Part 2 - The Jackass years
2000
I woke every day with a twist in my gut, for renting on my own came with obvious pitfalls. I had no savings, and though a poverty budget meant I ate less, it meant I craved more.
The gym was a luxury I could not afford, not if I was to own my own home one day, and only under orders of my younger brother's girlfriend did she force me to join her after each shift of Duffer's.
I had bare-bones furniture, but I had quiet. I had no car, but the cycling gave me a burn I had learned to relish. My parents visited, but they were busy reining in my brothers.
My older brother had a girlfriend who kept him in check. My younger brother could not be kept in check by anyone. Their faces had been on screens, and then prominently the latter on TV with a bunch of pranksters. One day, cycling from the library for weight loss books, I saw a car dragging a sled behind it, and another recording it with a video camera.
By now, I went to a couple of races. There were not just ones where you ran in a crowd and you came nth place. There was cross country, and track, and trail. Further out of town there was a facility for rock climbing. The harness bit, but I could see the top, I could see me reaching my goal weight, and then I swung to the floor, and so did my mood as the instructor unstrapped me and all my flab.
The gym had a swimming pool, but they didn't let people wear t-shirts. I sat on the edge, and received glances by those doing laps. My face burned, and provided the impetus never to go in there again.
Every day was a struggle. Looking in the mirror made me hateful. The scales collected dust. My bank account was solidly ten dollars from empty, and my brothers could always pay the bar tabs of their groups.
There was alone, and loneliness.
I still hugged my teddy from home, wishing I was home, the way it was, before all the people swarmed it. My younger brother had always been the noisemaker, and he was still, but he had brought with him a hoard of wasps, noisy still, barbed and ready.
I could barely leave my house.
When I had watched all the VHS tapes I could tolerate, when the songs on my Walkman had caked my face with tears, when a packet of biscuits was finally unwrapped, I rubbed the scars on my fat legs and knew nothing would change.
My family was fifteen minutes by bicycle. I had relied on them to rouse me from my stupor. Now, in exchange for peace and quiet, I could only rely on myself to get out of bed every morning.