When Paisley, Rox, Shiv, and I formed Happenstance, we all slipped easily into our roles: Paisley our lead singer (whom I’m closest to), Siobhán (pronounced Shiv-on) on drums, Roxie playing bass guitar with some vocals, and myself on lead guitar and back-up vocals. It all seemed to click that year in Grade Ten when Mr. Sopal suggested the four of us join together and perform as a band for the annual talent show. He thought we were good musical matches for one another, and he was right. We’ve been playing small venues like coffee houses, a few weddings, and local bars ever since, and recently added our weekly gig at Fyst to our schedule. Now, at twenty-three, I couldn’t ask for a better group of friends, or a better distraction, even though they text so early in the damn morning.
Roar!
Paisley: Not a chance. Be there, ladies—Rusty’s at 8!!!
Me: Okay, I’ll be there. Might be a little after eight. Joys of public transit.
Roxie: 8AM or PM?
Paisley: 8 a.m.!
Roxie: This better be fucking good!
Paisley: It’s better than good, it’s epic!!!!!! No worries Ali.
Siobhán: you suck. but i’ll be there.
Paisley: Good. That’s what he said!!! LOL
Me: har har, oh lord.
Paisley: He said that too!!
Me: You sure singing is your thing? I hear there’s a comedy open mic nite at McCool’s Thursday.
Paisley: Now who’s the funny one? Adios, bitchachos!!!
God, I love these girls, I beam, placing my phone back on my distressed cherry wood nightstand. Stretching, I lie still for another few minutes before making my way to the ensuite to get ready.
6
Alina
Standing at the bathroom vanity, one hand braced on the side of the counter, I reluctantly swipe a hand towel across the fogged-up mirror, struggling—as I do daily—to accept the image of the girl I see staring back at me. I wish I could always be the person I feel I am when I’m performing onstage. The music never judges me when we’re busy getting lost in each other.
It’s times like these, when I’m alone, that I suffer most. Gone is any sense of belonging, and all traces of confidence evaporate like the shower’s steam. It’s hard to find a shred of self-acceptance when all I see right now are dark circles around my eyes, making me look gaunt and sickly. Ugly. Running a comb through my tangled, soaking wet hair, I cringe, knowing that even once dried and styled it will still lack the volume or silkiness I long to have. I wear the purplish-black hair that reaches past my shoulders like a shield, always wearing it down in public. I count on both its length and side-sweeping fringe to act as a curtain preventing people from getting too much of a close-up look at me, because the last thing I want is for anyone to see what I try so damn hard to hide. Heaven forbid someone else might confirm what I already know—that I am heavily flawed.
I’m not enough.
Inching closer, I inspect my pale face. I pick at a few target areas, honing in on this new chubbiness in my cheeks, which—if you’re my therapist—is a good thing, me being in recovery like I am. Dismissing that thought, I scan from my forehead down to my chin, and a forlorn feeling takes over as all my imperfections stare back at me. Imperfections I know everyone sees, even with makeup; we all know they are there. Despite my close friends complimenting how pretty I am, or how perfect my complexion is, to me it’s the total opposite. I see a face with a too-full bottom lip, a too-straight nose, two large blue eyes that lack the brightness and spark that eyes are supposed to hold…and again, my newly chubby cheeks. Don’t even get me started on these chins of mine.
I’m working to get better, trying to heal. According to the professionals, I suffer from body dysmorphia as well as bulimia, which in layperson’s terminology means I don’t like what I see when I look at myself, regardless of anyone else saying otherwise. They say I fixate and only see a negative, distorted version of myself when I look in the mirror.
Ping!
I huff out a relieved sigh at the distraction of my phone. The last thing I need to be doing right now is this.
It’s Lucky. I had messaged him earlier saying I was meeting the girls for breakfast and how Paisley had some big news. I know he worries, so when he’s out of town I make a point of messaging him random things to help ease his mind. To let him know I’m still here.
Lucky: Sounds ominous. Keep me posted.
Me: Just getting ready. I’ll message you soon. I’m kinda excited!
Lucky: Me too. Glad you’re starting the day off on the right foot!
If he only knew what I had just been doing in the mirror.
Me: Love you.
Lucky: You better. Talk soon, Squirt. And thx for the text.
“Ugh.” I shake my head, averting my eyes from my reflection, working to rid the negative thoughts from my head. Despite the progress I’ve made, I still can’t stop asking myself the same question out loud every morning: “Why weren’t you born pretty? Or better yet, skinny?”
I huff, annoyed that I caved again this morning—starting my day off on a low, rather than the high I should be feeling at the prospect of Paisley’s good news. My eyes chase the steam as it dances around the small light-blue-and-white space, and guilt immediately consumes me, as—for a split second—I had glanced down at the toilet and felt that familiar rush. There was that familiar tickling of desire to head to the kitchen, open up the fridge, and eat everything in sight. The urge to binge and purge is always there in the back of my mind. It would be so easy to just give in…
“No, Ali, ignore Her. You’re doing so well,” I tell myself, moving my eyes from the toilet back to the mirror, looking for comfort in the familiar piece of paper taped to the mirror’s bottom corner. Letting out a loud rush of breath, I smile as I scroll down the list, happy it’s performing its purpose.
My lists—small pieces of comfort scattered around my bedroom and ensuite bathroom, are all there to serve and protect, like my own little army of good, helping to save me, one reading at a time.
This particular one, a fluorescent pink Post-it note with bullet points listing my so-called good traits (“kind, outgoing, talented, loving, beautiful”), hangs on my bathroom mirror for me to read each morning as I stare back at the reflection of a person I’m not so sure of—myself. It’s a list strategically placed to remind myself that I am worthy—and that my outside is a reflection of all the positives I have to offer. Same idea with the one on the back of my bedroom door, a lined piece of paper entitled, “The Good In My Life”, hidden under the hook of my housecoat. It’s a list of the people I love, and who love me for me, as I am. It serves as a reminder for when I leave my safe space that I indeed do have a good life filled with love and good things worth fighting for. Number one on that list is my brother Lucky; number two, my band. They are the two most important things in my life, and I will not let them down. They are who I fight for; they are what makes me happy.
Reaching for my phone, I open my Spotify app and turn on Halsey’s “Hold Me Down”, starting to relax as the familiar rhythm fills the air. The need for control vaporizes, my mind comes back to me, and I exhale a long breath, continuing my morning routine of hair and makeup. I suppose it’s to be expected today. I admit I’m a little anxious to hear what Paisley has to tell us.
Stretching the bath towel around my chest to its limits, I cringe as a sense of panic again flits through me, and my mind starts to race. I’m pretty sure the last time I used the same bright yellow towel, it had more give…
“See? You’re getting fatter,” I sigh, wincing, glancing back at my cheeks.
Reaching for the clear plastic glass on the bathroom counter, I fill it with cold water and take a long sip, hoping to ease an acidic burn, one brought on by panic and not food. It’s a sensation I’ve been feeling more and more lately. The fight to stay strong weighs heavily on my shoulders sometimes.
“No. I’m getting healthy, I’m not getting fat,” I correct myself, pushing aside the urge to slip into old habits. It
’s hard. My mind wages a constant war against the voice that so easily has me falling into Her clutches, working everyday to keep my bully’s voice not only silenced, but from bringing me to my knees.
You are so gaining weight. Soon you’ll be such a heifer.
“Stop it, Ali. Healthy. We’re working on healthy. That’s the goal, we’re getting there, and it’s going to be a good day,” I say. I smooth foundation over my face, watching the ivory hue cover my skin as I work to mask my inner thoughts by improving my outward appearance. I quickly rub a bit of blush on my cheeks, doing my best to ignore the pudgy feel of that part of my face.
“One step at a time. We’re working on healthy.” I recite the mantra I’ve learned over the last year, on my journey to recovery, as I line my eyes with dark kohl and shimmery grey shadow, giving them a smoky look, one that I think actually makes my blue eyes sparkle for a change. See? Progress.
Once dressed in jeans, I slip my arms into a long-sleeved blue-and-grey flannel button-up over a navy tank. Ignoring the fact that it’s feeling a little snug over the bust, I grab my purse and green monkey boots before heading for my bedroom door. Shifting my housecoat, I read the list taped underneath: 1) Lucky, 2) Happenstance…
I steady my breathing, square my shoulders, and whisper, “You can do this,” before heading out to meet my friends.
7
Alina
“Why, Miss Alina, don’t you look cute as a button?” Lucky’s and my neighbour, and my frequent bus stop companion—Mrs. Vasquez’s—sweet voice and wide smile greet me as I approach the bench, and I try hard not to blanch.
This is an area where I suck big time—taking a compliment. I never trust their sincerity. I see myself and I know the truth so I’m always bracing, waiting for the left hand to follow the right, like my mother and aunt used to do with unparalleled talent.
“You’re a pretty girl. It’s just too bad those eyes of yours are so damn buggy. Not sure who you got those from. Your father’s side, no doubt.”
“That’s a beautiful dress, Alina. But your ass is looking plump. Best skip the cake at the party today. No one wants to be friends with the fat girl.”
“Morning, Mrs. Vasquez.” I offer a half-smile, quickly reaching behind my head, wrapping my hand around my ponytail holder, and tugging my hair loose. I shake out my hair so it fans across my face the way I like it. I slip the elastic around my wrist and feel myself instantly relaxing, even though I’m a little pissed at myself for forgetting to take the tie out before leaving the house this morning.
I laugh to myself and reach into my bag for my earbuds, thinking that my therapist, Kristie, would likely see my little slip as progress. Obsessively hiding behind my hair has been something she calls me out on all the time. It’s a habit she’s been determined to help me break.
“Headed to meet the band?” my neighbour asks, as I sit down beside her on the steel bench. When Lucky and I moved here a few years ago, both Mrs. and Mr. Vasquez took an instant liking to my brother and me, bringing us home-cooked meals and sharing fresh vegetables from their garden. Without kids of their own, they love to spoil us. In return, we help them around their house and yard when needed, and spend time sitting on their porch listening to the stories they love to share of their life in Spain before they came to Canada. So, when we meet at the bus like this, I always indulge Alejandra by sharing stories about my band girls, Lucky’s job, and anything else she might pry out of me.
“Yes, we’re meeting at Rusty’s,” I say, then spend the next fifteen minutes telling her the news as we sit side by side, chatting about how pretty the September leaves are and how she’d love to have Lucky and me over for supper once he’s back.
I try to ignore the sense of dread at the idea of having to eat in front of the Vasquezes. I love their cooking and spending time with them, I really do, but I prefer when Mr. Vasquez delivers the meals to our house, allowing me to eat in private. Even though I’m in recovery, I still feel a sense of panic when eating in front of others. I feel like everyone can see the war that rages inside my head when I’m sitting at a dinner table, often feeling like my inner struggle is reflected in each bite or sip of water I take. It’s hard to let go of all the habits I’d adopted as a bulimic. Instead, I agree to let her know a day that will work. Maybe I am making gains here? In the past, I’d think of a million and one excuses not to go at all.
“You need a man,” Alejandra leans in and whispers. “We never see you going out on dates. You deserve a nice boy. One with a car, perhaps?” she says, slapping her knee while laughing. Thankfully, the bus pulls to a stop in front of us before that conversation can carry on any further.
“One day, Mrs. V, one day,” I say. I notice how I don’t correct her and tell her about Dustin, the guy I’ve been seeing for the last three months, as we part—me moving to the back of the bus, and her sitting up front.
Dustin.
I sigh, plopping myself down on the cornflower blue seat in the back nearest the window. I put in my earbuds again, crank up the volume, and get lost in the lyrics of “Sullen Girl” by Fiona Apple. Listening to the lyrics, I reflect on my life. This song resonates with me too damn much. My eyes catch a plastic bag and I watch with rapt attention as it dances around on the sidewalk from the bus’s exhaust as we lurch forward, leaving the condos, small businesses, and cookie-cutter neighbourhoods behind as our driver heads out of suburbia and into the busy downtown Toronto traffic. As the song ends, and the bag drifts away, my thoughts return to Dustin. For the most part, he’s a good guy, but he can be a bit of a jerk sometimes and says things I’m not sure he realizes make him less and less appealing as steady-boyfriend material. I’ve seen glimpses of jealousy, and he can definitely be mean. Thankfully, so far none of his comments have ever been directed at me. Well, not really. I’m not sure how I might react to that kind of confrontation. Chances are I’d feel I deserve it. That’s another thing I’m still working on, realizing I deserve better, but unfortunately I’m still in that place of uncertainty.
The best thing about Dustin, though? He makes me laugh, which is something that’s been no easy feat over the years. I swear, bulimia makes me extra bitchy a lot of the time, so I’ve taken a liking to the euphoric feeling laughing with Dustin gives me. It’s a feeling I’ve definitely missed my fair share of. I’m not so convinced my feelings are more than friendship where he’s concerned, though, and I wonder if that’s why I didn’t jump at the chance to gush about him to Alejandra? Or maybe the Bulimic Bitch Fog hasn’t fully lifted yet to allow me to be a full-on boy gusher? Lord knows, my sex drive is another thing She stole from me, and still hasn’t given me back. I had no idea She’d steal that too, along with my sense of humour. I haven’t had actual sex in years.
I suppose we have quite a bit in common—he’s in a band, and plays guitar, and he’s a total music nerd like me. We met at an afterparty and kind of hit it off. So far, there have been a lot of group dates, some kissing, and a lot of uncertainty on my part. I’m trying really hard to test if it’s simply my insecurities holding me back, or if he truly is an asshole and I’m just not that into him. Despite his insistence to take things to the next level, I’ve been holding him off. We’ve barely rounded second base—boob touching over the shirt, because that’s as far as my bases go right now. There’s no way I could allow anyone to see what lies beneath my clothes. I couldn’t bear to see that look of disappointment—or worse, disgust—on my partner’s face. Even when I did have sex in the past, I’ve never been fully naked, and the lights have always been off. There’s no way I could handle anyone seeing all of me when I can barely tolerate seeing myself in the bathroom mirror.
“Shit, I should really message Dustin, too,” I mutter, remembering he and I were supposed to meet for coffee if I was free this morning, which I’m not going to be able to do now.
Grabbing my phone, I shoot a quick text his way before leaning my head against the window, watching the downtown Toronto scenery pass me by. “This is Me”
by Keala Settle starts to play, as Dustin’s reply of “Whatever” lights up my screen. “Nice,” I huff, stuffing my phone back into my bag, not bothering to check if there’s more. Instead, I get lost in the lyrics about the sharpest words and marching on.
I am bulimic. I wish I could say bulimia wasn’t still a part of me, but that would be a blatant lie. I will fight my disease for the rest of my life, even after a year of therapy and learning to love myself a little more. I work on it everyday—teaching myself that I’m not weak, that I’m strong and going to beat this monster that lives deep within me—yet I can’t deny that She’s still there, lingering beneath the surface and biding her time. But, for now, her voice isn’t as strong as it once was. Every day has its own set of issues, and I plan to fight each and every one of them head-on—because I am determined to win, learning to ignore that inner voice as She tries to tempt and convince me to give in to her will. With each meal I keep down, every band rehearsal, She tries to break through, hoping I’ll question my abilities not only as a musician, but also as a songwriter. Hoping that I’ll become the loner She prefers, when She tries time and time again to bulldoze Her way into every social gathering I attend, hoping I’ll succumb and withdraw so she can get me fully back into her clutches.
Yet, I continue to fight.
And, as time goes by, it is getting easier. Sure, there are times late at night when my walls are down and I’m alone, reflecting on my life, when She tries to get in, her voice niggling at me to go to the fridge, or to run out and buy a pack of laxatives. For old time’s sake, she’ll tease, just one more time. Her voice will badger, “Come on, Alina, don’t you want to be happy? We are so good together. You could be skinny and happy.”
It’s a voice that almost wins more times than not, but it’s also a voice I’m starting to learn to tune out, and shut down. I smile at the thought as we pass the CN Tower, a landmark signalling we’re almost at my stop.
Fighting Weight Page 4