Regression Test (Fiction)

Content/Trigger Warnings: Food and Eating Disorder References, Talk of dysphoria, body image and appearance

This is a piece I wrote for a class I took in my final semester of college. I’m overall pretty happy with it, but I think some elements work better than others, as always.

When I woke up this morning, I was fat again.

Lying on my back, I noticed the weight the moment I opened my eyes. My blanket was stretched over a now protruding belly. As I tore it off, I felt the soft flabs of skin now covering my torso.

“What the…” I said. I sprinted, or lurched, rather, to the bathroom to get a closer look at my new body. The face that stared back at me was undoubtedly my own, but swollen with extra flesh around the cheeks and under the chin. Moving downward, lumps of flesh hung from my chest, covering up what had been well-sculpted pectoral muscles the night before. Clear-cut abdominals had turned into a large belly and love handles around my hips. I had to peer over my gut to view my lower body. My thighs were just as big as they used to be, but my large quadriceps were now deflated and the fat around them jiggled as I poked at the unfamiliar tissue. My calves, I noticed, had actually grown: they deserved to be called cows at their current size.

It was as if someone had taken my body at 17, discarded the ten years of dieting and exercising between then and now, and replaced them with more years of Oreos, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and Ben and Jerry’s. An extrapolation of my past, gluttonous, self to the present day.

I kept touching myself, mostly to see if I could wake up from the nightmare. Pinching myself didn’t work, nor did aggressively slapping my thighs. It didn’t take long for me to give up: I knew pretty much from the moment I woke up that either this was really happening or that I had gone completely insane, both possibilities equally daunting. 

I texted my manager to let her know that I wouldn’t be coming in today. She’d been nagging me to use my vacation days anyways. I figured I’d take the rest of the day to figure out how the fuck to deal with this.

At first, I was angry. Angry that this had happened, again. At least the first time I could blame myself, but now it seemed like the universe was fucking me over just for the hell of it. And I was also angry at myself. Angry for the shame and embarrassment I felt. Again, I hadn’t done anything wrong–at least not that I knew of. But I was still trapped in this body, a disgusting meat suit others would see and judge me by. 

I spent the rest of the morning pacing around my living room. Walking always helped me think, but in this new body it wasn’t long before my knees were aching and I had to sit down, self-pity swelling alongside the pain in my joints. It didn’t help that I was starving, my stomach vibrating every few minutes with pangs of hunger. I began to fantasize about quitting my job, moving to another country, and starting my life entirely anew. 

But I didn’t really want to do that. I wanted my life back, not a new one. I wanted my body back, most of all. As time passed, it was becoming clear that making that happen was my responsibility, even if this whole situation wasn’t my fault.

I wished I could go to the gym. Lifting always cleared my head, but I couldn’t imagine showing my face anywhere I might be recognized. How would I even begin to explain what happened? No one would believe my story, but surely they’d still be dumbfounded.

I finally left my house early in the afternoon. I hadn’t planned on stepping out, until I realized I only had two eggs, string cheese, and a pack of beers in the fridge. Free food at the office had really spoiled me. If I planned on hunkering down at home, I needed to stock up. So I threw on my orange hoodie and sweatpants, both of which had oddly grown the two sizes necessary to make them still fit.

It was a long, uneventful drive to the other side of town, where no one would recognize me. I pulled my hood on and grabbed a pair of sunglasses for good measure before I stepped inside. I wasn’t taking any chances.

I stocked up mostly on frozen and canned produce. Frozen strawberries were a past diet staple. I figured I could get used to eating canned beans if I had to. I made sure to grab all the lean protein I could as well: I needed it to build back all that lost muscle. Fat free plain greek yogurt, tilapia, and 98% extra lean ground beef were my weapons of choice.

Walking through the produce aisle, I began to come to grips with the fact that I might just have to go through that whole weight-loss journey again. It wasn’t the worst curse, all things considered: I’d already been through the wringer once, and I’d learned a few tricks since then. This time would be easier. I’d even have the chance to avoid some of my early fitness mistakes. Truth be told, lifting had been getting kind of boring lately. If it’d been up to me, shaking things up wouldn’t have looked quite like this. Still, I could have woken up permanently bald, for Christ's sake. That would have been much more expensive to fix.

“Ben?”

Fuck.

“Ben? Is that you?”

Just ignore her. Pretend you’re someone else and just walk away.

“Hey! It is you! I knew I recognized that sweatshirt!” Of course you would–you’ve worn it dozens of times. She was in front of my cart now. No chance of avoiding her.

“Hey, Melissa. How’ve you been?”

She caught her breath, and in that instance, finally got a good look at me. She tried to hide it, but there was a flash of what must have been disgust that rolled across her face. It morphed quickly into pity and bled into her response. 

“I’ve been good! I just moved out here last month, getting some shopping done before I head back to work. What are you doing out here, actually? It’s so far from your house,” she said. 

Guess we’re just ignoring this. Fine by me.

“Yeah, I was just running some errands in the area and needed to grab some things before I headed home. I’m actually in a bit of a rush, so can’t chat for long I’m afraid,” I said.

“No worries. It’s good seeing you. And I’m sorry, again, about everything that happened. It just… it wasn’t the right time, you know?” She was sincere, undoubtedly. Maybe she even blamed herself for what happened to me. It wouldn’t be the first time that a bad break-up led to a dramatic body transformation.

“I know. Take care.” I strode purposefully away from her, the shame reddening my cheeks.

The first time I’d lost weight, a decade ago now, it was a slow burn. I had dieted several times as a teen with little success, each time losing a few pounds and then justifying a weekend of pizza, burgers, and shakes, wiping out my minimal progress entirely. 

Something clicked when I was 17. Before then, I’d always thought of myself as overweight, but that wasn’t key to my identity. I was fat, but I was also smart, funny, short, and curious. 

One day a group of friends and I decided to get senior pictures for ourselves using my new iPhone camera. We bullshitted around campus and got the shots we wanted. At lunch, my phone was passed around our friends for evaluation.

“Oh Neal! Your glasses look really good here.”

“Jake, I’m liking the head tilt.”

“I think you should go for this one, Jack. Your expression isn’t weird like the other one.”

I remember the exact instance the two girls across from me scrolled to my photos. The expression on their faces was closest to pity, but even that doesn’t quite get it right. They searched for compliments, found none, and moved onto the next set of pictures.

I didn’t bear any ill-will towards them for their response. But in that moment, I finally appreciated what everyone else saw when they looked at me. Someone whose physical appearance didn’t–couldn’t–inspire any praise whatsoever. 

The diet that followed was almost easy. The lifting started a couple months later, after I already had lost a significant chunk of weight. I never looked back, and my old, fat, self remained an irrelevant ghost that haunted old photos.

It was a month before I went back into work, a month before I made my return to society. I’d politely declined requests to go out with my friends, told my boss I’d taken her advice on those vacation days to heart, and switched gyms. It’s entirely possible I was spotted by someone who knew me, but the odds were slim and no one was confident enough to approach and talk to me.

I used the time to buckle down and diet. Hard. I lifted like a madman, training twice a day for six days a week. It was the most serious fitness effort I’d ever expended, utilizing years of experience and the reserves of willpower I’d built up over time. It was almost too easy to consume only paltry amounts of vegetables, chicken breast, and protein powder: the hunger meant the diet was working and scorching the fat off my body.

Every day was the same ritual. 

Wake.

Drink Protein Shake.

Lift.

Go home, eat post-workout meal.

Nap, to stave off hunger.

Lift, again.

Cardio (treadmill at 5% incline and 3.5 mph for 30 minutes) before bed.

Sleep.

By the end of the month, I was still a far cry from my normal self. But the transformation was unquestionable: in good lighting I could catch definition in the oblique muscles on my torso, spot veins on my shoulders and forearms, and finally see the peak of my biceps peeking through the fat on my upper arms. My progress in the gym was equally dramatic. I had started back at an untrained level of strength, barely able to bench press the 45 pound bar, but now I could bench 135 pounds for reps.

The downside was that I was clearly recognizable. The morning the curse first hit, it was possible to figure out who I was, but it required effort and a close look at my face. Now, it looked like I had stuffed myself for a month and stopped hitting the gym. That would be my cover story, as much as I detested it, and how antithetical it was to the truth.

And what was the truth? I hadn’t had much spare time between eating, sleeping, and lifting, but what little I did have I spent on trying to figure out some kind of explanation. I emailed a few professors, leading experts on nutrition and human physiology. I didn’t give them the truth, not exactly, just asked if they’d ever heard of cases of overnight fat accumulation and muscle loss. They responded in the negative. My inquiries on various bodybuilding forums and chat rooms returned null findings as well.

The night before I returned to work was agony. I got maybe three hours of sleep total, spending the rest of the night agonizing over how people would judge me. They’d only known me as someone who took care of himself, someone who prized physical fitness. What would they think of me now? 

The next day, much as I had dreaded it, was mostly uneventful. My boss didn’t press me too much about my absence, likely figuring from my physical appearance that I’d been going through some shit. The pitying looks from my colleagues were infuriating, but somehow tolerable.

“Hey Ben! Woah, that must have been some vacation!”

“Ben? Is that you? Long time no see! Where’ve you been?”

“Oh sorry Ben! Didn’t realize that was you. How’s it feel to be back?”

The secret behind my transformation was like a talisman to me, a reminder that I didn’t have to blame myself. But every time I passed by a mirror, or someone took a second too long to recognize me, the familiar shame bloomed anyway. It was a stain I couldn’t scrub away, one that had set in years ago and that I’d ignored to my own detriment.

It took me four months to get back within spitting distance of my former self. It wasn’t long before I was joking with everyone else about how I’d “let myself go” on an all-inclusive resort in Cancun. Everyone was impressed by how rapidly I’d turned things around. It was something I was proud of, but it was pride mixed with a strange guilt. I had earned this, perhaps, but why did I need to earn it in the first place?

Interactions like these didn’t help, even as they stroked my ego.

“Looking slim, Ben! You gotta tell me what diet you’re on.”

“Woah, Ben! You’re looking really good. Good on you for getting back in shape.”

“Ben, I can hardly even recognize you. Glad to see you back in peak condition.”

 The first time I lost weight, these exchanges left me walking on clouds for the rest of the day. Back then, I had accepted that being treated differently based on my appearance was expected. It didn’t really bother me that people talked with me more, laughed at my jokes more, and generally just gave a shit about me when they hadn’t previously. This time, the superficiality became too much to bear.

“Don’t you find it kind of weird how little we talk about appearance discrimination?” I asked one day at lunch, in between bites of kale and arugula salad.

My coworkers exchanged looks. They undoubtedly felt like they were treading on treacherous ground, perhaps rightfully so.

“Yeah it’s always kind of bothered me. I remember how it felt growing up with a much more attractive older sister. It always felt like things came super easily to her. Parents, teachers, boys, jobs, you name it,” Linda finally said after a long pause. “Don’t get me wrong, I love her to death. But it’s a kind of privilege we don’t spend much time discussing.” 

“Yeah, exactly! I’ve been up and down the spectrum a couple of times now. You guys may have noticed. And it’s honestly pretty shitty that, as a society, we don’t really do much to fix it.” The old shame was mostly dormant now, but I knew deep down that it still drew breath. It was hard to keep my hate for it out of my voice.

Dave rubbed his chin. “Is there anything we can do to ‘fix’ it? It’s kind of just how the world is. Some people are tall. Some people are short. Some people have red hair. Some people don’t look as good as others. Life’s not fair, but we have to muddle along anyway. Besides, I don’t think it’s fair to call it discrimination–it’s not really a conscious decision most of the time,” he said.

“I get that. But it still feels kind of lazy to say that we should just accept things the way they are. Maybe we need to get people talking about it more. Raise awareness. I’d even consider a kind of tax on attractive people: it’s kind of similar to inheriting wealth from your parents, except you’re inheriting good looks instead,” I said.

“That’s an interesting idea. And I do think there’s research supporting the fact that attractive people get less harsh sentences in the justice system, better salaries in the workplace, just better treatment overall. I think practically it would be pretty much impossible to implement, but it’s definitely an intriguing idea,” Linda said.

The conversation died down after that. I didn’t bring up the topic again, even though the same thoughts kept rattling around in my head. I felt like I had discovered some grave injustice that the rest of the world was just ignoring, a collective crime we were all guilty of. And it was something that none of us could fix, even if we were aware of it.

A couple months later, I worked up the nerve to go seek out a therapist. I needed to deal with the internalized guilt that had been built during my adolescence. It had made sense then, perhaps, since I could at least claim responsibility for wrecking my body, but it was an emotion that I needed to be free of, now more than ever. With time, I grew to stop loathing my past self. He didn’t deserve it, and besides, how could I hate the person who made me who I was today?

One morning, exactly two years after my first transformation, I woke up extremely short of breath. I sucked in air greedily, wondering if I’d somehow developed sleep apnea overnight.

When I walked into the bathroom, I didn’t recognize the body reflected back at me through the mirror. Forget about six-packs: there were ten detailed squares of abdominal muscle on my torso. My traps were just centimeters from my ears. Bowling balls had replaced my shoulders. My chest was shaped like a plate of armor. My arms were like pythons, thick and veiny with muscle.

Somehow, this curse didn’t feel quite as bad as the last one.