believarexic
  • Book
  • Previews
    • before
    • treatment stage one
    • treatment stage two
  • Help & Resources
  • Bonus Material
    • J.J.'s radio interview
    • recovery manifesto!
    • Chuck's mix tape - side A
    • Chuck's mix tape - side B
    • sticky notes of quotes
    • believarexic definition
    • what happens to...
    • artifact: J.J.'s hospital journal
    • artifact: edu rulebook, unabridged
  • About the Author
    • other books by J.J.
    • contact

preview

-before-


Picture
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.



BELIEVAREXIC - the highly acclaimed, award-winning autobiographical novel by J. J. Johnson
  • Book
  • Previews
    • before
    • treatment stage one
    • treatment stage two
  • Help & Resources
  • Bonus Material
    • J.J.'s radio interview
    • recovery manifesto!
    • Chuck's mix tape - side A
    • Chuck's mix tape - side B
    • sticky notes of quotes
    • believarexic definition
    • what happens to...
    • artifact: J.J.'s hospital journal
    • artifact: edu rulebook, unabridged
  • About the Author
    • other books by J.J.
    • contact