preview
-before-
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1988
It’s 2:04 AM.
Your eyes are dry and big.
You are in your bed,
burrowed under blankets and quilt.
Spike is curled in a sleeping curve at your feet,
yelping quietly, a bad dream.
You pet his ears until he relaxes, soothed.
You are not soothed.
You are wretchedly hungry.
But you won’t eat
because you are too tired
to make yourself throw up again.
Somehow, for no good reason--
or at least no reason you can figure out--
you have a monster inside you.
It is hunting you from within.
It waits around corners, it stalks.
A horrible beast--
greedy, disgusting, toxic.
The monster tells you,
You are not what you are supposed to be,
you are not good
unless you are sick.
Be the broken one,
it tells you.
Pare yourself down,
do everything just so,
empty your stomach,
scrape lines in your flesh,
throw yourself down stairs,
drop to your bare knees on gravel.
You want it gone, the monster.
There is no safety or comfort while it lives.
You need it slain.
You want it dead.
And yet: you need it.
It is what makes you
special.
It sets you apart.
It helps you.
It focuses your whirling vortexes of thoughts
and your frenzied typhoons of feelings
into the exact precision of
hunger.
The meticulous control of
losing weight.
The sparkly glamour, the pride,
of being the
skinniest
person
in
the
room.
But you are sick.
Sick, as in unwell:
shaking, dazed, light-headed.
And you are
sick, as in tired:
sick of wondering why you are so sad,
sick of feeling alone at a crowded party,
sick of thinking happiness is simply not meant for you.
You are sick of being sick.
There must be a way.
A questing hero finds a weapon
and slays the dragon.
You are no hero.
But you have looked everywhere for
a monster-slaying sword.
Where is it?
Not inside a shrunken stomach,
or on the scale,
or in the tang of bile, vomit.
Not in the pop-fizz of diet soda,
or the melted, muddy pools at the bottom of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
Not in the glinting edge of a razor blade.
Not in the bitter swill of stale beer,
or letting boys inside you.
Not even in the right things:
confiding in your friend,
or trying to tell your mom,
or your guidance counselor,
or your dog, with his sweet brown eyes.
No sword.
No exit.
***
There’s one thing you haven’t tried.
One last thing.
Maybe a hospital.
An eating disorder unit,
with clean white sheets and
smiling nurses and doctors
and vases filled with flowers
on the table by your bed.
Last week,
you saw a commercial
for a place like that.
The commercial showed bare feet stepping on a scale,
but instead of pounds, the dial on the scale showed
a phone number
to call
for information.
Or help.
These are specialists
who know the way out
and
maybe even
how to fight this monster.
until you kill it.
Or else maybe it will kill you.
At least then it would be over.
One way or the other,
you’re getting too tired to care.
But then again
of course you care.
You care so much it hurts.
You want
you want
you want
more than anything
for someone
to understand you,
for someone
who will
reach in
and
pull
you
out
of
this
maze
and away from the monster.
The monster howls with laughter.
You are not skinny enough for a hospital.
You are not sick enough.
A real anorexic would never
volunteer herself for treatment.
A truly sick girl would never, ever ask for help.
If you lose twenty more pounds,
then maybe.
Thirty would be better.
But.
There must be something more than this.
There has to be light
somewhere.
And so tonight you
throw back the quilt, and
make your way to your parents’ room.
Spike follows you,
his toenails clicking on wood.
Your mom and dad
are asleep and snoring.
You feel around for the phone.
You tug the cord gently so it will stretch to the bed
and, with shaking voice,
whisper, Mom?
Mom?
With
volume rising in increments,
you make a whisper ladder,
until your words
break through and
your
mom
finally
hears
you.
It’s 2:04 AM.
Your eyes are dry and big.
You are in your bed,
burrowed under blankets and quilt.
Spike is curled in a sleeping curve at your feet,
yelping quietly, a bad dream.
You pet his ears until he relaxes, soothed.
You are not soothed.
You are wretchedly hungry.
But you won’t eat
because you are too tired
to make yourself throw up again.
Somehow, for no good reason--
or at least no reason you can figure out--
you have a monster inside you.
It is hunting you from within.
It waits around corners, it stalks.
A horrible beast--
greedy, disgusting, toxic.
The monster tells you,
You are not what you are supposed to be,
you are not good
unless you are sick.
Be the broken one,
it tells you.
Pare yourself down,
do everything just so,
empty your stomach,
scrape lines in your flesh,
throw yourself down stairs,
drop to your bare knees on gravel.
You want it gone, the monster.
There is no safety or comfort while it lives.
You need it slain.
You want it dead.
And yet: you need it.
It is what makes you
special.
It sets you apart.
It helps you.
It focuses your whirling vortexes of thoughts
and your frenzied typhoons of feelings
into the exact precision of
hunger.
The meticulous control of
losing weight.
The sparkly glamour, the pride,
of being the
skinniest
person
in
the
room.
But you are sick.
Sick, as in unwell:
shaking, dazed, light-headed.
And you are
sick, as in tired:
sick of wondering why you are so sad,
sick of feeling alone at a crowded party,
sick of thinking happiness is simply not meant for you.
You are sick of being sick.
There must be a way.
A questing hero finds a weapon
and slays the dragon.
You are no hero.
But you have looked everywhere for
a monster-slaying sword.
Where is it?
Not inside a shrunken stomach,
or on the scale,
or in the tang of bile, vomit.
Not in the pop-fizz of diet soda,
or the melted, muddy pools at the bottom of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
Not in the glinting edge of a razor blade.
Not in the bitter swill of stale beer,
or letting boys inside you.
Not even in the right things:
confiding in your friend,
or trying to tell your mom,
or your guidance counselor,
or your dog, with his sweet brown eyes.
No sword.
No exit.
***
There’s one thing you haven’t tried.
One last thing.
Maybe a hospital.
An eating disorder unit,
with clean white sheets and
smiling nurses and doctors
and vases filled with flowers
on the table by your bed.
Last week,
you saw a commercial
for a place like that.
The commercial showed bare feet stepping on a scale,
but instead of pounds, the dial on the scale showed
a phone number
to call
for information.
Or help.
These are specialists
who know the way out
and
maybe even
how to fight this monster.
until you kill it.
Or else maybe it will kill you.
At least then it would be over.
One way or the other,
you’re getting too tired to care.
But then again
of course you care.
You care so much it hurts.
You want
you want
you want
more than anything
for someone
to understand you,
for someone
who will
reach in
and
pull
you
out
of
this
maze
and away from the monster.
The monster howls with laughter.
You are not skinny enough for a hospital.
You are not sick enough.
A real anorexic would never
volunteer herself for treatment.
A truly sick girl would never, ever ask for help.
If you lose twenty more pounds,
then maybe.
Thirty would be better.
But.
There must be something more than this.
There has to be light
somewhere.
And so tonight you
throw back the quilt, and
make your way to your parents’ room.
Spike follows you,
his toenails clicking on wood.
Your mom and dad
are asleep and snoring.
You feel around for the phone.
You tug the cord gently so it will stretch to the bed
and, with shaking voice,
whisper, Mom?
Mom?
With
volume rising in increments,
you make a whisper ladder,
until your words
break through and
your
mom
finally
hears
you.