Twisted Desire

Trigger warning: eating disorder

DECEMBER 31, 1999, 8:59 PM (101.68 lbs., 46.12 kg.)

I kicked the scale, immediately tumbling to the ground with pain. Half of my big toenail sat on the bathroom floor in front of me, laughing at my sorrow. “Fuck you,” I whispered to it, and clenched my throbbing toe. 

I’d never been so close to completing something. So close that I could smell it, and it pained me to even think about not getting a taste. But there wasn’t enough time. It’d just be another goal down the drain.

The walls glared at me like I was insane. I nearly blended in with its white shade. If it weren’t for my disgustingly three dimensional stomach and my thighs like the clouds upon which Zeus spends his slumber, perhaps I could simply disappear into the flat and pallid walls.

Flat and pallid. That’s what I craved. Instead, my stomach stuck out beyond the boundary of my breasts. I’d never blend in with “flat and pallid.”

My stomach hung from my torso like Jude the apostle at the time of his death, jiggling with my every movement. For a second, I stared at the scissors, and genuinely debated the DIY murder of my own belly fat. My pain tolerance had somehow grown with my disorder, so I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as it sounded. I reached for the scissors, but my survival instinct kicked in, inspecting every inch of my abdomen with a pinch of my fingers. If I can pinch it, I thought, it needs to go. 

Damn that survival instinct- that thing that keeps you from doing what you really want to do because death is too hard to face. I’d like to say I was above it, but I wasn’t. I clung to the breast of life like any other conscious being and often prayed that I wouldn’t kill myself.

When the amputation of unwanted body fat became an apparent non-option, I panicked. The thoughts crawled in through my ear and burrowed in my brain. Numbers echoed in my head, but over and over again, I heard that same goal I believed I would never achieve. “100.” But maybe it wasn’t too late.

The alarm sounded, and The Purge began.

DECEMBER 31, 1999, 9:59 PM (101.21 lbs., 45.91 kg.)

I began with a merciless workout. My muscles were like a slave, sweating from head to toe as I struck them with my whip, demanding that they continue their labor. I counted every sit-up: “One hundred fifty-eight, one hundred fifty-nine…”

My butt sat flat on the ground and my tailbone ached from the hardwood, but I proceeded to sit up and lay back down anyway, repeating the movement and embracing the pain it brought me. I pushed and pushed and pushed, but soon found myself collapsed on my back, unable to go any longer.

I was breathing heavily, but stumbled onto my feet anyway. I didn’t want to rest. I only wanted water.

I was like an arsonist, burning all those calories. My house was a track, and I was an Olympic athlete who actually wasn’t very athletic. I jogged to the kitchen, still desperate for a drink, when I heard a knock on the door.

“Kurt Cobain?” I said. The man on my porch was unamused by my joke.

He blew his blonde hair out of his eyes and said, “I’m here to deliver your pizza. I am not Kurt Cobain.” 

“I was j- nevermind. I didn’t order a pizza.”

“Well, my shift ends in one minute, so what’s it gonna be?”

I couldn’t believe he wasn’t Kurt Cobain. He had the looks, the attitude, he even had the needle marks. I thought about asking him to sign my Nevermind album, but resisted.

Not Kurt Cobain and I stood in silence for a few seconds, both of us depending on the other person to continue the conversation. I debated on closing the door right in his face, eager to return to my workout. But when the aroma of cheese, pepperoni and sausage crept up my nose, I couldn’t help blurting, “I’ll go get my wallet.” I jogged to the kitchen where my purse was waiting on the counter.

When I returned to the door, Not Kurt Cobain pointed to my right knuckle and said, “Y’know, I hope you can stop that.”

“Stop wha- oh.” I glanced down and saw that the knuckle had reddened and begun to bleed. Russel’s sign. Had anyone else mentioned that, I’d be offended, but Not Kurt Cobain had somehow provided me with a sense of comfort I didn’t know I needed. I pointed to the needle marks on his left arm and said, “And the same to you.”

DECEMBER 31, 1999, 10:59 P.M. (104.02 lbs., 47.18 kg.)

If I didn’t live in an apartment, I’d have screamed at that fucking scale.

Not Kurt Cobain and his needle marks still lingered in my thoughts. I slouched next to the empty pizza box beside me. I remembered how, growing up, I’d been told never to let anyone interfere with my goals. Boys, especially. At the start of this year, I’d been confident that I’d finally achieve something. How could I give that up?

I rested my head on the lid of the toilet, allowing my tears to shed, if only that was enough to bring the number back down again. Every muscle in my body felt tight, my head was pounding, and the crying just wouldn’t stop. It pained me to think that the night still wasn’t over, and my tasks were still incomplete.

Nevertheless, I continued the struggle, two fat fingers down my throat. My teeth scratched my knuckles, but I didn’t stop. I heaved with relief as the demon left my body.

I felt gravity disappear, euphoria slipping in its place. 

I grew wings and flew to Heaven.

I floated.

DECEMBER 31, 1999, 11:59 P.M. (100.01 lbs., 45.36 kg.)

My foot rested over the number on the scale. 

I only knew how to pray in three different religions; I doubted it’d be enough, so I decided to attempt Muslim, Hindu, and Buddhist meditation as well… none of which I’d researched like Christianity, Catholicism, and Judaism. I dropped out of my theology class before getting that far. I guess I’d decided that the path for me was not religion, but bulimia.

My stomach was no smaller. In fact, it was bloated. It still stuck out, and it still jiggled. My thighs stuck together like two horny dogs. I doubted if I’d ever see the changes I craved, much less reach my goal by the end of the night.

I moved my foot to take a peek, but instinctually closed my eyes.

If I’d failed, I didn’t even want to see the damn number.

But if I hadn’t…

When I finally found the nerve, I felt steam pour from my ears and water from my eyes. I couldn't take my gaze away from that number. 100.01. Some would call that a victory. I was not one of them. 

I glanced at the clock. There was still one minute. 

On the counter, there still sat a lonely pair of scissors. There was still one minute.

My conscience became thinner and thinner. There was still one minute.

JANUARY 1, 1999, 12:00 A.M. (100.00 lbs., 45.36 kg.)

Blood.