Note Baikanon:
This is the raw draft I sent in as a submission to TWLOHA!
I had been sick for an entire month.
It was just a cold; brought on by abruptly lower temperatures after a balmy summer. I should’ve been over it in a few days.
It had been a month.
I was living in Korea, doing humanitarian work. It was fulfilling, and I felt better about what I was doing with my life than I had in a long time. At the same time, foreign food helped me lose weight, which raised my spirits even more. I experienced an emotional high every time I saw lower numbers on our scale. More than poor photos and fake compliments, a scale’s number was something I could rely on to know if I was ugly or not. After all, if I was fat I looked bad, and if I could lose weight than I’d be on the first step towards actually being physically attractive. I was never the muscular type, and in my head that meant I needed to be dangerously thin instead. You’re either muscular or emaciated — otherwise you’re chunky. That was typical of the self-defeating logic I’d fallen victim to.
Every time I saw the Korean people I worked with, I beamed inwardly. They would all comment on my lost weight, always approving. I relished the rush that come from that positive reinforcement — it was so much better than the typically Korean blunt comments I’d received a couple of months ago when I first came to Korea. I never wanted to be referred to as “the fat one” again. I didn’t want my appearance to become my identity.
And so, ironically, I let my appearance become my identity in a different way.
The work we did was exhaustive, but I was able to successfully shrink my appetite until I only ate a small serving of rice with a dumpling to feel satisfied. Eating that way was easier: with a partner by my side and two other roommates, other blatantly unhealthy forms of weight loss were off the table. Since I was still eating, I was still healthy; I was still doing good. And to be honest, I was proud of my small portions. They were like miniature medals, awarding me for my self-control and marking my progress towards victory over how not-handsome I was. Besides; I was a guy, and everybody knew that guys eat too much in the first place anyways. It’s girls that need to worry about their food. They’re the ones in danger from vulnerable egos and fragile psyches. At least, that’s the defense that buzzed in my skull throughout the month.
One month with a common cold, and my best friend couldn’t stand it anymore. I had finished doing the dishes and was going to bed early when he looked at me and made a simple statement that opened my eyes.
“You’re still sick because you’re not eating enough.”
I hadn’t connected the two before. But as soon as I looked at his face, I knew it was true. I had starved my body of its strength, and was keeping it weak and vulnerable. By basing my own worth off of other peoples arbitrary comments, I’d done the same thing to my spirit. I wanted to be free of being ugly but really I’d just enslaved myself to fear.
So, what happened?
I had friends who cared. I had friends who understood what I wanted, and who showed me healthy alternatives to the self-destructive easy fix-its I was reaching for. They didn’t try to push me back to who I was before I worried so much about calories and kilograms, but they didn’t leave me in that pit either. They helped me climb out and be somebody new.
I’m still conscious of my eating choices and I worry a little too much about exercise. But that’s alright — I’m becoming more comfortable in my skin. There are growing pains and relapses and binges and moments where I want to give up but it’s all worth it because I can look myself in the mirror and decide, “Not so bad, today.” And one day I’ll be able to smile and think to myself, “Hey, good looking. Do you come here often?”
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