When I was seventeen, my mother figured out that I was living with an eating disorder. I don’t say suffering, I don’t say struggling, I don’t say battling. I was living with it. I ate. I threw up. I hovered over the fridge at 3am and engulfed everything in sight only to vomit it in a toilet five minutes later. I’d gotten so good at it, I evolved from using my fingers to just thinking about it.
“Vomit, damn it.”
It was that simple. But I was discreet. Yeah, I’ve always been skinny but at that time, I was convinced I’d only stay that way if I kept my body as empty as my heart felt.
But she figured it out. She sat me down in her poor attempt at being a mother and asked “why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
I never threw up with my mother in mind. I never thought, “this chicken thigh is for you, ma!” I threw up because it felt good. I threw up because I could control something. I threw up because I’d failed at trying to be a cutter so I needed something that was mine. I threw up because I didn’t feel so dirty. I threw up because I was convinced someone would love me if I was tiny. I threw up because I didn’t have any other great attributes. I threw up because it felt good to flush away garbage and not have to carry it for years on end. I told myself I didn’t do it for her. I didn’t do it because I hated life, the world, myself.
“I just want you to see me,” I replied.
FUCK ME RUNNING…IT WAS ABOUT HER!!!!
I just wanted her to see me. To acknowledge me. To say I was wanted. To say I was loved. To admit she messed up but she did care. To show one ounce of loving me more than she loved herself. To show some sense of pride in having had me. I wanted her to see me…as something good. She never did.
The story of my mother is a book all on it’s own. One I could not write because it’s one I couldn’t ever reread…relive. Not just for me. For my sisters. For my nieces. For my nephews. For my son. I cannot relive it all. Because poison kills. I made it threw once…just barely. I wouldn’t take my chances with a second go-around.
I haven’t forced myself to throw up in years. I think about it. Sometimes, I know this sounds stupid as all hell, I miss it. But I haven’t. Because I don’t care anymore.
Quite frankly, sometimes, I’d be happier if no one saw me at all.