Day 547

(Reader warning: this piece contains content involving disordered eating habits.)

[In a flash like that of lightening, a central light spills down on a man. He stands before a large mirror with his body angled just askew to allow the audience to see him from behind though his front figure is depicted in the mirror’s reflection. At his side, there sits a small table topped by toiletry bottles. Onlookers catch the reflection of his body still bearing beads of water from a presumed recent shower. Based on his physique, one would guess he’s in his early thirties though it’s difficult to accurately tell from the audience’s perspective. A safe assumption would peg him older than high school yet not far into the throws of adulthood. His brown, straight hair holds a dampness from its recent wash. In doing so, hair strands fall with ease to just above eye level, not covering the ears. He is clean shaven and shows no sign of body hair set on his smooth torso. A towel sits about his waste, cinched at the hip with a quick tuck of a corner to keep things in place. It wraps tightly, maintaining a steady hold as he has a minimal amount of mass. Visibly cachectic, one easily makes out the lines of bones about the body. Specifically, this is evidenced at the neck, the arms, and the ribs. With head tipped downward, he glances at a phone in his hand and remains preoccupied for a few seconds before looking up and toward the mirror. He emits a sigh before starting a conversation to himself.] 

Day 547. I really should fix the lighting in here. The last additions to improve things went well, but I can do better. I could look better. For now, I guess I’ll make due. Anyway, here’s one more for the album.

[Lifting the hand which still holds his phone, he proceeds to outstretch the arm and adjust his grip. At the same time, he arcs backward a bit and makes fine adjustments to his pose. Similarly, the audience can catch his facial expressions changing over seconds of contemplation as he settles on his final stance. With a quick breath in and another out, he tenses all muscles visible to the camera. At this moment, an audible click emits through the momentary silence. The photo is taken. A sudden wave of relaxation moves down from head to toes as he lowers his hand to drop the phone on the table by his side.] 

Funny, I still have difficulty seeing any changes in these shots. Same similar pose, just different days. Sure, others share their concerns. But I just see me. My sister claims it’s a matter of perspective. You know, like when you watch the moon in the night sky. She says I’m acting like I only see the moon, or me in this figurative example, from second-to-second. You can’t notice the motion of such a celestial object in a matter of seconds. You need to see its change over time, in minutes to hours. Then, you can appreciate how far things have gone. Perhaps she’s right. But what if I’m transfixed by what’s happened to me? Entranced to the point of not seeing the danger in my choices?

[He motions a hand to his chest, wiping a few beads of moisture off and onto his fingertips.]

They don’t know what I feel. They see me as I present myself. My outer layer covers a brooding and complex spirit. Spirit? Or perhaps ghost is the better descriptor. Ghost sounds more hallow, more empty. Even my mother has made the claim that I look like a gaunt ghost. So she, like the others who comment, see the my exterior veil not knowing what lies beneath. Well, I suppose they can get some hints of my inner angst through these.

[He steps forward, allowing a greater appreciation of his features in the mirror. Slowly, he raises his arm back up and toward his nose.]

This scar will always bother me, probably because it’s the most visible. Others say it’s hardly noticeable. I’d argue when the right nostril differs from the left you can tell. Consider its placement on the face, the initial point of one’s gaze when making introductions. 

[He leans his head forward, slowly encroaching on the mirror.]

Judgement. We’re all subject to it. We all conduct it, or maybe my shallow self does so more frequently than others. I look for symmetry, picking on elements that meet my aesthetic interests. 

[He moves the hand at his face around various areas, depicting with his index and ring finger the distances between locations: right eye to nose, left eye to left ear, nose to chin, lip corners to eye corners. Lastly, he places his index finger at the nose’s tip.]

I mean, I’d estimate half of the guys I’ve seen these past 10 years have made my nose a part of our banter over dinner or cocktails.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” he says.

“I don’t mean to pry…” he begins.

“Can I ask something personal…” he inquires.

I launch into the details with ease, showing no reservations about it. However, it does stir me up as I revisit prior traumas.

[His hand falls to the neck and opens in a manner that resembles one attempting to grasp at the throat in a charade of choking or distress.]

This one, though, really takes the award for dramatic effect. A scalpel’s slice across the neck to access the trachea. Like something from a crime novel or mafia movie. Thankfully, it hides itself well when I’m wearing a turtleneck or sporting a scarf. Funny how little interest one’s hidden features take, how a quick covering can shroud imperfection. This, along with the nose, begs those same silly questions from suiters. So I answer their inquiries, plain and simple.

[At this, he raises the other arm and actually provides a demonstration of one choking themselves.]

“Well you see, I was in an accident.”

[He halts this arms’ actions and lowers them back down, folding them across his chest.]

Their eyes widen as I describe the hospitalization and operations. If I’m really theatric in my recount, I even manage to get a gasp from them. 

[He smiles and chuckles a bit as he thinks this through for a few seconds. Now pulling the towel aside, he exposes his right upper thigh which also sports a scar. This particular mark runs lengthwise down the leg. He angles the limb toward the mirror for better lighting.]

This, however, is the secret albatross I bear. Along with this.

[He extends the opposite leg out, drawing it also from the confines of his towel to keep his modesty while displaying a similar, lengthy scar along the other hip.]

Near identical yet different in the operations that created them. A dislocated left hip and a fractured right femur. At this point, I often describe how I made leaps and bounds from the accident. I try to live an active life, not defined by the injuries sustained but modeled by the pursuits to achieve new heights. In telling them of my ordeal, I hope to draw their attention from the physical signs of my healing toward ideas of accomplishment. Sometimes it works. Hell, I’ve had a few guys even tell me the whole thing is sexy. But to me, it’s all about the image. I attempt to mask over the flaws. The sheet is cast over the ghost.

[He replaces the towel back over his legs, replacing his arms back to a folded position.]

That’s what led to so many issues after the accident, setting up that first day now 547 days ago. That’s when the photos began. Don’t get me wrong, I had my fair share of problems prior to that. Many midwestern boys growing up as closeted gay men amid conservative, Christian households have these skeletons to hide. I often find myself grateful considering how my own coming-out went. I was confronted with complacency and a don’t-ask-don’t-tell mentality unlike friends left tattered and torn. But we all walk a unique path, and mine has managed to leave me with my own unique physical and emotional scars.

[Reaching down to the phone, he grabs it and opens to his photo gallery.]

Yes, here is day one. Originally, the plan was to try shedding a few pounds. Caught up by the shirtless hunks and sculpted bodies of the out-and-proud socialites that flooded my social media accounts, I yearned to be like them. Marred with the cuts from my accident, I developed a twisted logic. That the only way to become an idol was through the combination self-deprecation, limitation, and hard work. Grad school hadn’t been friendly to my body, but I’d managed to stave off anything beyond repair. Sure, I could manage cutting a few pounds to help boost my confidence. But the greater goal would be perfection.

Would I know it when I saw it? Perhaps. I assumed it would come through the glancing eyes of attracted onlookers. Having kept to the closet for years, it was a dream to consider the lusty looks of other men directed at me. Me! Even now and having been out for some time, I felt I’d fallen into a rut of celibacy. Let’s be real, those years in grad school had also taken a toll on my night life a.k.a my sex life. It was time for a new me. 

[He sighs and sets down the phone. He closes his eyes and takes a few seconds to reflect silently.]

Enter day one. 

[He opens his eyes and extends his arms outward and to his sides, full wingspan now shown in the mirror as he rotates slightly at the hips from side to side.]

The weight loss that ensued and the accompanied wish to become thinner consumed me. The irony is that as the idea ate away, I starved.

[Lowering his arms, he first takes his right index finger to trace along the left arm. After doing so, he uses the left index finger to trace along one of the many visible right ribs.]

First, there was an increase in physical activity. Then came the calorie counting. Oh how intoxicating it was to find control in a caloric limit. A knick here and a cut there from my diet to help draw down the pounds. And with each plateau came new ideas. A new diet on day 176, an additional increase in daily activity starting day 257, all leading to extreme measures. Purging worked its tempting way into my ritual around day 293 and before long I found myself using laxatives before my weigh-ins.

[Outstretching his arms once again, he now flexes his biceps before lowering the arms and flexing his pectorals. What minimal amount of muscle exists shows through the skin like newspaper print through tissue paper. He breaks his flexed position and places both arms back at his side.]

Now, I find myself stuck in limbo. I remain unhappy with what I’ve achieved in my search for perfection. Driven by the belief that continuation is key, I strive ahead undaunted in my pursuits. I still crave the sought after, idealized image of beauty. Well, at least my idealized image of beauty: the thin, the chiseled, the toned. But am I really any closer to social media icons?

[He envelopes himself with his arms, a self-embrace as he arcs his head upward and speaks toward the ceiling.]

Where are the lusting men seeking me out at the bars and clubs? Where is the rush of satisfaction I thought I’d find by now? Are these hopes lost by the scars I bear? Are they turned aside by my potentially failure to reach a figure of perfection? Have I not worked hard enough to mold my broken body into something desired? 

[His arms fall with a sudden slackening, and his head bows down defeated.]

Maybe my sister is right. She fears, like other family members and friends, that my health is failing. That I’m stretched too thin and putting my body in danger. They toss about worrisome phrases: eating disorder, anorexia, depression, kidney failure, death. I admit, these should be sobering. But they just don’t strike me.

Perhaps I’ve failed to see the journey, caught in the small moments. I’ve failed to move past the outer self, so focused on visible features. Instead, my ugliness may in fact lie underneath. Is it a festering unease that feeds on the idea of becoming or remaining thin, driving the numbers lower with each day to reach an unknown amount?

[He reaches for the phone. The screen lights up as he swipes a figure, looking through his photos once again.]

I’ve taken these shots daily and in series. I examine them thoroughly but fail to recognize my metamorphosis from day one until now, day 547. The BMI numbers can’t lie. The calories counted can’t lie. The purge attempts can’t lie. But as those markers move my weight downward, I keep on believing that one more day of this ritualized torture can’t hurt. One more day will bring me closer to perfection. And I just want to be perfect.

[He puts the phone back on the table, lifts his head, and stares directly into the mirror.]

I mean…it’s just one more day. I guess I’ll see what day 548 has to offer. Maybe one more day of this will give me clarity. Provide me with perfection. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe.

[He turns and for the first time looks directly at the audience. Flashes from offstage cameras add additional light to the scene as each provides a momentary highlight of the man from various angles. There is a sudden pause in the photo flashes. As a brief moment lapses, the light cuts and all is dark.]