The Space I Take Up

I’ve read that I can’t unread it. Each bite I take is an act of protest.

I am 33 when I find myself sitting in my doctor’s office, sobbing into a tissue as he records my responses to the K10 Anxiety and Depression Checklist. My blood pressure was through the roof, and the depression so severe I spent several days at home in a near-catatonic state before my husband insisted on taking me to the doctor.

I need you to think about losing some weight. He says it gently, but I immediately bristle at my GPs suggestion that my mental health issues can be solved by weighing any less than I do. I am protective of my body and will not stand for being told that it is in some way faulty or unworthy of respect. He shrugs, not wanting to get into a confrontation. Perhaps some exercise then?

Later, a friend suggests my size could be put to good use in the gym, so I begin training for powerlifting and strongwoman and they’re right. My physical strength surprises me at first, and people around me begin to admire the weights I can move not just in spite of my size, but because of it. My depression and anxiety scores improved steadily, and I find myself discovering reserves of self-esteem within myself that I had never experienced before. There’s a saying in the gym that “weight moves weight”, so as my proficiency in weight lifting increased, so do the numbers on the scale.

In four years, I add 30 kilograms to my frame and I do it unapologetically. Convinced that the fantasy of thinness is designed to oppress those that believe it, and buoyed by the community of strong women I train alongside, I grow in ways not always visible on the bathroom scales. Over those years I come to believe that the space we take up isn’t really a physical ideal, rather it’s the promise of power, for which we relinquish what power we already hold within ourselves.

I gain weight in rebellion against the beauty fantasies that hurt women around the world, from women in India who scar their faces with bleaching creams in the quest for lighter skin, to Asian women who have surgery to re-configure their eyelids in order to make their eyes appear rounder. I gain weight to show my daughter that it does not define my worth as a woman, as a human being.

My stomach grows, along with my breasts, my hips, my thighs. After years of trying to whittle myself down to a smaller space, how strange and wonderful it feels to see my flesh stretch not in shame, but possibility.

I am 37 years old, my eyes squinting at the stark brightness cast by the hospitals florescent lighting. The nurse tells me the sleeve gastrectomy surgery has been successful, and I’m being moved to my private suite. The pain is intense, so the nurse refills my intravenous pain medication and soon after the cool sting begins to travel through my veins, I drift off to sleep wondering if I’ve made the right choice.

READ THE FULL MEMOIR ON QUTGLASS.COM

I Hate Myself When I Am Like This:

These works are part of a series exploring the emotional and intimate weight of words. Through fragmentation, tessellation and digital layering, the works proclaim inner thoughts without explicitly giving them away, revealing the side of myself that I am ashamed of.

ALISHA DAVENPORT, 2021

FICTION

Inclement Weather

WRITTEN BY CIARAN GREIG

The raindrop landed with a soft thud on Mara’s shoulder. For a moment she stared at it, transfixed, as the water absorbed itself into the fabric of her jacket and bled across its fibres. “Of course, most couples organise a back-up venue in case of inclement weather.”

Cleo, the venue manager, peeked down at the suede-detailed wedges on her feet. Mara had noticed Cleo’s wedges when they first arrived at the Elderflower Estate moments ago. The shoes were impeccably, impossibly clean – especially for a woman who supposedly spent her days traipsing around an outdoor wedding venue. Mara imagined that Cleo had a supply of baby wipes stashed somewhere on her person, ready to smudge away any hint of mud.

Inclement weather, Mara thought. She felt another raindrop sink itself into the hair on her crown. The sky above them was aflame with leaden clouds. Craig, her fiancé, squeezed her hand.

Cleo led them up a leafy, winding path. The marquee appeared suddenly, standing alone in a wide clearing. A mass of gumtrees and pine guarded it overhead. Behind the trees, a line of ragged mountains carved out the space

between the valley and the clouds. Mara could hear birds nearby, squawking and singing in the trees. The scent of the earth floated thick in the air: dust-like from the rain. It reminded Mara of the creek she grew up by. The smell of it always made her feel like she was playing witness to a whole, beautiful eco-system at work.

Craig, usually quiet and unimpressed, flashed Mara a quick smile. Cleo pointed out a eucalypt nearby, where a sleeping koala rested while hugging a branch. Mara felt a laugh bubble up inside her. There was something about the delight of it all. When had she ever seen anything so simple before? So pure?

Mara closed her eyes for a second. Was it just a second? A milli-second? A minute? When she opened them, the venue manager was zipping open the entrance to the marquee and Craig was helping her part the clear plastic sheets that held the front piece together.

Mara squinted at the marquee, her eyes struggling to adjust. It was as if her brain didn’t know how to focus on the mass of thick plastic in the midst of the trees and the mountains and the wildlife. Something about it felt off. She looked at the trees and then back to the marquee. It was ghostly in its transparency, absurd in its clean lines and pointed corners.

In her peripheral vision, Craig waved his arms, mouthing something to her. Come on. Mara hurried in to join them.

Inside the marquee, everything was perfect. It was exceptionally, profoundly clean. The plastic filtered the light flawlessly. Quiet and temperate.

“We can accommodate just about any seating layout you’d like,” Cleo said. “Bridal table at the top, through the middle, circular tables – ” Mara looked beyond the confines of the marquee. She could see a large clearing in the distance, slightly overgrown. Scraggly. “Could we sit outside?”

Cleo scrunched up her nose. “We could look into it for you.” she said, drawing out the last syllable. “I wouldn’t recommend it, though. Who wants rain ruining their hair on their big day?” Cleo smiled, then tilted her head.

Mara paused, then smiled back, “right.”

They booked the venue, eventually. Mara paid the deposit herself, watching the funds disappear from her bank balance in an instant. None of it felt completely real. As spring slid into summer, she found herself spending more and more time talking about the wedding with friends, family, colleagues. She felt like she was always talking about the wedding. She wanted to stop talking about the wedding.

“It’s not that I don’t want to get married,” she explained to Craig one night, through a mouth full of Pad Thai. The useless standing fan they had propped up in their living room squeaked urgently and the air in the room was thick with warmth. She wiped a layer of sweat off her forehead. “It’s just all this wedding crap. I’m over it.”

The summer before the wedding brought fire: hot and wild, spreading across the country like a rash. They watched the flaming maps on TV, noticed how the fire skirted around the hinterland near their wedding venue. Mara found herself waking up frequently in the small hours of the morning, so sure that their whole world had collapsed into grimy ash. It was strangely comforting: those first few, transient minutes when she could believe that nothing else existed in the world but herself and Craig.