbidly fascinated by such programs. There is something about the gaunt faces and angled bodies of these girls that at once attracts and repulses you. You wonder what holds their bodies together. You envy the way their flesh is stretched taught against their brittle bones. You envy the way their clothes hang listlessly from their bodies, as if they aren't even being worn, but rather, floating -- a veritable vestment halo rewarding their thinness. The reporter speaks with disdain about the rigorous exercise regimens these girls put themselves through, the starvation, the obsession with their bodies. And still, you are envious because these girls have the willpower. You ignore their thinning hair, rotting teeth, internal organs dissolving into a mushy nothing. It's a price you're willing to pay. You are suddenly renewed in your resolve to diet, but you feel so lonely and the desperate ache that crams itself in your every pore compels you to make a late-night run to the grocery store. You cheer up because you know the store will be almost empty. You want as few witnesses as possible as you buy waffles, frozen egg rolls, a pack of hotdogs, maybe some ice cream. Later, you will sit on your couch and stare at your reflection in the glass sliding doors leading to your balcony. You will see the way your breasts sag, and the rolls of fat under your arms. You refuse to look at your thighs, your calves, your swollen ankles, because, for the most part, you avoid all reflective surfaces. You've gone for days at a time without looking in a mirror, even avoiding the rearview mirror in your car, because not only do you not want to see how bad things have gotten, you don't want to see how sad you look. But then you will look, and see the fleshy masses of your thighs, sticking together uncomfortably, and you will start to cry, your double chin wavering slightly so you will eat and cry and think, "Tomorrow, I'll start. Tomorrow, I'll be good." But for now, you are comforted by the offensive fluorescence of the lights against the too-clean, too slick floors and the food, glorious food, pulling you into its embrace. You slowly roll your cart down each aisle, carefully inspecting the goods, staring blankly at nutrition labels that you are only pretending to read, so that if someone happens to see you, they will think that you are on a diet. You take far more time than you need because you don't want to see the pitying expression of the clerk. You toss a head of lettuce and a can of Slim-Fast into your cart, as if to pacify those who would condemn you. Around eleven, a friend calls and asks if you want to go dancing at the club you hang out at sometimes. You'd like to go out, hear some good music, dance, which is something you're actually good at. But then you remember the last time you went to the club, when two guys walking in behind you started speaking in French, making fun of you, asking each other what the hell they would do with so much woman. You turned around and asked them where they're from, in French, because French is one of the five languages you speak. They immediately looked chastised, patted you on the back, said they were just joking around, invited you to hear them play -- they're in a band. As you parted ways inside the dark club, they reminded you once more that it was all said in good fun. But you weren't laughing. It wasn't at all funny. Grinding your teeth, you tell your friend thanks, but no, maybe next time. Before you go to bed, you look in your closet, trying to decide what to wear tomorrow. You only have six outfits that fit, and you wear them interchangeably, trying to convince everyone in your life, that you have a vast wardrobe. The closet is in fact full, but it is full of clothes that no longer fit, memories really, of the way you used to be, the way you were five years ago, even last year. You want to throw these clothes away, but you keep them, because someday you will lose weight, you tell yourself, and this way, you won't have to spend all that money on new clothes. You are momentarily impressed by your frugality, but quickly return to reality as you finger a hole in your favorite pair of pants. Your six regular outfits are worn. They are tired, but you hate shopping for clothes, because it is humiliating. It's humiliating to go into the Lane Bryant or the Casual Male or on a good day, The Avenue, with the salespeople who are too thin to actually wear the clothes they sell. And it's depressing to have to try on a bigger size than you chose the last time you were in the store. You are appalled by the styles, as if all fat people are under 5'6" and have no waists. You miss tucking your shirt in, or buttoning a pair of jeans because elastic has become your life, and since you're 6'4", mostly it's easier to wear what you already have, because shopping for clothes is just one more reminder. You have class in the morning, and then work. You don't really want to go to school because the seats in the classrooms are too small, but you are also too ashamed to tell someone so that you can get a comfortable chair. And the campus is littered with Pretty People; thin, tan, blonde, younger than you. They mock you with their mere existence. You try and get to class early every day so that no one will watch as you try and cram your body between the chair and the attached desk that your chest flows over, leaving you little room to take notes. By the time class is over, your right leg has fallen asleep, the circulation cut off, and your knees are throbbing in pain. Its just as hard to get out of the desk because you have so securely wedged yourself in, so you wait until everyone has exited the class room before trying to get up, knocking over the chair next to you as the kids from the next class are walking in, and staring at you. When you get home that evening, you'll have bruises on your right thigh that are tender to the touch. So maybe you won't bother going to class tomorrow at all. That happens more than you care to admit. Work isn't much better... the seats are also too small and by the end of your shift, there are tears in your eyes because your chair handles have been digging into your thighs for so long that you've started to bleed through your pants. You're a telemarketer, because all you need is a good voice and pleasant phone manner. And customers never have to see you. You're overqualified for this job. You have a bachelor's degree and a master's degree so each day, you pore through the newspaper, circling ads that you'll never respond to because in the back of your mind, you hear your father's voice reminding you that no one will ever hire you. Besides which, the chairs in interviewers' offices always have arms that are too small, and you are left, perched precariously on the edge of the seat, praying the interview will end quickly so that you can put an end to this newest humiliation. You finally decide on the last clean outfit you have. It wasn't really a decision but you pretend that it is so that at least one part of your day can feel normal. You crawl into bed, your body sliding into the deep sag in the middle of the mattress. You don't bother setting your alarm, because you don't want to wake up in the morning. You close your eyes knowing full well it will be hours before you actually fall asleep. You can't help but think about how small your world seems, which is ironic, because you're so big. If this were another story, you'd talk about driving the same car for eleven years because you can't fit into the new cars. You'd talk about how you can only go to one movie theatre in the entire state, because it's the only one you can raise the arms on the seats. You would talk about how you bought tickets to your favorite Broadway show, and walked out of the theatre because when you tried to sit down in your seat, it broke, and you were surrounded by thin, beautiful people, who looked absolutely horrified. You'd talk about how you rent up to ten movies a week, because it's a way to make time pass faster... it's a way to make life a little more bearable... it's another way to day dream. You would talk about how you spend too much time on the Internet. But you never allow yourself to get too close to people, because once, a cyber-friend asked what you looked like, and then jokingly said, "I hope you're not so tall, weighing six hundred pounds," to which you said, "of course not." You were thankful for the computer screens and miles between because you were crying. Really, she wasn't far off. If this were another story, you'd mention that you hate being told that you have a pretty face or nice hands, because that's the only compliment you ever receive. You'd talk about how sometimes you starve yourself for days. You'd talk about how you do go to a gym and exercise, but only go in the middle of the night, because when the club is busy, people laugh at you. That's another irony; even when you're trying to do something, it's not enough. You'd talk about how the few friends you have sometimes make plans that they lie to you about, because they know that you're too fat to participate. You'd talk about how you love to travel, but can only fly on one airline, the one that has seats wide enough to accommodate your bulk. You'd talk about the names you call yourself, so that when you leave your apartment the next day, you'll be prepared for anything anyone has to say. You'd talk about the years of therapy that haven't helped all that much, but how you continue to go because you're searching for an explanation. You'd talk about how sometimes it seems like all you do is cry
-- which you find pathetic -- and how sometimes you wonder when
you will run out of tears. And you would talk about how you feel
your body is a betrayal of the flesh. You would confess that you
have an uncomfortable and almost non-existent relationship with
your body and how you are constantly and intimately aware of your
size. You'd confess that you never have the space to breathe or
see yourself as anything other than fat. You'd show your seven
tattoos, because this marking of your body is the only way you
can control the skin you're in. You'd show the scars on your arms
from where you've cut yourself with razor blades in the hope that
maybe someone would see how much you hurt. And grudgingly, you
would talk about how you yearn to be thin, how in the past three
months you've lost over a hundred pounds; that things are getting
better. And you wish you could wear a sign explaining all of this
so people would know and leave you alone. But instead, you write
this story, the story of just one day because for one moment it
feels like it really is just a story and to tell the rest would
be telling too much. Eventually, you do meet someone -- a woman who realizes that you are actually beautiful and actively desires you. But sometimes, you're afraid that it's too good to be true, that she can't possibly be attracted to you and you are often gripped by fear. More fear. You worry that you'll lose her, or that you won't be good enough and you try to think of ways to ensure that she'll never leave because this far into life you cannot bear another heart break. At least, that's what you thought the last time your heart was broken. Slowly, but surely, you do start believing. You remember what faith is. You become more comfortable in your body, and without even trying, you realize that you're losing weight again. You think, "I wish this woman had come into my life years ago, so I could have avoided all that shit between then and now." You start looking back and wondering when precisely it was that you gave up on this life you're starting to live again. You don't really find any answers. You probably never will. But you do know that all you needed, all along, was for one person -- just one -- to give you a chance to sing a fat girl's rhapsody.
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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