Journey to Self Loathing

Trigger warning: disordered eating

Wednesday, April 4, 2013

Breakfast

I woke up today like I do everyday, starving. The feeling of emptiness in my abdomen brings me a terrifying mixture of joy and sadness. Joy because I wake up with no regrets from the night before, but this thought is followed by a sadness deep down that I can’t quite comprehend. I don’t let myself comprehend it. I stuff it deeper down. My usual morning routine consists of checking any BBMs from the night before on my new blackberry. Mom and Dad got it for me for Christmas a few months ago. They got me everything I wanted this past year, it’s another reason for the tugging in the pit of my stomach that I refuse to acknowledge. My cell phone is filled with messages from friends, funny pictures, and outfit options for the party on the Palm Islands tomorrow night. I had to beg Mom and Dad to let me go. It’s been a culture shock for them coming to Dubai. They don’t have the same European laissez-faire parenting style that my other classmates experience at home.

My morning is normal for being seventeen, at least that’s what I tell myself every time I stare in the mirror. I tell myself that as I observe my reflection, picking apart every ounce of fat that sits on the backs of my elbows, or the love handles that I prefer to call loathe handles. I step on the scale. 126 pounds. That pit in my stomach tugs harder with disdain. I step off, knowing how the rest of the day will go.

Downstairs, Dad is going about his usual morning routine. He wakes up earlier than the rest of us before he goes to work. He likes to make lunch for Mom and us kids before we all go off to school. He hands me the brown paper lunch bag he packed so carefully. He tells me while smiling it’s a herb roasted chicken pesto sandwich on a delicious ciabatta roll, one pear (even though he knows I detest pears), and one Ferrero Roche. I take the food and put it in my bag. I say thank you, but I’m not really feeling gracious for the meal. I’m feeling unworthy of it, because I know it won’t be consumed.

Lunch

Rebeka and Madeline ate fruit salads at lunch as I ate my pear. I laughed, I love laughing, but it doesn’t reach that pit. It doesn’t nourish the pit in my gut that I desire it to. Neither does the pear I consume. Rebeka ate the sandwich Dad made for me. I told my friends I wasn’t hungry and asked if they wanted it. Madeline ate the chocolate. I almost wanted to rip it from her skinny fingers because it was my favorite. But I didn’t. I told her I didn’t even like that kind. I said it was hard to find my favorite chocolate in this country. 

I drink water, and chew the spearmint 5 gum. I’ve trained my body to think that gum is a food group and that it has enough sustenance to last me the day.  Rebeka brings up the party tomorrow night. I feign excitement with my friends, but I haven’t been able stop worrying about what I’d wear. I didn’t feel good in anything I owned. Not right now at least. If I reached my goal weight I would but I wasn’t going to get there if I wasn’t disciplined. 

Apparently, David will be at the party tomorrow, which of course causes me to get bombarded with questions. I had been crushing on him ever since I started at this new school last year. He was from Croatia, I had never met anyone from that country. I didn’t tell anyone that I actually had never even heard of Croatia before. But he didn’t even know I existed. I was far too shy to ever bring myself to say hello. I hear that David has a secret crush on you. Madeline tells me with a mischievous grin. I roll my eyes, there’s no way David has a crush on me. But Rebeka backs her up. Apparently he had asked if I was going; he saw my name on the invite list on Facebook , but I hadn’t pressed attending yet. I didn’t want to draw attention, to be honest, even though I was ecstatic to go. 

I didn’t let myself fantasize about David having a secret crush on me, because I knew there was no way it could be true. David hung out with the pretty girls from the year below. I know I’m not the worst looking person in the school, but I tell myself I’m out of his league. I don’t let myself think about it any longer.

Dinner

I come home in a foul mood. I’m ravenous. Starved. Exhausted. Volleyball practice was brutal and I couldn’t keep up with the drills. My head wouldn’t stop pounding. I couldn’t stop thinking about the beautiful herb roasted chicken pesto sandwich on ciabatta that I had given away. Rebeka was full of energy on the court and for some reason I resented her. I kicked myself for being so stupid. It was a small roll! I could have easily burned off the sandwich and the piece of chocolate during practice. The knot in my stomach twisted further. 

I took a taxi home since practice ran late. Mom, being a teacher at school, had finished work hours before, she didn’t want to stay later. I rode by fast food signs, Lebanese restaurants (my favorite), shawarma joints, but I pretended that they didn’t exist. 

When I got home, Mom was in the living room watching tv. She hated the tv channels in this country, they didn’t have anything she liked from back in the states. She asked me how I was and then told me not to put my bag on the table like that. I snapped at her. Yelled, asking why she had to be so demanding I literally just walked in the door. She looked hurt, and yelled back in defense. We got into a huge fight. I couldn’t stop myself, I don’t even know why I was yelling in the first place. She didn’t do anything wrong. 

Amidst the yelling, Dad walked in the door, holding a take out bag from Fat Burger. Before he could even put down the food, he joined in. I didn’t even recognize myself. Mom and Dad didn’t deserve this. I yanked the food out of Dad’s hands and grabbed the burger and fries he had gotten for me and inhaled it. I ignored the voice in my head that was telling me I didn’t deserve this. That if I ate like this, tomorrow wouldn’t go well. I wouldn’t be able to fit into my outfit like I was hoping to. But I couldn’t stop. After I finished the burger, I tore through the pantry and found what I had been thinking about all day: the beautiful, golden box of Ferrero Roche. There were at least 8 in the box, I ate them all. One after another. 

When I walked out of the kitchen, Mom and Dad wouldn’t look at me. I hurt their feelings pretty badly. I knew I would feel the same hurt and disgust if I looked at myself too. So I didn’t. Instead, I cried in bed until sleep took over.

Thursday, April 5, 2013

Breakfast

Dad was in the kitchen, as usual. Making me a healthy salad with chicken breast and avocado for lunch. He put the vinaigrette dressing in a separate container for me so it wouldn’t get soggy. I apologized for my behavior the night before and he accepted, although I could tell he wasn’t over it. He gave me the brown paper lunch bag containing the salad and happily told me he also packed me a pear. I snapped at him that he needs to stop doing that because I hate pears, he never listens. The hurt returned to his face and he grabbed the fruit out of the bag without another word. 

I told him I was still full from dinner last night so he could finish what was left of of the muesli in the pantry. Truthfully, I was disheartened by my morning routine. The scale today read 126. No gain, but nowhere near the 120 I so gravely desired. I couldn’t even tell myself why the number mattered.

After Party

I knew I would be in trouble when I got home, but I didn’t care. It was one in the morning, an hour past my curfew. Rebeka, Madeline and I came to a shawarma hut that stayed open late. We greedily consumed our middle eastern wraps, but I just wanted to cry.

The party didn’t go as hoped. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up about David. I borrowed a dress from Rebeka since all the ones I owned made me feel unworthy. In her clothes, I could pretend to be someone else. Someone better. But it didn’t matter anyway.

David showed up to the party later than us, arm in arm with Rose. Apparently David and Rose became an official couple that day, his secret crush on me was forgotten. Rose was thin, beautiful and posh. Rich, from London, and had an air about her that I would never have. He didn’t even say hello at the party. I didn’t exist to him. I felt like I didn’t exist to anyone.

I feared going home, knowing that Mom and Dad would yell and we would fight once more. I was beginning to only be good for one thing; hurting myself and others. I didn’t even know what I was searching for anymore. Acceptance, beauty, love, attention. All these things seemed attainable if I just reached that number. But I started to fear what would be left of me if I did reach that goal. Would it be enough?