Body Building

When I was 21, I weighed a painful 108 lbs. I had a 26 inch waist. I could not buy anything off the rack unless it was in the Boys department, which I refused to do. It was just embarrassing.

You know how when you're a teenager, all you wanted was to grow up as fast as you could, so that you could live your own life? I wanted it so much, but my body fought it the whole time, resisting each inch, each pound, as if it was some burden to carried, like a humpback, club foot or a heavily jeweled tiara.

Shortly after I turned 21, I made plans to move to a Big City. I didn't know where, but I didn't care. Any Big City with a vibrant scene will do: Chicago. New York. Cincinnati. I didn't care. Get me out of the sticks. I wanted to hear music. I wanted to see the bright lights. I wanted to use a glory hole.

I wanted to get laid, but I found out that my appeal only went to a subset of the gay population that saw M. Butterfly and subsequently fetishized Asians to be some docile, delicate, dramatic diva. Notice the alliteration.

In the Big City I started working out, lifting weights. I ate a lot of eggs, chicken breasts, nuts. Taken pills, supplements and other fart-inducing protein powders. On the outside, my body had gained forty pounds of muscle. But in my head, I didn't gain a ounce. Like a funhouse mirror, the reflection of me was that of a beanpole.

But my wrists are still relic; as if the rest of my body grew up, but my wrists are still that of that an awkward teen. I buy chunky, metallic watches to counter the flimsiness of my wrists. Even now as I type this, my wrists mock me.

Sometimes, in brief flashes of the mirror, I will see the image of myself that others see. But in a blink, that image is gone.

I Understand If You Don't

When I read your latest post, I thought about calling mom. Do you even know that I read your blog?

It sounded desperate: Sometimes I really don't know if I can hold on much longer. I’m tired and I just want to die. Then, you wrote that you were willing yourself to hold just a little longer, just until you are too tired to stay awake.

You’ve been going through depression for such a long time and I don’t know if you’ve just given up on the meds or given up on life and the possibility that it won’t get any better than it is now for you.

I know what it was like, when death seemed preferable than going on. For me, the choice was to have the strength to leave everything and go somewhere and start over, to be the "real me."

I don’t know if running away from home like I did would help you. I don’t think so.

Maybe you don’t need to run away from home. But maybe talking with other people who are going through the same thing would help. I don’t know. Maybe you need different meds.

For a few days, I was afraid that I would get a frantic call from J in the middle of the night. I left my cellphone on instead of turning it off like I usually do. When I saw your facebook status--just a cellphone pic of a half-eaten hamburger--I was relieved. I know it doesn’t mean a thing, but maybe you found a way to hold on just for another week, just another month.

Please hold on. But I understand if you don't.

Downlow

This time it will be for me. This time, only you who are still here will know.