My partner was breaking up with me on a park bench in the middle of April. Naturally, I took a break to check my phone, where I saw an email that began: “congratulations, you’ve been accepted into Wilfrid Laurier’s Master of Social Work program”. I told him, crying. “New beginnings,” he said. I cried harder and said, “I can’t believe this is happening…good things don’t happen to me.” Was that rude? Technically, he had happened to me, so was I saying he was not a good thing? Was I saying the break-up was a good thing? In retrospect, it really was. That breakup was the end of a 6 month long unpaid therapy internship. I had lost 10 pounds, unintentionally, and that, above all else, is the reason that I wanted to start this blog.
I have always been underweight. Despite what 1995 will tell you, being underweight is not cool or fun or desirable. When you’re underweight, your body is a weak, willful shadow. It seems to follow what you want from it, until the light runs out. Then, you get sick: headaches, backaches, muscle tension, acid reflux, copious amounts of anxiety. My underweight body contains both Victorian frailty and industrialist grit: it wants to faint on couches, and it wants to demolish my natural resources. In less dramatic terms, my underweight body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with strangers and my mom at the family wedding.
Few things could have been worse for my state of frailty than a global pandemic. I was terrified at the prospect of contracting COVID-19 and ending up a long-hauler, or dead. I was sure I had to gain weight fast if I wanted to survive. In the summer months of 2020, I was eating more and exercising regularly, and I did not weigh myself, but I could feel the weight on me: a new and welcome presence, something substantial, strong and vibrant. The muscles and fat sat happily on me, and when I looked down, I could see my thighs expanding, like a line in a poem. I felt at home in my body for the first time in a very, very long time.
At summer 2020’s end, I had a health scare. While my mother and I were cleaning out an old shed, we found a metric ton of mouse droppings. Fellow hypochondriacs out there may already know this, but mouse droppings can contain the “hantavirus”, which will kill 38% of its hosts in a matter of weeks. I was convinced I had it, which sent me into a stress spiral, and when I’m stressed, my body plays Ukranian Barbie, wanting nothing but air. I barely ate for two weeks. I would force-feed myself the occasional piece of bread and peanut butter, bowl of plain rice, handful of raw vegetables, or bag of pretzels. I ate less than 1000 calories a day. I lost all of the weight I had gained over the summer. Within that month, in a classic case of bad timing, I started dating my now ex-partner.
I have tried to gain weight many times. I once tried to monitor my calories, a suggestion by my dietician at the time. But when Linda kindly asked me what I thought about the calories, I had to be honest: every time the number went above 1000, I freaked out, picturing the “gross” beach bodies on the cover of US Weekly from 2004. She told me to stop counting calories, and focus on four things: eating within 2 and ½ hours of waking up; eating what I enjoy; exercising regularly; and paying attention to my hunger cues. These four things were my only plan of action when I gained weight in the summer of 2020. And they are my only plan of action in the summer of 2021 as I recover from this break-up: eating as many pieces of chocolate, bowls of pasta, and bags of dill pickle chips as my heart desires; eating something, anything, 2.5 hours after I wake up; lifting weights, doing kickboxing videos, even attempting pilates (wine mom realness), 2-3 times a week; and actually, finally, listening to my body when it begs me to ingest more than a blueberry Eggo waffle that’s still half frozen.
My goal with this blog is to explore how it feels to intentionally gain weight in a culture that supports thinness; how it feels to eat what I enjoy in a culture that supports calorie counting, nutrition obsession, and dieting; how it feels to exercise in ways that support my abilities, not the aesthetics of my body; and last but not least, all the things that complicate these efforts: anxiety, ADHD, trauma, heartbreak, internalized capitalism vs ~the leftist agenda~, fatphobia and other internalized garbage, and of course, people I meet on Hinge.
My ex-partner saying “new beginnings” felt quite patronizing in the moment, mainly because I had to help him dump me (more on this later). In these moments, there is an overwhelming sense of what you might call “sad Keanu vibes” (remember sad Keanu?). You chose your situation, whether it’s sitting your sad celebrity ass on a public bench in hiking boots for some reason, or coaching your boyfriend through dumping you, and in spite of your hand in the decision, you are not where you wanted to be. It feels pathetic, and inevitable, and totally humiliating. And if I’m writing this blog correctly, there will be more of that feeling. So stay tuned, for new beginnings, and sad Keanu vibes.
