Doll Food

TW: Substance abuse, eating disorder, hints of DV.

In biology 101, we learned about dopamine receptors, our feel-good hormones. Millions of those things are activated when we play games, use social media, and drugs. Now I'm curious—how many dopamine receptors will fire when I eat this jelly donut?

The shiny, glazed pastry stares back at me from my desk , pencil spinning between my fingers, a rare positive trick I learned from dad. I suppose homework could be done after I eat. I can't think when I'm craving. It's only my second one, the first was a scrumptious chocolate crueler. The skin around my belly grows taught as I swallow the last bite of fried dough—Yum. I'm happy.

There goes that stupid beeping noise telling me my sugar level's off. Mom's going to give me an earful once she's sober enough to see that her the donuts are missing. It's not like I'm old enough to replace meals with alcohol, like her. It's another night without dinner if she finds out. I've had enough of dragging her half-dead body to the couch post drink binge. I thought of the candy bar stuffed under my mattress for nights like those. That would be lovely if that were the case.

I try to focus on calculus homework but an odd sensation bloom in my head, the unnecessary sugar in my stomach threatens to re-emerge. shoot. I attempt to hold my head up, but the ink blotting my vision keeps smearing. I think I'm thirsty, but my throat's too parched to speak. Mom's footstep resounds off the stairs, each step an echo in my drum-like brain.

Cindy? Did you eat all the damn donuts? What the hell? She's almost to my room now, but my voice isn't working. My heart is running a marathon, and my palms are clammy. Underneath my armpits is a storm brewing, drenching my shirt.

Mom barges into my room, eyes on the evidence of eaten donuts, her face twisting in anger, yelling something—I can't make out her words over the high pitch ringing. I imagine that there was a little man with a hammer in my head, banging unrelenting. The floor rushes towards me and then darkness. Only darkness.

Doctor Brian, my pediatrician, sat at the corner of my bed when I regained consciousness. I should have stopped going to him when I turned 17, but mom has a hard time with change. She always says, if it aint broken, don't fix it. I wonder why he was at the house, though. Mom must have called him. They did use to be friends in high school, even dated once, I believe.

Cindy, you cannot keep doing this. Your body will give out on you, Dr. Bryan says. He's always been such a nice guy. I nodded. My body feels like it's been bulldozed and then put in a blender. That night mom gave me an earful and I listened. I love the you'll -never-be-pretty-if-you-don't-loose-weight talk. It isn't like I haven't heard the tirade before, but her scathing tone fooled me into thinking she cared more today. Maybe because I embarrassed her in front of Dr. Bryan. Or maybe because I could have died.

It worked though; I can't seem to look at donuts anymore without wanting to hurl. In fact, I can't look at any food without hearing my mother's voice, do you want to be fat Cindy forever? I shiver at the thought. She didn't give me any of her child modeling genes, so I couldn't help it. Our Kraft Mac and Cheese dinners didn't help either. She hasn't really cooked since the divorce— ever since dad threw her home-made mash potato at the wall because it was too garlicky. She didn't even flinch that night. I still remember the way the lumps of smooth potatoes glided down the wall like an avalanche. I guess it is hard to mess up boxed dinners.

"Do some cardio, Cindy" plays in my head when I'm on the treadmill— I don't need to listen to music. Her words pounds in my brain. She's so loud without ever raising her voice. That's high in trans-fat— I put the egg omelet down and eat grapes for breakfast instead. I make it a point to run every morning now, to get her stupid voice out of my head, hoping I could eventually outrun her words.

I guess losing a few pounds would be good for me. I run and I run hoping her lashings don't reach me, but they never really stop.

You've lost weight, you need new clothes.

Cindy, that dress doesn't look good on you anymore.

Ew Cindy, I can see your collar bone. aren't you gonna eat dinner?

Cindy, why do you look like that? You have no boobs or ass now.

Cindy, you're not good enough.

Cindy, you're not pretty enough.

Cindy, you're not enough.

I awake in the hospital bed, the blue knit blanket brush against my thin skin. What's happened to me? One moment, I'm on the treadmill, and the next, I'm staring at white sterile ceilings and my scrawny fingers. The air in the room felt icy. I don't have much fat on my body to sustain my temperature. I could feel myself shrinking underneath my clothes, but at least her voice is gone.

Dr. Bryan is here with me again, he's a real trooper.

Cindy, I know things are tough at home with your mom in rehab and all. But I want you to know I actually care about you.

He hands me a card.

National Alliance for Eating Disorders:

1-866-662-1235

He seems sincere when he tells me he wanted me to get better. And honestly, I wanted to too. I can finally breathe without my mom's suffocating voice.

The nurse comes into the hospital room, carrying a tray of food portioned for a doll. The jelly donut sat like a consolation prize atop the tray. A smile blossom on my lips. I take in the sugary scent and nausea doesn't find me, neither does mom's voice.

The first bite is godly, and I take another.