I ate celery sticks and salads and drank only bottled water. I treated myself to sushi from Kooma. I kept my head down on my studies, for it would be the only way I could pay my loan back.

I could only keep going because staying behind would be worse. More people who knew my brothers would come round to the house. I stayed in my room and forced myself to do stretches and press ups and stayed stinking in my room until everyone had gone, and went into the bathroom with a towel.

I continued to cycle everywhere. I offered to walk the neighbor's dog for a bit of extra pocket change, to give myself some company, and to force myself to always be active.

I did not yet earn enough to keep a gym membership, though my mom offered to cover it until I did, but I refused. I was afraid of all the people who would see me and judge me.

There were some girls who were friends or acquaintances of my brothers who asked me to nights out. I turned them all down, not wanting to be the odd one out. I rented videos and sat in and watched the TV in my room. I pretended, in the privacy of my room, to do my self defense training as though someone was attacking me.

I cuddled one of my teddy bears to sleep. The aching loneliness was a pit in my stomach. The burn that I got from exercise was becoming addictive. The strain of working out had, at first, been crushing.

The annual Philadelphia Marathon was not something I had trained towards. I signed up, regretted it, and forced myself to go.

When I had puffed myself clean, dragged myself among those who had come last, red-faced and sweating, I leaned against a railing, slumped on the grass, panting. My parents had work and my brothers I did not expect to come, but I glanced up at the sky and promised myself I would be better.

I roused myself and wrapped my arms around my legs and saw a skinny blonde woman doing her post-run stretches. I envied her. I coveted looking like that so much it hurt.

I sank into blessed relief, after a shower at home, into my dressing down and in front of the TV. It had become painfully boring to slob out, to sink into the usual programmes which were re-runs. I needed to run, but it was late out, and doing exercises in my room felt like I was in a prison cell.

I went out into the kitchen where my parents were chatting in the dining room. There was a raspberry dessert almost finished, and my uncle who heard me, called my name.

"Get me the last piecsht, wontcha?"

I served him because it prevented me from eating it. I let the fork clatter because he had always told me I had the genes from my dad's side of the family. His lazy eye went to my body.

"Yous been workin' out?" my uncle slobbered over his dessert. "Itsch not workin'."