first person
Lee celebrating her 14th birthday in 1998.
Lee at high school graduation with her mom in 2002.
Seeking Perfection "No solids after 6 p.m." "No liquids after 7 p.m." "No rice or noodles." "No fried foods." "No dairy." "No soda." Apparently, "no" is a key theme at the weight loss spa my mother and I frequent. At 6 a.m., half-awake, I hobble to the kitchen to scarf down my breakfast: a tiny bowl of granola and leftover fruit. For lunch, I wolf down half a ham sandwich, in which a bit of meat is dwarfed by a forest of leafy greens. No mayo; no mustard; no dressing. I chase it down with a shot of orange juice. Dinner is whatever I can squeeze in before 6. Usually, I get sauteed vegetables that have been drenched in boiling water so as to strip them of all sauce, grease and goodness. At age 18, when my primary goal was to become as beautiful as I could be, I followed this regimen for 90 days. Going far beyond food, the regimen also included cleansing, meditation and pep talks about how a new svelte body would match my beautiful face. The weight-loss spa in Taipei, Taiwan was a world where I could “fix”
myself, namely by transforming my appearance to match my inner beauty. Once my body is perfect, improving the rest of me will be cake, I thought, optimistically shelving my old fear that I'd never be a size six. The truth, as I would realize much later, is that no quickfix diet could change me, inside or outside. But in that moment, I doggedly pushed forward. I climb into bed exhausted and hungry. My stomach growls. I can only dream about my next meal. In the spa, I wear a beige frock and choke down a green powder that will supposedly cleanse my system and make me thin. I try to wash it down with water, but this only makes the powder lumpy and difficult to swallow. My tired gaze meets that of another young woman. We both look quickly away. Moments later, I am lying on a table in a dark room. Strange male hands press my stomach, massaging the flesh as if it were dough. I grind my jaw together as more force is exerted, but I endure the pain. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, as my parents have always said. Silently, I wonder if I’m kidding myself. No diet has worked before; why should it work this time? Still, I retain an inkling of hope. The next day, the spa’s weight machine reports that I have lost four pounds. I feel watchful eyes scrutinize me and hear congratulatory words. Later in the dressing room, I smile as I stroke my bruised, flabby stomach, tracing my fingers up and down the light indigo marks. The magic has worked. I steel myself for the next treatment. I remember the moment when the wonder started, when my mother and I sat in the office of a mama-san type who described the treatments that would change my life. My mother, who had been a size zero as a young adult, listened intently. She was thrilled by the notion that her oldest daughter, who had inherited her wit and her ethics, might look more like the women on Chinese variety shows and hence build a stronger sense of self-worth. For three months, she’d sacrifice her credit card to this cause. And I’d follow along, if only because I no longer wanted to look
A scribbled note from 2002 tracking what Lee ate in one day.
photos courtesy of lisa lee
Hyphen’s publisher recounts her struggle to face down the pressure to be thin. Writer Lisa Lee