Part 1 - The CKY Years

1996

I looked at my hands which were pudgy. The rolls on my stomach. My legs were large and had scars. My face was fat.

My room needed a clean up. I began by sorting everything I didn't need into boxes, and organising everything left to reduce the clutter. I put on loads of laundry for my clothing hamper and my bed sheets. I vacuumed and open the windows.

I showered, and twisted the faucet. The bathroom mirror was steamy, and my toothbrush was pink among four others in the cup. I brushed my teeth until my gums bled.

I went into my bedroom and searched through my closet. There were black clothes, large sweaters, big jeans. On a hook behind my door, was the school uniform which I would no longer wear.

I was eighteen years old, coming on nineteen.

I took out the bicycle in the garage that had been my mom's, and cycled into town. There was a free self-defence course which I signed up for. I cycled to the library, and took out some books on dieting. I cycled to a gym, and took home an application. I could not yet afford the fees until I had a job.

My mom wanted me to follow her into hairdressing. The course was a year long, twenty minutes from home by bicycle, and the fees covered by my parents, for neither of my brothers had opted for college.

I did not want to be a hairdresser, or catering to a beauty market. But I needed the money.

I wrote up a diet plan with the help of the library books. At meal times, I forced myself to eat little, and my mom soon understood to cook smaller meals, which then turned into me cooking my own dinners, more healthy alternatives.

My debt to her was already increasing. I could not owe her money and board while I studied.

I went cycling everywhere, and took walks down Stroud Preserve. I could not afford a car, and I did not travel much anyway, and it would cost me in maintenance. The bicycle would force me to exercise.

The hairdressing course was dismal. Learning was boring, but the looks the other girls shot me, added to their lack of invites, made me feel lonelier than ever.

The first few sessions of the self-defense course, we were all gaining our traction. It was by now that we knew what to do, were building on it, and tackling each other with throws or grips meant to stop our attacker.

It was when I was zipping up my dad's old duffel bag with my change of clothes, exiting out onto the street where my bicycle was locked, when a pair of guys walked past, and stared.

"Self defense?" asked one.

I fiddled with the lock, and got onto my bicycle. The second replied:

"Like anyone would attack her."