Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body

I heard about Roxane Gay’s Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body when she appeared on The Daily Show to promote it. I immediately requested it from my library and judging by the wait time, it seems to be a popular choice. The book’s popularity may seem strange considering the subject matter: Gay’s obesity. I was attracted to it because of my own interest in my weight although my story is nothing like hers. If I could wish for anything, I’m afraid that world peace would come second to eating anything I want without any negative consequences. When I was young, I had a high metabolism so doctors and acquaintances worried that I either had an eating disorder or a medical problem, but I was not concerned because based on looking at my parents, I knew that I had until my thirties to have fun without weight gain. I love food, especially the taste. I’m always hungry, rarely full, but when I am satisfied, I stop. It is cheaper and safer to eat than traveling to have adventures, especially since I have always lived in big cities, culinary capitals. As predicted, I gained weight as my metabolism slowed down, but I was not too concerned until several events occurred.
I hate wine and cheese tastings because I’m just interested in the cheese so I had a cheese tasting weekend at Murray’s Cheese in NYC. I dramatically jumped from the 140s to the 150s, which was still reasonable for my height, but does not give a lot of margin between healthy and overweight. I equate it to how other people love drinking too much or get a sexually transmitted disease from a lover. Sure it was stupid, but I regret nothing, and if I had to do it all over again, I would make the same choice. Once I’m in the 150s, I’m only a couple of meals from the danger zone, maximum BMI and slipping into the overweight zone. When my job was no longer accessible by public transportation, I had to buy a car to commute, and walking time plummeted. Then in 2014, I sprained my ankle and could barely walk for a year.
I became my heaviest at 185 lbs. I actually don’t care about gaining weight. I care about not being able to walk without being tired because walking is like an antidepressant for me. I care about having to spend time and money shopping when I already have clothes that I like and that fit-with a little tailoring taking it out or bringing it in. I care about being able to function and not having a stroke or a heart condition because while I have many people who love me, ain’t nobody going to take care of me. I’m on my own. People have lives and can’t suspend them to travel across the country or the world to help me even if they want to. Since 2015, I fought being overweight, and every day is a battle to stay away from my maximum BMI. Hitting the 160s means pulling back and having less fun, i.e. ordering out. I have to stay vigilant at all times. It is so much easier and fun to just eat. Carrie Fisher was right. It takes too much effort and energy. I hate it when people beat themselves up for slipping. Slipping is more fun. I actually don’t care how I look to others because living in NYC, I didn’t welcome the catcalls, and living in Massachusetts, I barely rate as female. If I like how I look and feel good and comfortable, I don’t care about looks. If I ever stop being a cheap bastard when it comes to clothes, find someone who is willing to take care of me or can afford a retinue of people to care for me, all bets may be off. I drink beverages with aspartame. I don’t want to die in perfect health. If I die because of eating, I had it coming and will have no regrets unless I linger.
Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body is a tale of trauma and food as a coping mechanism and defense against further trauma. Gay is a magnificent and engaging writer who conveys the past and balances it with her present. Even though the subject matter is heartbreaking, because it is written in such a precise and relatable way, it never feels uncomfortable, but a triumph that Gay is able to articulate what remained unspoken for so long. The experience of reading Gay’s memoir so soon after Eddie Izzard’s memoir is so dramatically different. It never feels like an endless chore verging on incomprehensible though Gay plumbs the depths of her psyche and soul then breaths her life into words for us to intimately know her pain. I eagerly devoured Gay’s tale because it immediately and clearly communicated her story. The few repetitive moments came towards the end of section five when she returned to a period that she wrote about earlier in the book, but after so much perfection in a memoir about a difficult, long hidden story, such reiterations are not only forgivable, they are understandably human.
It feels really strange to say that Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body is an easy read considering that it deals with rape and the psychological ramifications of rape and obesity for Gay, but it is. When you are as good a writer as Gay is, I suppose that you can write about anything, no matter how difficult the subject matter is, and the truth in the story is what attracts the reader in contrast to how most people react in real life to women who are obese or speak out against sexual violence. Gay proves that writing can create empathy that is lacking in the real world. I’m eager to read her other nonfiction book, Bad Feminist, but may stay away from her fiction since I prefer to watch fiction on a screen and pretend that it is real and read nonfiction and pretend that I now know all as if the author revealed everything with her words.