The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (12 page)

Jill is a take-charge type. I guess that’s why she’s the boss. When I said I needed a change, I meant I should get the fuck out of this company and find a new job or perhaps finally join that convent. But she was thinking of a change within the confines of the company. Perhaps my redeployment had been planned for months, or perhaps I was so miserable she didn’t want to see me sulking beneath my headphones for one more day. Either way, with a quick call to the Resource Manager, she had found me a new job within ten minutes.

“Amanda needs a project assistant and thinks you’ll be perfect!” She smiled triumphantly. “It will be a great experience for you!”

“I don’t know anything about being a project assistant,” I said feebly.

“You’re smart, Shauna, you’ll do great.” Jill squeezed my shoulder. “We’ll go around and talk to Amanda in a moment.”

“OK.”

“You start tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

I felt as if I was watching myself from above, that everything was spinning out of control and I was powerless to stop it. I’m trying to think like a good corporate lackey and see it as a career opportunity. Surely it had to be better than surfing the ’net all day, waiting in vain for some editing work to roll in? At least it’s something to do while I keep looking for work elsewhere.

But I have no faith in my ability to find something else. What happened to all my confidence and bravado from the end of last year? I felt I could conquer the world. But lately I want the world to fuck off.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered yesterday there was such a thing as a staple remover. For years I’ve painstakingly plucked them out with my fingernails. But now I know there’s this little contraption with fearsome teeth that rips the staple out for you. Amazing. I found myself stapling random pieces of paper together, just so I’d have some staples to remove.

So despite protesting to Jill that I didn’t know anything about being a project assistant, I seem to be managing. Turns out Project Assistant just means doing all the crappy jobs no one else wants to do. Aside from the staple removing, there is the data entry, the photocopying, and the sticking of bar code stickers onto computers.

I had nine paper jams yesterday afternoon. The photocopier sees me coming and cackles to itself, “Aha, look at this amateur.” That machine has far too many orifices for paper to hide in.

As I dismantled and declogged, I thought of paper jams and how there’s so many types of paper jam. Like the pulpy kind you spread on your toast. It keeps you regular. Or when there’s a whole bunch of notebooks and Post-Its driving home from work and the roads get all congested. Or when the ream of A4 calls up his old high school buddy the legal pad and they get together with drums and guitars in their garage. Paper jam.

OK, I am going insane. As pleasant as my new boss Amanda has been over the past month, I fear I’m losing the plot. I thought it was bad having nothing to do in the Content Department, but being completely swamped by repetitive and mundane tasks is far worse. I spent six solid hours typing asset numbers into Excel today, and it was nowhere near as fun as my weight loss spreadsheet.

Most nights I get home late, eyes burning from staring at serial numbers all day, and fall asleep in front of the telly instead of going to the gym. The size 18 jeans I bought from a catalogue back in February are painfully tight and I’m too scared to get on the scale.

It started innocently enough with that one chicken wrap two months ago, from the little shop behind our building. The first time I ordered it, I asked for no cheese and no sauce. But the next time I had cheese and sauce. Then the next time I washed it down with a bottle of chocolate milk. And the time after that I got a hamburger with the lot with my chocolate milk. Today I got the burger, the chocolate milk, and a four-finger Kit Kat.

What is happening to me? Why can’t I stop? I don’t even like Kit Kats.

C
ANBERRA, AAP
–Local woman Miss Dietgirl was coaxed down from the capital’s tallest building today after receiving the seventeenth rejection letter in her fruitless quest for a new job.

“This one really gutted me,” said the distraught Braddon resident. “I’ve been looking since February and this time I dared to dream. Thirty-five applicants and I actually managed to get an interview. I prepared like crazy and thought I had it in the bag.”

After receiving her rejection letter, Miss Dietgirl went to Telstra Tower, where she stood on the viewing deck and bellowed, “Goodbye cruel world!” to anyone who would listen, dangling her toes over the edge.

The woman’s deranged cries were heard by two Japanese tourists, who alerted tower staff. After three hours of intense negotiation and use of megaphones, Miss Dietgirl was lured from her perch on Canberra’s tallest building with the promise of chocolate and an agreement that Channel 10 would reduce its screenings of
Everybody Loves Raymond
by 75 percent.

Representatives from the interview panel were hesitant to comment on why Miss Dietgirl was not offered the position, a Web developer role in a government department.

“We cannot divulge this information, as it is classified. However, Miss Dietgirl’s claims that we coldly rejected her because she is untalented, unattractive, and incapable are not wholly unfounded.”

Meanwhile, the secretarial world rejoiced at the news that they would not be losing one of their brightest new talents.

“She is really coming along with that Excel,” said an anonymous source. “And today she learned how to change the toner cartridge on the printer and only got a small amount of ink on her clothes. We all gathered ’round and clapped politely.”

When I christened this journal “The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl,” it was part sarcasm and part optimism. Yeah, like losing half my body weight is going to be so amazing, I thought. Then again … maybe it will be?

Seventy-eight weeks later it’s not Amazing. I’m not having Adventures and I’m certainly not on a Diet. So all we have left is, “The Girl.” I’m no weight loss superhero. It was tempting to torch this whole journal and run away, rather than slink back here after five weeks’ silence and admit to you all that I’m a stinking failure.

But I just need to tell somebody.

It was déjà vu at the doctor’s office today. It was a different town, a different doctor, and three years later, but I was back down in that impossible black hole.

“I’ve tried pretending everything is OK,” I explained, “but I just feel lost. I wake up every day and that suffocating panic is still there. It’s like someone threw an invisible net over me. I’m writhing and clawing but I can’t find a way out.”

She nodded but I was paranoid and felt she didn’t believe me. Depression has become almost fashionable over the past few years; I didn’t want her thinking I was just hopping on the bandwagon.

“OK. Have you tried talking to your family and friends?”

“Yes,” I lied.

I haven’t told a soul. It was embarrassing enough having to confess I’d been demoted to Photocopy Girl, moving even further away from that expensive degree. I’m determined not to let them know I’m back down here again.

“Look, I’ve been here before,” I rushed on. “I had some problems three years ago, I took antidepressants. I’ve been OK for ages but somehow it’s happening again. I’m trying to pull myself out of it but it feels completely hopeless.”

“How’s your diet?” she asked politely. “Are you eating well?”

“Most of the time.” I squirmed. Part of me has enjoyed bingeing again. I’d missed the secret, urgent ritual of cramming myself with food until I’m finally numb. And nauseous.

But then yesterday I remembered the consequences. I was typing serial numbers when I suddenly felt cool air on my stomach. My jeans had spontaneously unzipped themselves. I’d felt so skinny when I bought them back in February, but now they couldn’t contain the advance of my midriff. I tugged my top down and sat with a folder in my lap for the rest of the day.

“What about exercise?”

“I haven’t been to the gym in months.”

“Well,” she smiled gently, “even if you could manage a daily walk. Eating well and looking after your body can really help keep you feel balanced.”

You know, normally I would have loved to find a doctor like this. Someone who wasn’t content to just throw me a prescription and shove me out of her office. But today I just wanted the pills.

“I’m not one of those quick fix people,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. “I didn’t want to come here. But I just need a boost so I can get out of bed, so I can get up and try to fix things.”

“OK.” She reached for her prescription pad.

I started to cry from sheer relief.

I feel guilty about picking up that prescription. Depression doesn’t sit well with me. No matter how many people tell me it’s an illness, it feels like a failure of my character. I can’t help thinking of my grandfather, slowly dying in his armchair. I come from a long line of resilient farmers just like him. There’s no time for emotional shit when there’s sheep to be shorn and crops to be sown. Depression seems so indulgent. Surely medication should be reserved for genuinely ill people, not just some fat chick who’s lost her way. Surely if I just snapped out of it and stopped eating so much crap and found a new job everything would be fine.

I hate admitting I’m down here again. I hate admitting that I have failed to solve this on my own. But right now I can’t see a future beyond hamburgers, unzipped jeans, and bar code stickers. I need to find some self-respect again. I know that doesn’t come in a pill, but I hope the pill will help clear my head for the search.

Rhiannon and I met Jenny for laksa at the Asian Noodle House. Such an innocuous thing to do, but I was anxious. After two weeks of antidepressants I’m past the initial delirium and have settled into feeling quietly functional. Boosted by a fresh haircut and a clean set of clothes, today I felt ready to try engaging with the humans again.

As always, I was awkward with the chopsticks. Just take it easy, I told myself. I stabbed the squishy tofu and slowly reeled in the noodles. But somehow I lost control of the vehicle. The chopstick flew across to the next table and landed on someone’s shoe with a plasticky clink at the same time as I schlooped up the noodles. Dots of spicy liquid pelted my T-shirt like tiny gunfire. It’s the curse of the fat chick. You reach a certain point of fatness and you don’t really have breasts, it’s more of a flesh trough from chin to stomach, always ready to collect food stains.

“Jeez, you wouldn’t want to have laksa on a first date, would you?” said Jenny as we all snorted with laughter. “It’s not the most becoming dish.”

I smiled as I dabbed at my chest with a tissue. I had no idea how many points were in a laksa but I didn’t really care. I know I’ll be ready to get back to my lard busting soon. Even in my most bleak, bingeing moments I had no intention of giving up forever. But right now I have to focus on little things like getting out of bed and opening the curtains.

Perhaps it was the dried chillies, but I felt ready to sob at any moment. I was so overwhelmed by emotion, just to be out of isolation and surrounded by their presence. I talked and laughed and sprayed more dinner on my shirt, trying to remember what normal feels like. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Rhiannon or Jenny about the depression, but at least I wasn’t hiding from them anymore.

I’m starting to see why things fell apart. I was so obsessed with my weight loss last year that I shut out everything else. When work went down the tubes, I didn’t have the resources to handle it. I switched my obsession to job hunting instead, and let everything else slip. I know I’ve got to find a way of doing things without the extremes.

But for now I feel a little better. As soon as I admitted that I wasn’t coping, I started to cope again. I’m not so angry now. I’m trying to be forgiving and not let my moods be defined by my job woes and giant knickers. I don’t need to hide. I will get through this.

My new boss Amanda is gorgeous. She has beautiful almond eyes, a creamy complexion, and a delicate frame. I feel like a hulking lumberjack standing beside her. But today she announced she’s on a diet.

“Why would you be on a diet?”

“My jeans are so tight I can barely breathe,” she said. “I’m all belly. Soon I’ll have to lie down on the bed and haul up the zipper with a coat hanger.”

“I see.” I thought of my self-unzipping jeans, now tossed in the back of my wardrobe. You think you’ve got a fat belly? I’ll show you a fat belly, baby.

“I’ve joined SureSlim,” she went on. “Have you heard of it?”

“No.” I honestly thought I’d heard of every diet.

“My friend did it and she lost forty pounds in eight weeks. It’s amazing!”

“Eight weeks?” Now she had my attention. “How?”

“Well, they give you an individualized diet that’s designed to boost your metabolism,” she explained in authoritative tones. “They customize it based on your blood test results.”

“I don’t like the sound of bleeding to lose weight.”

She laughed. “They only need a little syringeful.”

“So what do you eat?”

“You get three meals a day. You’re not allowed to eat in between meals.”

“Not at all? What kind of barbaric system is this?”

“It makes your metabolism more efficient. I have yogurt and fruit for breakfast, then protein and salad for lunch and dinner.”

“Sounds … thrilling.”

“You can only eat certain veggies, mostly green ones. You have to weigh them first.”

“No way!”

“But you don’t have to weigh cucumber, lettuce, and celery. They’re unlimited.”

“That’s generous.”

“But only at mealtimes,” she added.

“Well, no wonder your friend lost so much weight, she must have been starving.”

“Oh no!” Amanda gasped defensively. “It’s nutritionally balanced. Lots of lean protein, and you get all your essential fats from the seeds.”

“Seeds?”

“Linseeds, sunflower, sesame, and pumpkin seeds. A tablespoon of each per day.”