They were excellent, perfectly logical, and reasonable reasons. Of course I couldn’t play volleyball anymore—I was studying for the SATs. I was running for student government. I was working. My knee was acting up after one too many midair collisions where everyone landed ungracefully.
They were sincere reasons, real and true reasons that had nothing to do with my weight, or feeling so wide next to tall, wiry Amy, and lanky and muscular Justin, tiny Emily always gunning for captain. Or because I had to play harder, because everyone was skinnier than me. Play better, because they were skinnier than me. Be fierce because I had to be brave. Force myself on the court every single practice.
I threw up before every single game, my stomach heaving at the sound of the crowd outside the locker room. A hundred strangers with their eyes all on me, everyone wondering, how is that fat girl supposed to play volleyball?
Having to prove myself, over and over.
I have never allowed myself to acknowledge this, not really. More important, no one was ever supposed to know. Somehow, I really believed no one ever suspected I had this frantic, terrified center, a churning, overheating engine constantly propelling me forward. The energy behind everything I do. Everything I am.
The thought tears through me, leaving me feeling bloody and ragged. My head is down and my fists are in my pockets and I’m walking fast. I’m not skipping my last class, because I’m not running away. I don’t run away. But relief slams me in the chest and stops me short when I see the classroom door is open and the light is off and no one is inside. I don’t care why no one is there. I spin and I march through the emptying halls and right out the back door, flinching at the brightness of the sun after the dimmed lights of the hallways. I’m ducking my head and moving more and more quickly, the farther I get away.
When I pass my car I drop my bag and kick it underneath and keep going. I don’t want to stop moving. If I stop, all these thoughts will catch up and swallow me. The faster I move, the louder the silence that fills my head. When I’m in motion, I’m just long breaths and bunching muscles and moving limbs. When I’m not thinking about my body, just using it, everything makes more sense.
I dodge through the gravel divider and over the sidewalk, across the road to the bike path that winds down to Main Street and the beach. When I cross from the bright sun to the shade of the trees I break into a run, my flip-flops slapping the dirt and branches dragging across my bare arms, leaving white scratches behind. I don’t stop at the end of the trail. I hit the cobblestones of Main Street, veer toward the boardwalk, leap off the boards onto the sand. I’m breathing heavily, too hot in the sun. But I feel light and invisible. I don’t notice anyone, and they won’t notice me if I keep moving. I kick off my flip-flops and I pound through the sand, chasing the gulls down the beach.
I run through the stitch in my side.
I run through the burn in my lungs.
I run through the image of my mother, laughing on the lawn of Harvard like she had some right to be there.
I run through my grandmother’s promises.
I run through the idea, the seductive, twining, choking-vine idea that everything could be easier. Everything could be simpler. That I never have to feel like this again. That skinny is so much easier than fat.
I run through the idea that I am not strong enough to do this anymore.
The beach ends abruptly at a sheer rock wall that stretches so high overhead it can block out the sun. I am running flat out now, straight for it, my legs pumping and on fire. My whole body burning. The sand drags at my feet but I am stronger, and faster. I run hard at the wall and throw myself at it, gasping, clinging to it, sliding down until I’m sitting on the rocky sand, pressing my face against the rough, warm stone and gulping air.
I feel empty. The space behind my eyes feels like it should be filled up with tears, but it’s gone dry. I’m miles from home and it feels like no one but me has ever been here. It’s an unfound beach, the sand littered with broken branches and drifts of seaweed. The smell of salt and sulfur and sand is almost as big as the sky, and the sun is turning everything gold. I feel like I am the first person in a while—in maybe ever—to churn up the sand, disrupt the tide, startle the gulls.
I sit and let my breath calm and wait for a revelation. A sense that everything is going to be okay, that I’ve found an answer, the key to everything, the end-game solution. I spread my hands out in the sand and close my eyes against the slowly dipping sun. Invisible gamma rays, help me, I think.
No answers, I know. Just me.
I am the sum of my parts. Everything I’ve ever done and everything I’ve ever achieved and everything I have ever been. Fat and smart and afraid and fierce and angry and brave all together right here, and every piece of the puzzle fits the way it’s supposed to and I can’t pretend anymore. It’s always been true, no matter what I’ve told myself or hoped or tried to believe.
I wobble a bit when I drag myself standing, wait for a moment to get steady and sturdy on my feet, and head home.