And that’s that. They’re playing, and I’m standing behind the couch, fingering the little tassels hanging from an afghan thrown over the top. And I’m pissed. Predictably, I’m looking for someone to blame, and Michael has walked right into my trap. How could you let me do this? I silently scream at him. Don’t you see what I’m up to? Don’t you care?
Without another word, I grab my purse and my keys off the entryway table and walk out the door. Hot tears sting my eyes, but I’m not really sure why I’m crying now.
Do I really blame Michael for this? I know that can’t possibly be true, but I am weary from the self-hatred in which I’ve wallowed all afternoon. I’m looking for a reprieve, if even for a little while. I brush the ill-conceived animosity toward Michael aside and get into my car.
We’ve only been at the beach for two days and I haven’t driven by myself yet. With my horrible sense of direction, I just know I will get lost. Still, that doesn’t stop me. I am pretty sure I can get to the grocery store, and what I am looking for won’t be too far from that. I pull out of the main drive of the vacation resort and onto the highway. I breathe a deep sigh of relief. Finally I begin to let myself off the hook.
I turn on the radio. I hum a little with the familiar tune. The deal-making starts. I’ve been really good the last two days, I tell myself. I’ve earned a little reward. I am on vacation, for Pete’s sake. And, I’m here with my in-laws! Talk about stress! It’s okay to go ahead and eat tonight. Tomorrow I can start fresh. Tomorrow there are five days left of this trip. Five solid days of eating right and exercising, and I can go home feeling good. Yes, a little treat tonight is in order. It’ll help keep me motivated for the rest of my time here!
Of course my reasoning is ridiculous. Of course my mood over the last several hours can only be described as manic. Beat myself up. Feel sorry for myself. Blame others. Pick myself up with lies. I know it’s a twisted existence, but having that knowledge doesn’t stop me from doing it, from living it. I’ve lived this way so long, I feel powerless to change it. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
No, I’m not going to let the reality of my psychosis get me down now. This is one of the only happy times I get in a day, the period right before I eat. I’ve suffered the hours of indecision, and I have finally relented to the temptation. Now I can enjoy it, revel in it. There will be plenty of time later for more self-loathing, for sure.
I exit the highway, heading toward the bright fluorescent glow of the shopping center. I quickly find what I’ve been looking for, and I pull the car into the familiar drive-thru. No, I haven’t been to this particular McDonald’s before, but it doesn’t matter. McDonald’s is my home. My comfort. The people here have exactly what I need, and nothing is going to stop me from getting it.
I smile for the first time in two days.
“Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?” the voice crackles on the other end of the speaker. Sometimes the voice is friendly and inviting; sometimes it’s rushed and annoyed. I suppose it doesn’t really matter, as long as it is here to help me.
“Yes, I’d like a double cheeseburger meal, super-sized, with a Coke,” I answer, not needing a menu. My order is always the same.
“Will that complete your order?”
No, it wouldn’t. “Oh, I forgot. I also need a ten-piece Chicken McNugget Meal with a Sprite, please.” I don’t know why I feel the need to try and make it sound like I’m ordering for two people, feigning forgetfulness and ordering a different drink with the second meal. Do I really care what the lady at McDonald’s thinks of me?
“Is that super-sized, too?” the disembodied voice asks.
“No thanks,” I say cheerily. No need to act like a pig. I crack myself up.
“Pull up to the window for your total.”
As I wait for my food, I wonder, bemusedly, how much money I’ve spent on fast food in my lifetime. Surely it is in the thousands of dollars. I feel a twinge of guilt, but I quickly stuff it down, turning up the radio and singing along. I refuse to feel bad now. In my mind the drive-thru line is my safe zone.
The smell of salt and grease fills me with joy. My mouth waters, and my throat aches for those first tastes. It’s been two whole days, an amazing amount of restraint on my part. My pulse quickens as the car in front of me pulls off and I move forward. I pay the lady and ask for extra ketchup. She gives me my change and my food and drinks. I haven’t even pulled away from the window before I am reaching into the bag for a handful of fries. I stuff them into my mouth, wincing from the heat, but chewing heartily anyway. They burn a little, but I don’t care. Now, for a brief moment, I don’t feel quite so empty.
I have almost finished the first carton of fries before I pull into the parking space in front of the grocery store. I suppose the rain is keeping folks inside, as there are few cars in the parking lot. I don’t feel self-conscious at all as I polish off the double cheeseburger in record time. The ache in my stomach is beginning to dissipate, but I still want more. My mind is blank as I finish off the second batch of fries. I finally stop eating long enough to take a long slurp of Coke, enjoying the burn of the carbonation on my throat. I dust off the salt on my fingers and wipe the grease off my hands with a napkin. I take the box of chicken nuggets out of the bag and replace it with the trash from my eaten food. I take the bag and the Sprite and get out of the car. It’s a dance I’ve danced many, many times, and I have the moves down to a science. I throw the trash and the untouched soda in a wastebasket in front of the store and walk inside.
I wonder if I smell like fried food. Better get something for the car, I tell myself, making my way down the refrigerated section first. I start to grab an individual carton of Häagen-Dazs, but I think better of it and instead get a gallon of Breyers Chocolate Ripple. I then pick up a can of air freshener and a newspaper. As I wait in line to pay for my items, I grab a Hershey’s chocolate bar and a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I pay without making eye contact with the cashier. Suddenly worried about the time, I hurry back to the car.
The parking lot is still pretty empty. I down the ten chicken nuggets in about two minutes flat. I gulp the rest of the Coke. I pull out of the parking lot. Despite the rain, I roll down all the windows on the car, letting the air circulate, hoping to rid the car of the greasy smell of my transgressions. Making sure there are no witnesses, I throw the chicken nuggets box and the soda cup out the window before turning back onto the highway.
I feel nothing. I’m full, at least for the moment, so there’s no need to belittle myself or try to make myself feel better. Despite the large volume of food I ate in such a small amount of time, I don’t feel sick. That is a blessing. It allows me, if only briefly, to feel satisfied. These short periods don’t come often, and I allow myself to listen to the wind cleansing the inside of my car and my mind. My thoughts are turned down, and I am somewhat at peace.
In no time I am back in front of our bungalow. No sign that Michael is looking for me. I wonder if he even really noticed I left. I should feel relieved, but I’m not. The tiniest amount of regret starts to seep in, but I push it down by lashing out at my husband. How could he let me down this way? How will I ever get better if he can’t be bothered to pay attention? I feel the rush of emotions start to rise up, but then I remember the candy and the ice cream. The anger and resentment, the guilt and the remorse, fade away quickly. I spray the inside of the car with the air freshener before rolling the windows back up. Once out of the car, I spray my clothes ever so slightly, hoping to disguise where I’ve been and what I’ve been up to. I put the can deep inside my trunk. I take the candy bars out of the bag and put them inside my purse. I head inside with the grocery bag and the newspaper.
Michael and Eddie are still playing the game, but this time Michael looks up at me as I walk in. “Hey, I was worried about you,” he says, coming over to me. I hope he can’t smell anything.
I can see the worry in his eyes, and I feel that familiar pang. At this point I’ve felt it
so much, it’s as familiar to me as any other emotion. “Sorry, I got a little lost.” I lie, knowing he will believe it, and feel all the more guilty.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks.
“Oh, I got us some ice cream,” I say, perhaps a little too brightly.
“Did someone say ice cream?” Eddie’s wife, Molly, comes in from the other room, holding the baby. He’s asleep on her shoulder.
Molly. Thank goodness she’s so nice, or I swear I’d have to kill her. She’s a size 4, soaking wet, and she’s given her husband two children. For those keeping score, that’s one thing I’ll never be (a size 4), and one thing I’m starting to think I’ll never be able to do (give my husband children).
I hand the bag to Molly, and she takes it into the kitchen. I put down my purse and keys on the entry table. I’m still holding the newspaper. I meet Michael’s eyes.
“Ice cream?” he asks softly. It’s not an accusation, and I don’t take it as one. I feel too guilty to be defensive.
“Yeah,” I say casually. “I’ve been good all day, and I figured a little bit won’t hurt. We are on vacation, you know,” I say with a little smile.
He smiles back. “You have been good today.” He pulls me close to him and hugs me firmly, protectively. I feel as though I will jump out of my skin. I love him so very much, but I can’t stand to be touched. It makes my skin crawl. All I can think of is how my body must feel under his arms, and I am repulsed for him. I force myself to hug him back, and I feel the sting of salt again, but this time it’s not on my lips, but in my eyes.
We join Eddie and Molly in the kitchen, where I have a very conservative bowl of ice cream. There’s talk of asking Michael’s parents and the other family members to join us, but there’s no answer when Eddie tries to call their cottage. Thank God. I know what’s going to happen to me emotionally once I am alone again, and I don’t need a whopping dose of in-law inadequacy on top of it. I don’t think I could take it.
Michael and Eddie return to their video game, and Molly goes to put the baby down. I excuse myself to the restroom. My stomach is now starting to pay the price of the sins of the past hour, and I’m in the bathroom for a while. This is where the guilt really starts. I lied to Michael’s face, although that really was nothing new. He was concerned about me, and I’d spent much of the evening blaming him for something I knew good and well was all my fault. I’d taken the last two days of eating reasonably well and thrown them away as if they meant nothing. But I’m going to start fresh tomorrow, the little voice inside says, rather weakly. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
After I clean up, I look at the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. I wish I could say the reflection of my almost three-hundred-pound frame is a shock, but it isn’t. I am long used to the grotesque figure I’ve become. My face is so swollen, it’s hard to recognize the person I was just a few short years ago. My skin is dry and scaly, my hair is lifeless and limp. And my stomach … I can’t look at it for more than a few seconds without forcing myself to look away, like a bright light that burns your eyes and leaves you seeing spots for hours. I look in the mirror and I see a monster—a hideous beast that has taken over my body and my life. I am too weak to fight him off. He has control, and I am powerless to do anything about it. Eventually, I am sure, the beast will kill me.
I go back to our room and quietly shut the door. I should go out and say goodnight to everyone, but I am too ashamed. I just want to go to sleep, to not hurt, if just for a few hours. I am never overweight in my dreams; I am thin and young and pretty. Self-hatred is nowhere to be found, and I retreat to that place whenever I can. It is my one escape, my chance to get out from under the death grip I feel most of the time.
I change quickly, although it occurs to me the ritual is pretty silly. I take off my drab T-shirt and pants and put on a drabber T-shirt and shorts. No pretty lingerie, no cute cotton pajamas for me. As it is I’d die if anyone saw my bare legs in the shorts I wear to bed; I haven’t worn shorts or skirts in public for years.
I turn out the lights and lie in bed, begging for sleep to come, but it eludes me. As silent tears slide down my face, I feel as though the grief will overtake me. Please God, I pray to myself. Please help me. I don’t know how to stop this. I can’t do it alone. I need help. I feel like I’m going to die.
My cries no longer want to be muted, and I roll over so that I can sob into my pillow. I think of how much time has been lost, how much of our lives have been ruined by this hideous disease. I think about the future, and I cry even harder. What could the coming years possibly hold for us? Children are out of the question; my doctor doubted I could even get pregnant. I’m too heavy. And even if I could conceive, the pregnancy would be too dangerous for me and for the baby. Wouldn’t my in-laws just love that? No, there are no kids in our future, not if I can’t get this problem under control. And I see no sign of my getting a grip, despite the promises I made myself earlier. For the first time all night, I am being honest with myself. I am in a very sick place, and I know it. But I don’t know how to fix it. Really fix it, I mean. Not with deal making or grandiose, unrealistic plans. How can I finally fix me?
The tears let up. I get up to grab some tissue, maneuvering in the dark room over to the dresser. My purse on the floor catches my eye. Michael must have put it in here while I was in the bathroom. I wipe my face and blow my nose, suddenly remembering what’s inside my pocketbook. My pulse quickens a little. I grab my purse and climb back into bed. I can get up early in the morning, before anyone else. I can walk on the beach, down to the pier and back. That’s got to be a couple of miles, right? Yes. Yes, I can do that in the morning, and then maybe I can do it in the evening, too. You know, really make a strong effort. Michael’s parents are bound to notice that. And Michael, too … he will be so proud of me. I sniff away the tears as I open my purse and dig out the chocolate. And because I’m walking first thing in the morning, I will set the tone for the rest of the day. I will eat well because I won’t want to mess up what I’ve done. I rip open the Hershey’s bar. But maybe you should start now. You don’t need that candy. Throw it away. Prove to yourself that you know you are worth it. The little voice is annoying me now, and I push it deep inside my subconscious. No, I have to eat this now, I tell myself. If I don’t, I’ll feel deprived all day tomorrow, and that will mess me up. Go ahead and get it over with and then make a fresh start.
I lie in bed and eat the Hershey’s bar, and then the Reese’s cups. I stuff the wrappers between the two mattresses, vowing to get rid of them the next morning. My tears are long gone. I’m back to feeling nothing. The back-and-forth has stopped, at least for now, and I’m ready to let sleep come and get me. Take me away. Take me to thin, pretty, happy Jennifer. I miss her. So much.
I fall asleep.
The beast smiles.
2
Bingeing and Hiding
My binge eating was born in 1990. I was a senior in high school, and I had just gone through yet another breakup with my abusive boyfriend. I decided the answer to all my problems would be to finally rid myself of the extra thirty pounds I’d carried for as long as I could remember. I wish I could say I wanted to lose the weight to attract a better boyfriend, but in truth, I hoped to make the abusive one insanely jealous so he would fall head over heels for me and never cheat again. Twisted, I know, but that’s where my head was that New Year’s Eve. I decided to stay home and eat all my favorite foods, to get them out of my system. Then the next day I would start my new diet in earnest. I got a double cheeseburger and fries from Wendy’s, plus a big bag of Funyuns and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. I stayed home and watched Dick Clark and ate until I thought I would puke. This was new; it had never occurred to me before to binge like this. Looking back, I have no clue what gave me the idea.
At midnight the Wendy’s meal was long gone. I threw away what was left of the Funyuns, and I poured the remaining Mountain Dew down the sink. I was so satisfied with myself.
Believ
e it or not, it worked. I lost twenty-five pounds in about three months. I taught myself to drink diet soft drinks, something I never thought I would do.
I avoided fast food and Funyuns, and I even started to exercise a little. I received compliments everywhere I went. The more attention I got, the more motivated I became to keep up the good work.
The abusive boyfriend was jealous, and he wanted me back. Of course I went. And I did keep the weight off for quite some time, so I became convinced that bingeing was the way to go. Get it out of your system; then get down to work.
Little did I know that this dangerous bingeing habit would one day threaten my life.
I can’t remember a time when eating wasn’t a central part of my being. I wasn’t an obese child, but in some ways I think I had it even worse: I was always about twenty-five pounds overweight, just fat enough to get picked on. Where did the extra weight come from? Genetics, I’m sure played a part, although neither of my parents was overweight. Smoking was their vice of choice, with the added inclination of drinking for my dad. I have two brothers, one of whom was skinny as a rail and short most of his life. The other, like me, has always fought extra pounds, despite his being a highly decorated athlete while growing up. No, my extra weight was born more out of poor habits, caring way too much way too early about the wrong kinds of food. Fast food wasn’t the problem then; a trip to McDonald’s was a rare treat when I was a little girl. But soda—or “drinks” as we used to call them in North Carolina—that was my problem almost from the very beginning.
My love affair with Mountain Dew goes back as far as I can remember. My dad would get home from his job at the carton factory in the early afternoon, right after we got home from school. He would send one of us down to the corner store to buy our daily snack. We each got to choose something to eat and something to drink. We also had to get something for Dad. My brothers and my father always varied their choices. Sometimes my dad would get these pink cupcakes called “snowballs”; other times, he’d want a long package of peanuts and a Pepsi. My brothers liked all kinds of chips and cakes and cookies. But my choice was always the same: a bag of Funyuns and a Mountain Dew. There was nothing better than that salty-sweet mix, and it was part of my afternoon routine for years and years.
Designated Fat Girl Page 2