Butter

CW: eating disorders, body dysmorphia

I can't see my ribs anymore. I miss them- saw them just last Sunday. Doc says it's good for me. "Eat your protein, Anna," he repeats. I just want to see them again, a constant reminder of my thinness. I'm getting fat. My face is more plump and it's only been a week. Butter, oil, butter, more butter- thats all my mother seems to yell these days. We've ought to just get our own cow with the amount of butter she's been shoving down my throat. 

I convinced mom to let me cook for myself again, but it doesn't equate to much considering she left two whole sticks of butter on the counter and expects every ounce of it to drench my digestive tract. She must be trying to give me a heart attack. I line a pan with butter and throw the rest out the window while it screams fatty, fatty, fatty. But I am not going to be fat today. I don't bother making the kitchen a mess like I usually do, mom never seems to notice anyway. I do however heat up the pan and swirl the butter around. The smell of the simmering fat sickens my stomach, and I wince at the thought of it flowing down my throat and heading straight for my thighs. I stare down and see my reflection through the oil of the pan. Fat. Ugly. Fat.  

I remember the last time I enjoyed butter. I was nine years old at the county fair, excitedly waiting in line for a buttery box of popcorn while pigging out on an oily funnel cake. I suppose I had some meat on me as a child. I never knew what that meant until the middle aged man in line behind me began shaming my mother for allowing her daughter to let herself go. I started to notice the stares of pity from other parents, the disappointed head shakes from my doctor, the laughs from kids my own age. I was different from them. I was bigger. I didn't eat eat for the rest of the day at the fair. When dinner came around, I didn't eat. I slept most of the next day, and would find some excuse for skipping dinner. It was a viscous cycle consisting of sleep, some chips if I was desperate, and restless nights full of tossing and turning. Anything to be smaller, to take up less space. To be unnoticed in this world full of disgust and pity and shame.

After a few months, the changes in my figure gained praise from the PTA moms, my doctor, even my own mother. And this propelled me to go further. I was thinner. I wanted to be noticed. And I kept it up for 8 years. I switched towns before high school and was known as the thin, thin, thin girl. I loved it. Everyone would stare, everyone would tell me how lucky I was to be thin. It was the praise I desperately needed, because every time I stared into the mirror I would see the reflection of a chubby little girl. Sometimes I miss her, or maybe just the butter.

But now that the reflection I see is truly starting to morph, I can't help but miss my ribs and bones and my beautiful thinness. 

I blame the new doc. I supposedly fainted last week due to "malnutrition" even though I urged it to be a simple case of dehydration from the summer heat. Doc wasn't having it. He took one look at my wrists, so thin you could wrap your whole hand around them, and mouthed the word "anorexia." It felt like I was nine years old all over again, being judged so quickly by my doctor simply because of my body. My mother even cried. She never cried when the doctor told me I was fat. 

Aside from the the few gallons of butter, I've been able to keep up my charade for the most part these past few days. My mother isn't suspicious, though a part of me suspects, or rather hopes, that she too wants me to remain thin. 

But all hope is lost when my mother tells me she has set up a dinner with the new neighbors next door. They have a daughter my age, and I would be thrilled if I new I wasn't about to be stared down into finishing a five course meal that includes a buttery apple pie for dessert.

I hear two loud knocks not even an hour later, and my mother opens the door to a 45 year old looking woman and her daughter. 

Her thin, thin, thin daughter. 

A jealousy I never knew I could posses overpowers me and for once I'm not thinking about the amount of calories in the cucumber I ate last night. I hate her. But I push those twisted thoughts aside as the two of us make way to our own table outside. I had mom set up a separate space for us so we could have "girl talk," but in reality it's simply an easier outlet for me to hide my "lack of appetite."

I began to chat with the thin, thin, thin girl. Her name is Beatrice. She hates her name. I hate it too. I hate the small talk. I want to ask her how she is so thin. I want to ask her if she misses butter and bread and chocolate the way I do. I want to ask her if she is happy. I want to ask if she can see her ribs. 

The meal is served, a simmering steak with glimmering potatoes and gravy, a side of fresh warm bread, and of course, butter. It smells like heaven but reminds me of the hell I went through when I used to eat so greedily. Never again.

But after gazing away from the scrumptious display of food, the sight I see before me enrages me like no other. Beatrice is scarfing down a huge spoonful of potatoes with a whole roll of bread in the other hand. She sloppily takes a pat of butter on her knife and generously spreads it all over the bread, leaving no corner untouched.

Beatrice is thin thin thin. Beatrice eats like a pig. I hate Beatrice. 

I've finally had it by the time she stuffs a third roll of bread into her thin, thin, thin body. 

"How are you so thin?," I desperately ask her. 

Beatrice takes a big gulp and I notice a slight smirk grow on her face as she prepares to speak. 

"So that's why you weren't eating. I figured you had something going on. God, you're so thin," she replies. 

I stare back in confusion as she continues,

"Anorexia?," she asks.

I vigorously shake my head in disgust. I hate Beatrice.

"Well you see, Anna. I sort of found a loophole. See, the food only counts if I let it pass," she implies as she makes a gagging gesture with her hand and mouth.

I remain confused for a few seconds until it hits me. Beatrice is a genius. I love Beatrice. 

"So basically, I can eat whatever I want. And you can too," she says with a smile while handing me a buttered bread roll. 

I gently grab the roll and let my fingers revel in its warmth and softness as it calls out eat me, eat me, eat me before I finally take a bite. It is warm and buttery and flaky and soft and absolutely heavenly. Beatrice grabs another roll for herself and I begin to chow down on the rest of the food in front of me. So inviting, so delicious, all mine. 

As Beatrice and I begin the dessert course, I smile at the thought of ridding my body of all this amazing food. I can eat. I can be thin. I can have it all. 

A half hour later, Beatrice is standing over me in the bathroom, repeating the motions over and over again for me to finally clear my body of tonights full course meal. In those few minutes before the purge, I begin to regret everything. My stomach feels acidic, my throat burns, I am not happy like this. 

I finally retch, but as I look into the mirror I smile again. Thinness is happiness.