I lean back in my chair, my jeans pull at the vinyl and make a noise. I try to catch this girlâs eye, just to get her to look at me but she stares at her feet the whole meeting. Sheâs not that fat. The bad parts of me want to tell her that.Â
It took a long time to find a group that would let me stay. I wasnât fat enough, at all, really, and I made some of the other group members uncomfortable. They thought I was mocking them by coming to the meetings in dark sunglasses and 4 XL sweaters, complaining about my problems. The Utah Soaring Intergroup took me in. they saw I was just as lost as everyone else. I too ate and ate and ate. Itâs not my fault I lost it as soon as I had it. Itâs not my fault I canât commit.Â
This girl wants nothing to do with me and I donât blame her. Some people would say Overeaters Anonymous meetings are a low point and you wouldnât want to meet someone at one. You want a place to leave your shame. I think every man whose ever fucked me has felt that way about me. A place to leave your shame.Â
I donât feel like sharing today. Some days I leave the meeting feeling like I just ate, aware of what it means to be full, satisfied I am making progress. Some days my mind is dumb. I am an empty hull pouring more coffee into the styrofoam cup on the way out. I feel like I am a part of the ground, not human sized at all, nonexistent. When I leave I order six belgian waffles and I buy a fresh pack of Newports, a Clean Pack of Newports, and sit at home cutting away at my thighs, to get all the excess fat and bad and all thatâs morally unclean about me out. I feel nothing while I do this. Do these meetings work on me? I am an empty void. I think about this chick to give me purpose.Â
Sheâs Mormon. Sheâs pretty and wears ankle length skirts. Her blonde hair parts in the middle, something unusual for the Mormon women here. I like that she probably has a lot of secrets. Wanting a woman, especially in a place like this, makes me feel a little bit too much like god. A little bit too much like god and I could compete in a fist fight right now and Iâd probably win. I feel my most righteous when Iâm honest. Whatâs more honest than admitting I canât stop eating? Plenty of people lie and donât even know it. They say weâve all had Just Enough. No Seconds For Me! Oh, God That Salad. The Dressing! So Decadent!Â
I want her to talk to me. I want to waste her time, or make her feel less alone. I donât think her god is as forgiving as someone like me. Itâs a pointless story, expecting to be the one to crack her open, but I can still fantasize.Â
My friend Georgina from the belgian waffle place comes over after work. She smokes out my window because Iâm trying to grow up and not have ashtrays in the house anymore. I like her because she says Youâre Getting Fat without remorse, despite my affliction. But then she apologizes because she has Bipolar Disorder and will say whatever she thinks and sheâs so sorry she buys me fuzzy socks infused with shea butter. They have little cats on them. She is going to marry a man who is learning to fly planes for the military. He hit her once and she always says, I Think Heâs Just With Me For My Big Ass. I think sheâs close to being honest. If she came to a meeting someone in the group would encourage her to keep talking that thought out. Find its root. Sheâd finally realize that that was what she was afraid of, him liking her for her body. The problem with that is I think itâs true for everyone. The Mormon girl has to be pure, Georgina has to be thick in the back, and I have to be rid of all my excess fat. So what do we do then? How do we deal with these immovable truths?Â
Georgina pours a big glass of wine. I donât drink but she doesnât ask. I tell her about the Mormon. She rolls her eyes because Mormons are everywhere, itâs like spotting a squirrel. I tell her I canât stop thinking about her. Maybe you just want to distract yourself from growing, she says. You should talk about it in your next meeting, she says. I think of something morally bad to say back because thatâs how Iâm feeling. I just want to know if she has any Fundamentalist friends she can introduce me to. What the fuck, Georgina says. Fundamentalist wives are always so pretty with flowers in their hair. You canât fuck a Fundamentalist, Georgina says. I want to lure some guyâs wives back to my house and finger blast them, I say. In Jesusâs name, I say. Jesus Christ, Red, she says, Youâre not of this world. Neither is god, I say. We stop and think for a minute together. Thatâs not going to help you stop overeating, she says. I lie back on the couch, my stomach peeking out underneath my t-shirt like Winnie the Pooh. I feel so earthly.Â
On Thursday thereâs a speaker meeting. The speaker works in a university and now he has a fitness program on the side, as most people recovered from food do. He talks about the void within him, the mindlessness of eating, how he chose mindlessness over his life. How he lost more than his body, he also lost his wife, his job. He said the disease made him like a zombie, consumption was never enough. I wondered what the Mormon thought about that: More than the body. I wondered if thereâs something worse than losing the body before your divine time, or whatever.Â
The speaker is average size. Solid. The weight is even. He doesnât look in excess and he isnât hiding something by being rail thin. It is clear he heeds his own advice. He says you have to find something more important than yourself. The problem is I already have and thatâs why Iâm here but I donât think I can say that. I was asked to leave another group because I talked about how much being sick meant to me.Â
The speaker says, Your disease isolates you, makes you feel all alone. Finding something outside of your own problems is critical to overcoming your habits. I raise my hand and say, It just feels so immoral to be gaining weight right now. He doesnât indulge me. He says itâs my disease talking. Look, all I know is that it feels divine when I let myself open a bag of Southern Recipe jalapeno cheese curls and dip them deep into a container of sour cream and wash them down with a glass of chocolate milk. Itâs a lucky snack. A religious calling, if you will. This snack is lucky because I assume no moral prejudices against it. It is good and it tastes good and I am happy and as long as I have these things the world is perfect and when I am finished eating them and done drinking the chocolate milk the world will no longer be perfect. In fact, itâs often so unperfect I have to get the milk and the puffs out of my body. On the really bad days, when the guilt of vomiting is too overwhelming, I eat the snack again. More sour cream this time so itâs a little softer coming up my throat. The snack makes me whole. Everything else is an undoing.Â
Thatâs a me problem, fine. But I sit in my pleather seat with my hand resting on my stomach and I can feel its folds. The wiggling of a stomach with fat and growth. I cannot justify this widening when animals are starving to death all over. I say that part to him. He says, So you blame yourself for the worldâs problems? I want the Mormon girl to perk up at this. I say, I am in the world. How can I not have some responsibility? I can tell he thinks Iâm obstinate so I let it go.Â
I get up for more coffee and survey the room. The mormon is wearing a lilac seersucker skirt and little gold hoops that stick out in all her hair. She looks back from her seat like sheâs looking for me. We make eye contact and she gives me a kind of smile.
After the meeting she stands straight against the brick wall between the community center and the herbal shop on the corner. At the shop they sell individual sticks of palo santo and they have large jugs of honey behind the counter that you can buy by the ounce. They have blends like Aphrodite Chai, which is just cinnamon and clove and spices blended into honey. Flowering lotus, swamp honey. They also make their own kombucha and sell it by the serving. We go inside for a glass of kombucha. I ask her if sheâs allowed to drink kombucha. She orders one flavored with mint and blueberry. I then ask if she has to call anyone about her location. Iâm being so sensitive Iâm basically mocking her. She doesnât seem to mind and she asks how Iâm doing in the program. Iâm just lonely, I say. Me too, she says. I want to say we should eat together but honestly Iâm confused. I want to know all about her. How she overeats at home. Is she married? I guess not, no ring. I donât know why I assume faith in god means no longer having any more problems. Why is she a Mormon? Has she always been one?Â
Do you want to hang out at my place and meet my friend Georgina? I ask. She says she canât. She has an early day tomorrow. I thank her for meeting with me. Sheâs hard to crack. I feel like nothing. Empty, like at the end of a meeting but somehow worse. I feel incapable of reaching out beyond my own presence, my own bubble. I am leaving the shop but I can barely remember talking to that girl. Did we connect at all? My head feels like itâs on the pavement, I can hear my feet walking as though I am my shoes. There is nothing to my body.
I see this as an opportunity. I take my body forward. I go to a restaurant. I order a cup of coffee and a Shepards pie. I really want a baked potato and I know thereâs potato in the pie but in my head a baked potato and mashed potatoes in a pie are two separate foods that will elicit the right and good emotions in me so I order one anyway. My food isnât coming fast enough so I ask if thereâs any bread or chips. The waiter brings me a few dinner rolls with little packs of butter. I eat the rolls and the butter separately and quickly. When the pie and coffee arrive, I ask for a mountain dew and if I can order something to go. She brings the menu back to me and I am aware of my body in relation to hers. I know my body must look crazy to her but I hope somehow that she can see itâs honest, that this is all I have to give.Â
The beef and the peas and carrots all swirl together in a big bite of mashed potatoes. I scoop a bite of sour cream from my baked potato into the pie. This is the only time I let foods touch. I order three beef sliders with bbq pulled pork, a side of macaroni and cheese and french fries. By the time I pay and get outside I canât wait to eat again. I tear at the styrofoam containers and stand in the parking lot eating the sliders. I see people coming into the restaurant and that they can see me. I finish the mountain dew and hurl. I donât really need to get knuckle deep in my throat to puke anymore. I slide my hair out of the way and squeeze from the bottom up. My lower abdominal muscles up to under my diaphragm. I bend at the waist and throw up. The autumn breeze picks up and some of my spit comes back to slap me in the face. I wipe the bits of vomit with the back of my hand. My eyesight blurs. My head is hot and spins. This is me at my most erotic. I am here to devour. I remember I still have the mac and cheese and pick whatâs left of the bag off the ground. I walk and eat. Georgina has called me four times. My vision is fuzzy but I try to text her. Her Bipolar is going to make her freak out at me later for not calling back.
Walking on the side of the road, Iâm almost to Temple Square. I hear the weekly choir performance and follow it, my north star. When I finish the mac and cheese I make my stomach open up again. I can hear the 300 singers all singing Iâm Trying To Be Like Jesus along with the sounds of my stomach and spit and throat. My gagging. I am a much smaller orchestra. I keep walking, hiding in an alley cornering the Temple. The choir sings like itâs only for me. I go in on the french fries.Â
The song is beautiful and I am only a parasite. I eat the soggy fries and contract my muscles and puke. My head is reeling. I can feel the body part of my body slip down to the bottom of my skin. I feel weightless despite being aware of my size. When I look up I see the lilac seersucker skirt. Itâs the girl and sheâs walking up the steps to the temple. She canât see me in the shadows of the church and I hope she canât hear me wretch. Or Iâd hope sheâd understand.Â
I canât think of a reason as to why I canât just drop the fries on the ground, wipe my mouth, walk over to her and be her friend. We could sneak in the back together, if thatâs allowed. I canât think of a reason to keep doing this but I canât find a morally good way to keep on living. Iâm not supposed to be here, or anywhere.Â
I look up at her and stick my fingers in my mouth and hurl it all up once again until thereâs nothing left but slobber. I feel my stomach contract and release. I can see no other purpose but to get the excess out, the morally bad out of me. I look at the mess in front of me. A perfect paramount painting, an image constructed by the justness of my body, my lifeâs work. If it rains, it goes into the gutter. Out of my life and into the world.Â
dailybridgerton
areudirty
ellievsbear
romaincrisis
gummygunk
snowghoul
germansingergirl
