Always Too Much and Never Enough Read online

  “When someone is brave enough to tell the gritty truth about her tough and twisted journey to self-love and health, you simply have to love her for the forthrightness. But when the writing is this good, and the practical lessons are so transferable, you just count yourself lucky to have discovered her.”

  —Kathy Freston, New York Times bestselling author of The Lean

  “Jasmin Singer’s relentlessly honest memoir is a must-read for anyone who wants to lose that extra 5, 10, 20, or 50 pounds.”

  —Jane Velez-Mitchell, New York Times bestselling author of iWant

  “[A] moving account of Jasmin’s journey to reshaping both body and spirit.”

  —Neal Barnard, MD, New York Times bestselling author of Power Foods for the Brain

  “A powerful book about a person who comes to self-realization through empathy with others.”

  —Ingrid Newkirk, president of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals

  “[A] poignant, powerful memoir that is both engaging and enlightening . . . Readers from all walks of life can benefit from reading this book, and will be entertained in the process.”

  —Melanie Joy, PhD, author of Why We Love Dogs, Eat Pigs, and Wear Cows: An Introduction to Carnism

  “[Singer’s] ‘before’ and ‘after’ experiences, told with wisdom and humor, offer a window into the emotional, psychological, social, and commercial factors that complicate our relationship to food and to our bodies.”

  —Joe Cross, filmmaker of Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead

  “Jasmin Singer is bright and quick and articulate . . . [She] is the real deal. People deserve to read what she has to say.”

  —Victoria Moran, author of The Good Karma Diet

  “Gripping, heartfelt, and inspirational.”

  —Robert Ostfeld, MD, MS, director of the Cardiac Wellness Program at Montefiore Medical Center

  “[A] book that has the power to reach people and to change the world.”

  —Gene Baur, author of Living the Farm Sanctuary Life

  “[Singer’s] views on food, diet, ethics, and animals will make you think, but more importantly, they will make you act.”

  —Nathan Runkle, executive director of Mercy for Animals

  “[A] tough, poignant, and admirable testimony, one that is bound to inspire a sense of resilience and self-worth among its lucky readers.”

  —Gena Hamshaw, author of Choosing Raw

  “An extraordinarily insightful, self-reflective, empathic, and deeply moving memoir . . . This book is as engrossing as it is illuminating.”

  —Sherry Colb, author of Mind If I Order the Cheeseburger?

  “[A] coming-of-age story for anyone who has ever questioned both whether they belong and whether they really want to . . . [A] writer you will want to keep your eye on.”

  —Charles Siebert, author of The Wauchula Woods Accord

  “Singer tells a deeply personal story with an honesty that is courageous and eloquent, all the while sparkling with humor and intelligence. This is a lovely, memorable, and inspiring book.”

  —Robin Lamont, author of The Chain

  “An unflinchingly honest and quirky coming-of-age tale . . . Alternately painful and thrillingly joyous, as Jasmin tells her truth with clarity and grace and biting humor, and a fierce feminist thread running through it all.”

  —Beth Greenfield, author of Ten Minutes from Home

  “The best books can make us better people . . . Singer gets it right and it’s a huge win for anyone lucky enough to read this book.”

  —Josh Hanagarne, author of The World’s Strongest Librarian

  “[Singer] has quite a story to tell. What makes her story shine so exceptionally brightly, though, is that, whether she is fat or thin, bullied or beloved, victimized or triumphant, she attends so carefully to the lives of the others she meets along the way, including, of course, the animals who touch her heart so deeply.”

  —Jenny Brown, author of The Lucky Ones

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Jasmin Singer.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18772-6

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Singer, Jasmin.

  Title: Always too much and never enough : a memoir / Jasmin Singer.

  Description: New York : Berkley Books, [2016]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015031565 | ISBN 9780425279571 (paperback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Singer, Jasmin—Health. | Overweight persons—Biography. | Weight loss. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Women. | COOKING / Vegetarian & Vegan.

  Classification: LCC RC628 .S56 2016 | DDC 616.3/980092—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2015031565

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / February 2016

  Cover design by Danielle Abbiate.

  Interior photo: JasminAfter © by Jessica Mahady.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

  Version_1

  For Grandma

  Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the famished, the foolish, the bullies, and the bullied.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Always Too Much and Never Enough

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  I: WHAT I LOST

  One—Let’s Do This

  Two—A Private Affair

  Three—There Are No Small Parts, Only Fat Actors

  Four—You Couldn’t Ignore a Girl in Green Overalls If You Tried

  Five—The Perfect Facade of Safety

  Six—Where the Whole World Seemed to Start

  Seven—For Someone Her Size

  Eight—The Hungry Me

  Nine—Sell a Story and Play a Part

  II: WHAT I GAINED

  Ten—Someone Else’s Flesh

  Eleven—The Most Personal Political Issue

  Twelve—Opinions Were for Thin, Beautiful Women

  Thirteen—That Alone Wasn’t Enough

  III: WHAT I CHANGED

  Fourteen—We’ll See What Happens (Days 1–5)

  Fifteen—A Healthy Obsession (Days 6–10)

  Sixteen—Letting Go of the Past

  Seventeen—A New Definition

  IV: WHAT I FOUND

  Eighteen—No, Really, After You . . .
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  Nineteen—A Very Real Piece of Me

  Twenty—The Best She Knew How

  Twenty-one—My Whole Fat Life

  Acknowledgments

  I

  what i lost

  ONE

  let’s do this

  That bathroom stall was ridiculously small. I wriggled my way around, trying to wedge both me and my stupid, gigantic purse into the cramped rectangle. I shimmied, did a tiny pirouette, and finally edged my pants down. It was like Swan Lake in there, and all so that I could successfully maneuver my 221-pound, five-foot-four self into proper peeing position.

  “This is like a goddamn gestation crate,” I said to no one in particular, finally finding a suitable stance, but only after banging my funny bone on the sanitary napkin disposal.

  A few minutes later, as small beads of sweat collected on my forehead, I washed my hands, thinking, “Why is soap in public bathrooms always hot pink?”

  I was winded. I decided to take a moment to catch my breath. My dining mates could wait. They were probably in a tabbouleh daze by now anyway, busy working their way through the fava bean appetizer.

  Oh, how I loved the food in San Francisco! Even in comparison to my own gritty city, New York—which was just bursting with flavors and cuisines vibrant and diverse enough to keep any foodie busy (including a vegan one, like me)—there was something about this town that made me hungry to try everything. On that night, my partner, Mariann, and I had met up with a couple of friends who knew the ins and outs of the restaurant scene in the City by the Bay. They’d chosen a slightly gaudy, but nonetheless mouthwatering, Mediterranean restaurant in the Tenderloin district—ironic, because we were there for its scrumptious vegan menu. The only tenderloins in our lives were made out of wheat gluten.

  Just before I excused myself to go to the bathroom, my friends John and Cassie had been telling Mariann and me (but mainly me) about a new documentary, Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead, set to be released the following spring. John and Cassie worked in magazine publishing and had been given an advance press copy.

  They told us that the film was about a man who juice fasted for sixty days in an effort to get his health back. As he flooded his body with fruits and vegetables, he lost a tremendous amount of weight, got off all his medications, and cured a debilitating autoimmune disease that had plagued him for years. “You really should borrow it, Jasmin,” John told me, a bit too adamantly for my taste. “Seriously, you’ve got to see it.”

  I fake smiled. “You know what?” I announced. “Nature calls . . .”

  The truth is, when John—a naturally excited guy—shared his enthusiasm with me, I took it personally. Was his exuberance a way of calling me fat? Was he comparing me to the man in the film? When I was a kid, I had been accused of making everything about me, and perhaps there was legitimacy in that still. But this hit pretty close to home.

  There I was, hiding away in the maroon and turquoise bathroom instead of sitting beside my girlfriend enjoying the company of my good buddies and eating incredible food. I suddenly felt a twinge in my right shoulder. “Dang purse,” I mumbled, shaking off the pain. What the hell was I carrying with me, anyway? I opened it up and instantly spotted the culprit: my new shoes.

  And by new, I mean old. I had picked up those adorable green and white hemp sneakers at my favorite thrift store in the Mission District earlier that day. I’d forgotten putting them in my bag. Satisfied that I wasn’t suddenly suffering from brittle bones, I fished out a lip gloss.

  And then, unthinkingly—before having the foresight to prepare myself—I foolishly looked at myself in the mirror.

  It’s amazing, really, how easy it is to master the art of looking in the mirror without actually looking at yourself—in a way that doesn’t make you want to step in front of a bus, that is. I knew all the tricks: how to hang mirrors a few inches too high so my view of myself was always from the way-more-flattering angle above; how to suck in my cheeks just a little bit to give myself fake cheekbones, widening my eyes at the same time to add to the effect; and, finally, how to look at only one part of my body at a time—my eyes if I was putting on shadow, the crown of my head if I was brushing my hair.

  Even a simple act like walking down the street with a friend was like a real-life video game. The challenge? To keep the conversation going while avoiding, at all costs, catching a glimpse of my reflection in a window—an image that echoed the truth in ways I was not prepared to handle. And so, rather than take the chance of spotting my silhouette, I would maintain unrelenting eye contact with my hapless companion, who was no doubt wondering why I seemed to be trying to peer into his or her soul. Anything to avert my eyes from the truth, to remain in the dark.

  It had been a good number of years, in fact, since I had looked at myself, head-on, in full, with no preparation—with no absurd rationalization of what I was about to see, of who I was about to see.

  Except, this time, I acted too quickly and, as I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, I accidentally saw it all: my three chins, my blazer that didn’t close, and my Humpty Dumpty figure. Just like that, there I was, without my mirror-face on to protect me.

  I was alone in the bathroom, with only myself and my cracked veneer, and yet I was self-conscious, somehow feeling as if I were being watched. My stomach ached, and not because of the numerous triangles of perfectly browned pita bread I’d just eaten. I needed an escape, fast. Just as it started to dawn on me that the intensity I was feeling was my own DIY wall of denial beginning to crumble, I randomly spotted a plastic earring on the floor that someone must have dropped. That one-earringed person was clearly my angel, because in that moment, that plastic earring saved my life—or at least my evening—giving me the distraction I needed to pull myself together.

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I quietly commanded. Self-pity was simply not an option. Wallowing should be reserved for people who were truly without. I had no right to be upset just because I was fat.

  “Focus on what you’ve got right,” I whispered. Like my thick-framed blue and white glasses, which I had bought at Fabulous Fanny’s in the East Village, or the two dozen glittery barrettes that decorated my spiky black and pink hair. I had “a look”—that was what people had told me my whole life—and as my weight stepped up, so did my many ornaments. I had always assumed that my eyeliner diverted attention from my bulbous belly and that my nose hoop distracted from my self-consciousness.

  And yet, in spite of the temporary respite provided by the lost earring and my standard pep talk, all my warts were still right there, smack in front of me, staring back. At that moment, a familiar, happy thought occurred to me: I was fairly certain that the overwhelming sense of despair that was always lying dormant in me, and that was starting to bubble up right at that instant in the ostentatious bathroom in the Tenderloin, would be effectively cured by spinach pie.

  So I put on lip gloss without watching and headed back to my booth, where the all-knowing Mariann shot me the “is everything okay?” look, and I smiled another fake smile—all the while knowing she wouldn’t buy the bullshit and we’d have to hash it out later. She was, after all, one of the realest parts of my life—the part that grounded me when the whole world seemed out of control.

  “There was a wait,” I lied, a little too exuberantly.

  And then—Jesus Christ!—it was as though my dining mates had paused the clock and stared into space while I was in the bathroom, counting the seconds until I returned to the booth just to pick up the conversation exactly where we had left off. My abrupt exit had been dramatic only to me. Next time I’d have to try harder.

  “So, as I was saying,” John said as he wiped a dollop of hummus from the right corner of his lip. “You’ve gotta see this movie, Jazz.”

  Cassie agreed. “You’ve gotta. It’s a game changer.”

  A game changer.

  When I stepped onstage for the first t
ime in first grade and realized that I could be anyone in the world up there, and maybe I’d be accepted, because I was good at it, and I could be someone else while I was center stage—that was a game changer. When I slept with a woman for the first time, at nineteen, that had been a game changer (especially for my then boyfriend). When I learned, at twenty-four, that the food industry was lying to me, and I went vegan—a decision that shaped me, gave me the kind of fulfillment that many people my age only dreamed of having, and added deep and profound purpose to my life—a game changer indeed. When, at twenty-seven, I met Mariann, and together we decided to try to change the world—game changer.

  I knew a thing or two about changing the game.

  I held my breath, wanting so badly to talk about anything besides a man who was fat and sick and nearly dead. A man to whom my friends were obviously comparing me.

  Sometimes change comes merely as a result of hearing something at exactly the right moment. Sometimes, like a pair of perfect hemp sneakers at a secondhand store, you have no idea what’s about to enter your life.

  Given the conversation about the documentary that my friends insisted I “really had to see,” it seemed a remarkable coincidence that I had just read an article about juice fasting and, much to my surprise, had found myself intrigued.

  The waiter placed my dish in front of me. “The spinach pie, miss.”

  My belief that spinach pie would distract me from the thoughts that kept bubbling up proved wrong. In spite of the deliciousness that sat right there in front of me, I could no longer refuse to notice the lingering back and shoulder pain that I felt every morning, the rashes I got on my thighs from flesh rubbing against flesh, the deeply buried sadness and anger that hid behind my days. There were only so many glittery barrettes.

  My shoulder twinged again—I was used to being achy. Even though I was only thirty, it was difficult for me to go up a flight of stairs without stopping halfway to rest. Sometimes I stopped in the middle, pretending I needed to adjust the cuff of my jeans, or check a pretend text, just to buy some time before finishing the exhausting trek. Why did I feel like shit all the time? I was young, vegan, and even had a master’s in health and healing. And yet, I was digging myself an early grave. It was embarrassing.