Fighting Weight

by Gillian Jones

  It was supposed to be a one-off to spite my aunt, a way of allowing myself to have my cake and eat it, too. A way to piss her off.

  However, years later, the joke would be on me.

  I didn’t plan to be weak. I never thought it would happen again, or that I’d let myself fall so far down the rabbit hole that I’d one day be in so deep I’d never find Wonderland, but it happened.

  Circumstances change people. Words have the power to impact and puncture our souls, leaving our psyches poisoned and vulnerable, long after those words are said. When we sling words like weapons, using them to hurt, deceive, or to make gains, we often don’t stop to consider the lasting effects those words might have on someone else. That boy in elementary school whom people treated as if he’d had some sort of communicable disease; the “clique” you hung out with in high school, thinking you were better than everyone else and making sure everybody knew it; the guy or girl you rejected with an unkind comment because he or she didn’t look the part. Be it intentional or not, we all carry some fault in shaping the way those people we trampled on see themselves today.

  I know this to be true. I speak from experience. Even though I was never so much the target of my peers at school, it came from my own family. My mother and my aunt, always my biggest tormentors with their words, not only wounding me but crushing my spirit, piercing it into a million tiny pieces, with an end result of stripping me of any confidence I might have left.

  “You’re pathetic, you can’t do anything right,” my aunt would spit when taking her anger out on me.

  “You cannot be my kid,” my mom had scolded when she was a drunken mess.

  Each and every comment was like a direct hit in a game of Battleship.

  Relentless in their fucked-up game of Crushing Alina’s Soul, a game which never seemed to end, even after my mother’s death.

  “Hey, stupid! Don’t you know how to listen?” I can still hear my mom shout, whenever she had wanted me to get her another drink. Even after death, my mother’s words have played on repeat in my mind, only to be echoed in the actions and words of Aunt Liz when we moved in with her.

  “No wonder she didn’t love you. You’re such a pain in the ass, you never do anything right,” Aunt Liz had said one night, when I dropped and broke a dish while emptying the dishwasher.

  These words and phrases worked against me, helping to cultivate the inner voice of my bully who, after that Thanksgiving night, wasn’t silently waiting around anymore. I had given Her the opening she needed. She knew I was already weak and, taking that kernel, She began working to trick me into believing that I was everything my mother and aunt said I was.

  I guess my illness is a product of circumstance, verbal abuse, and my own weakness. I never intentionally meant to hurt myself so badly that I’d have to constantly hide behind a façade of fake happiness, lies, and bullshit. It was a kind of cause-and-effect syndrome, which led me straight into Her clutches once upon a Thanksgiving night.

  I guess you could say that my mom and Aunt Liz had launched their torpedoes at warp speed, crushing me with each blow, and they eventually found and sunk my battleship.

  Over the years, with the voice of my bully egging me on, I started seeking food for comfort and comfort in food, believing everything they’d said about me as if it were my truth. And, looking back, it all started that night at the tender age of thirteen. That’s when I’d set the wheels in motion for what would become the biggest fight I’d ever face—the battle for myself. And with my mother’s and Liz’s words playing on repeat as the voice of the bully who lived inside my head, I was sure they were right all along.

  I would never be enough.

  Just like they said.

  3

  Alina

  Eight years later

  Lists.

  We all make them, even rely on them.

  Be it a messy scrawl on a notepad, something we type on our phone reminding us of things to do, or an itemized list we tick off as we add each item to our shopping carts.

  Personally, I use all kinds…and I thrive on them.

  Post-it notes.

  Mental lists.

  Paper lists.

  The Notes app.

  But I don’t create lists to track everyday things like groceries, who RSVP’d to a party, or books I’d like to read. No. I write lists to keep track of myself, and to keep inventory.

  A list to track my daily caloric intake.

  A list with the foods and amounts I’ve ingested in a day.

  A list keeping track of how many times I’ve binged and purged.

  Lists.

  Lists.

  Lists.

  Some people make them so they don’t forget. I make them to ensure I remember, and to maintain control. To keep myself on top of my game, to keep myself from being caught, from being judged. I write lists as if my life depends on it, and, quite frankly, sometimes I fear it might.

  Standing under the flowing water as it falls from the showerhead, I’m running through my current list as the water cascades, sluicing over my skin. I recite out loud everything I need to grab today before Lucky returns home later:

  “Milk…yogurt…steak…cheese…fruit…chocolate cake…frozen pizzas…air freshener…dish soap…” I step further into the spray to rinse out the conditioner.

  My brother’s been away for what feels like forever, finishing up the second part of his training for the last thirty weeks. He’ll soon be a certified Avionics Systems Technician, a job I’m so proud of him for pursuing. Lucky will be responsible for maintaining electronics systems onboard Canadian Armed Forces aircraft. Reaching for my loofah, I smile thinking of Lucky and his accomplishments. To say Lucky’s my hero would be an understatement; he’s the best person I know.

  You’re fortunate he puts up with you, you fat whore.

  Poor guy, having to let his stupid sister live with him.

  You’re pathetic!

  You’re such a fucking burden, a fat and ugly burden.

  The thoughts come one after another in rapid fire. I try to shake off their effect, but I can’t. I know She’s right. That voice inside my head that’s a mix of both my mom and my aunt, a voice I can’t seem to silence. My bully.

  I’m fat.

  I’m pathetic.

  I’m a burden.

  The last thing I’d ever want to do is to let Lucky down, to make him a part of my fight.

  Still standing in the shower, I lean forward and thrust my fingers to the back of my throat, working to purge not only the food I consumed this morning, but also all the terrible weight. Not just from my body, but also from my mind.

  With Lucky coming back home, living here with me full-time again, I’ll need to be careful.

  So, so careful.

  I’ve become complacent living alone the last several months, and I know if I’m not diligent, I might hurt us both.

  “Oranges,” I say, reaching for my vanilla-scented body wash. “I’m going to need to start using the oranges again.” I flip open the cap, squeezing a dime-sized amount of liquid onto my loofah before scrubbing my body—and my feet—for a second time, after kicking the contents of my stomach down the drain.

  I pause, tsk-ing, taking in the white tiles and tub as the hot water swirls down the drain, taking the last stubborn pieces of vomit with it. “And I’ll need a good cleaning product. Clorox…”

  And, just like that, I feel lighter.

  4

  Alina

  Two years later

  I can confirm what many great musicians before me have said: being on the stage feels like home. Standing onstage, I, too, feel at home in front of the masses, be it thirty or three hundred people, the rush is the same. Knowing people are there for your music is a powerful thing. And tonight’s no different.

  As the house lights remain dimmed suggesting we’ll be coming back out for an encore, I can’t keep a smile from playing across my lips as I walk off the stage behind Paisley, Siobhán, and Roxie, the other
members of Happenstance. I know they loved us.

  “Happen-stance!”

  “Happen-stance!”

  “Do you hear that?” Paisley asks, standing beside me offstage.

  “It’s one of my favourite sounds,” I tell her truthfully.

  “You’re not wrong about that,” she says, smiling.

  Music is a kind of therapy that gets me every time. Strap my guitar over my shoulder and I’m a goner, getting myself so lost in the power of the rhythm and lyrics of so many stories and memories, it’s impossible not to get a little lost sometimes.

  Performing on stage doesn’t scare me like you’d think it might frighten a person in my shoes. Actually, it’s the opposite.

  There’s a sweet juxtaposition to me, being in a band. There’s that feeling I get when I’m up on stage strumming my electric guitar to the music I feel to my core, with the lyrics about not giving in, never allowing others to drag you down, songs depicting the woman I wish I could be, but never will. I want to be the lyrics I write, and not simply a shadow of what they represent. I want to live each and every line, yet when I walk off that stage I lose that woman, once again becoming just her shadow, her opposite. So for me, playing onstage is everything, the only time I allow myself to shine a little. There’s a rush of power being in front of an audience that accepts you, comes out to see you, and most of all listens to you. Seeing them hanging onto each lick of the guitar, kick of the drum, and line of a song I’ve written is surreal. Knowing people are into it gives me such an incredible high, one I desperately need the memories of to help fuel me when I’m not this version of myself once the night is done. And if I’m being honest, whether they love or hate my music doesn’t bother me. I play to play, and best of all, I play for me. Performing is the one instance in my life where I really try not to care what anyone’s opinion is. And for me, that’s huge. I’ve always been the one who cares too much about every aspect of myself because I’ve never been enough. So, week after week, I happily stand onstage, strumming my guitar, singing background on the songs I’ve written, while Paisley Walker expels the words that my fucked-up psyche can’t otherwise get out.

  “That was such an amazing set, ladies. You’ve brought the house down, once again,” Mo—the owner of the bar, Fyst, where we’ve just played for the last hour—shouts, as the crowd continues to chant for an encore while whistling and clapping.

  “Thanks, Mo,” we collectively nod, as we pass by him.

  “I’ll give ’em five, then you’re back out. Listen to that! They’re greedy tonight, girls. I think the word about you guys is getting out,” he smiles, rubbing his hands together, “and you know what that means, eh?”

  Siobhán, our drummer, is quick to reply, “Yeah, free drinks for the performers.” We all laugh, and she rubs Mo’s balding head in jest.

  “It means raises,” Mo deadpans. “Keep packing the house like this and I’ll be forced to pay you ladies a lot more.” He beams as he yells, “Four minutes!” then walks away to give us a little huddle time. Happenstance has been playing regular gigs here at Fyst for the last six months. It’s been our first regular paying gig; Mo saw something in us and took a chance, so to hear the crowd wanting more makes me damn proud.

  “Jesus, Alina…that solo on ‘Walk of Shame’ was incredible tonight. And did you hear that guy in the back yelling at you to marry him?” Roxie—who plays bass guitar—asks, a beautiful smile lighting up her face. Instead of recoiling at Roxie’s praise, I smile, knowing my playing did that. For once, I’m happy to have been noticed.

  “It’s true, Ali,” Paisley adds, her green eyes shining. “You kicked that song’s ass. You made it your bitch, no lie. I’m almost wondering if you should do the whole thing solo next time?” She tilts her head, gauging my reaction.

  “Oh no, I’m happiest on backup. Besides, you kill those lyrics. Your falsetto is perfect for it. I wrote it with your voice in mind.” I’m quick to dismiss the thought of performing solo, although hearing my friends think I could pull it off makes me feel amazing. Sure, I love being on stage, but centre stage? That’s a different story. I’m happy to blend into the background and maybe take on a few solo bits here and there, but being a main focal point isn’t something I’m sure I’ll ever be ready for.

  “Two minutes!” we hear Mo’s baritone voice shout.

  “Okay, what should we play for our finale?” Rox asks, picking her Rickenbacker bass back up and slinging it over her shoulder.

  “Think we could pull the new one off?” Paisley asks, as we huddle in a small circle, like we do every time before we perform.

  “Can we do ‘Burden’?” Siobhán asks, grinning ear-to-ear about the song we’ve only rehearsed a handful of times.

  “Now, please welcome back to the stage, the outrageously talented foursome known as Happenstance!” We hear the familiar introduction as though it’s off in the distance as we try to finalize what we’re going to play.

  “I know we can do it,” I assure my bandmates, not a wave of doubt crossing my mind.

  “You’re right, Al. We can, and if not? There’s always next week,” Rox shrugs, giving a nervous giggle and we all follow suit.

  I stand corrected. Not only is being onstage “home”, home is also standing right here in this circle with my girls, even if I haven’t ever let them know the real me.

  5

  Alina

  Rolling over, I groan as my phone starts growling and vibrating, alerting me to a new group text message. The familiar sound of the Monster Roar sound effect I chose for Happenstance chat rumbles again and again in the stillness of the morning’s silence. Reaching for my phone, I glance at the clock. It’s early. Really fucking early for a Sunday. Six thirty a.m. early. Paisley.

  Paisley: OMFG wake up ladies!!!

  Roar!

  Paisley: WAKE UP!!!!!

  Roar!

  Our band’s lead singer messages again.

  Paisley: GUYS!!!! PLEASE WAKE UP!!!!!!!

  Paisley: Emergency band meeting at 8. Big news!

  Roar!

  Roar!

  Siobhán: i’m nowhere ready to get out of my bed yet, even to pee! message me in like two hours.

  I laugh at the reply from our drummer. She and Paisley are ridiculous, and oh-so crazy when they’re together. Since they live practically next door to one another, I’m a little fearful for Paisley’s safety for messaging her at this hour. Siobhán is all about her sleep.

  Paisley: BUT I HAVE BIG NEWS!

  Siobhán: don’t be vague. and stop shouting at us. spill, so i can decide if i should awaken from my beauty slumber. and were we not together just a few hours ago???? i need some time away from you bitches.

  I laugh at the messages. These are my girls, always making me smile. I don’t know what I would do without them, or if I’ve ever told them that.

  We are four unlikely friends who found and forged a sisterhood through music when we all met in Mr. Sopal’s music class back in Grade 10. I was a lonely girl, caught in a battle not only at home but also in my head, and Mr. Sopal with his enthusiastic way of teaching music, his “drop-in” style of open practice times before and after school, helped to foster my passion and love for music so much that I often found myself in the band room, playing whenever I had a spare minute.

  I had always been naturally gifted at picking up music, something I learned early on when I was in Grade Three. Ms. McRea introduced us to the recorder, and I fell in love with the feeling of making music. It’s something I’ve held on to as the years have passed. I had started playing the guitar with my dad after that day in class with Ms. McRea. Dad used to love to play. We’d sit out back on the porch, him with his old Yamaha acoustic, and me with my Walmart kid-sized special he’d surprised me with one day. I’d follow his lead, strumming in time, learning his music, his way. “Wheat Kings” by the Tragically Hip was the first song I learned to play by ear. Dad would always smile, and say, “You’re a natural, kiddo. I have a feeling you could play anything
if you tried.” This was often followed up with, “Ali, always turn to the music, it sets the soul free.”

  And he was right. It did.

  My dad helped fan the fire within me with his words and encouragement. And once it was lit, not even my aunt could extinguish it. But, trust me, she tried.

  “Guitar playing is for druggies,” she told me when I asked for an electric guitar for my twelfth birthday, having fully grown out of dad’s gift.

  When I joined the school’s stage band in Grade Nine, she forced me to switch to piano after the first time I brought home my assigned violin. “Violins are for whiners, and the McQueens are not whiners, Alina!” She kept saying how a classically-trained musician was what would be expected from a McQueen, and nothing less (somehow, she failed to recognize one of the most classic instruments—the violin—as a classical instrument). So I took the small black case back to Mr. Sopal and told him my aunt wanted me switched to the piano. I spent many evenings over the years learning the classical piano pieces Aunt Liz would lay out each night, getting in trouble when I’d mix in a little “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen or “Clocks” by Coldplay if I was feeling particularly rebellious. It didn’t matter though, knowing I could play those songs made Liz’s wrath so fucking worth it, because despite my natural ability, never once did a word of praise fall from her lips.

  Writing lyrics and learning various instruments by ear became an outlet for me when I was at my lowest points. I guess I’m a bit of a prodigy that way. Playing different instruments—like the piano, and, secretly, the guitar and the violin—in music class, after school, and at band practice became an escape when things at home were at their hardest. And Mr. Sopal, by his encouragement and introducing me to my future bandmates, forged my love for music even more.

  My favourite instrument, though, was always the electric guitar. I can sing a little, too, when pushed, but I’m nothing compared to the talents of Paisley (nor do I need that kind of pressure in my life), so for the time being I stick to the background where I feel most comfortable.