Hungry

I was standing in the five o'clock square of the kitchen linoleum, watching my father's pants juggle among the counters, his agitated voice recounting his work day. My mother's jeans went by, her voice high and plaintive. Dinner was busy being unpacked and rehashed; pots bubbled, the hum of the microwave rose sleepily above the din. Broccoli smells swirled and mingled with white rice and boiled chicken. The kitchen breathed steam; chopping sounds slashed the puffs in percussive dissonance.

I needed to be held. I don't remember why. This was not a good time, though. I was afraid to ask. Maybe I should ask. What if they get mad? But I really, really need to be held. I want a hug. I need love. I need it right now. I don't want to ask. I'm ashamed to ask. But I need it... I hope I'm not being bad. Tentatively, quietly, on my father's pant leg, a fragile bell rope pull.

"WHAT?!"

Startled, surprised, almost tears. I put my head down. "Nothing. Nevermind."

The metallic clank of the knife four feet above. "Oh, no you don't! You tell me what it is you want right this minute! You just did that on purpose. Don't you dare walk away. What is it?"

Tearful wail. "I just wanted a hug."

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry... here," pat, pat "is that okay?"

I was afraid to ask for more. "Yeah... Thanks." Their conversation resumed. I dared not ask again. I went to watch TV until dinner called.



Do you often mistrust your own feelings and the feelings expressed by others? Do you find it difficult to identify and express your emotions? Do you respond with fear to authority figures and angry people?



It was nearing the end of Indian summer. We were riding home from their friend's house after dinner. My mother was talking loud and hard. She seemed sleepy and... funny. Her head swayed. My father talked to her and tried to placate her with agreements and deference. We pulled into the drive. She opened the minivan door and stumbled out, ambling towards the house.

What's wrong with Mommy? Is she sick? Is she okay? Is she going to die? Why is she mad? Did I do something wrong? Oh... wait... I know what this is. I've seen this on TV. Oh no... Mommy's drunk. Oh no... Mommy... Mommy's drunk. I'm so scared. I don't know what to do. Someone help. Mommy's drunk. Mommy's drunk. Mommy's drunk. Oh, no. What do I do? Mommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunk

scared voice "Daddy?"

Mommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunk

Quietly. "Yeah?"

Mommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunk

"Daddy... is Mommy? Is Mommy?" hurt wailing, groan "Daddy..." sob "Daddy... Mommy's drunk. Daddy..."

Mommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunkMommy'sdrunk

"It's okay." I think he hugged me. "She'll be okay." I sobbed a scary, naked, pleading sob.
"Come on, let's go in the house."



Do you feel more alive in the midst of a crisis? Do you still feel responsible for others, as you did for the problem drinker in your life? Do you care for others easily, yet find it difficult to care for yourself?


They were fighting. "Do you know how much your daughter ate? She embarrassed me! There were 10 different vendors and she hit them ALL! This is my company, these are my clients, my employees! They counted them up; she had 8 slushies, three hot dogs..." he sputtered, "Who knows how much else!"

"She's just a child, honey. It was free. Imagine how you would have felt at a carnival like that at her age."

"I certainly wouldn't have eaten THAT much!"

I do remember eating too much. I also remember my father being very busy someplace off with the grown-ups, I don't know where. It was just me and my sister to fend for ourselves at the fairgrounds. I don't know where my mother was. We got lost. It was hot. I saw someone who looked like him about 20 yards away and ran towards him in relief and panic. I tripped and skinned my chubby knees; dirtied and grass-stained my shirt. It wasn't him. I cried a blubbering, fat kid, embarrassed cry. My sister tried to look cool. She searched the crowd for who might be looking, then helped me up.

"No one would have eaten that much! She should be grounded!" he thought for a second, "and spanked!"




"Mom, it's my car!" I protested. "And I never get to drive! I want to drive home!"

"Yeah, but it used to be my car. Come onnnn... I haven't driven it in sso longh. I miss this car." chuckle "The ol' Honda... Firsht car I ever bought brand new."

There was no other way home. Dad had already left. And how could I argue? I was 16. It was only 15 minutes home. But it was dark out. But they'd driven this route a thousand times. Come on, I thought, she can do this. And I had no leverage. She was already verging on belligerent. Full blown rage would ensue if I said no. I had no power. I had to ride.

"Mom," I said in high controlled panic, "stay on your side of the road." gravel pinking up the fender "MOM! Get off the shoulder!"

laughing "I'm fiiiine. Relaaaax. Stop being so tense." The car swerved erratically. She rolled the windows down. "Wooooo!"


Me: 18 years old, 230 pounds. My Mom: 45 years old, 300 pounds.
"I just think you should take better care of yourself, that's all. It's like you binge but you never purge. You just dress so sloppy. I'm ashamed of the way you look. I'm ashamed to tell people that you're my daughter."



May 14, 1997

Breakfast:
125 calories
2 grams fat
15 carbs

Lunch:
4 cigarettes
Diet Coke -- 1 calorie
2 potato chips -- 30 calories? 20 calories?

Dinner:
Small Pepsi -- 120 calories
10 cigarettes
jar of baby food -- 125 calories
2 packets ketchup -- 30 calories
1 slice bread -- 70 calories

Notes on today: Dinner was too big. Must keep an eye on that for tomorrow.




Okay, self-check... Makeup? Good. Shirt? Tail in? Tail out? Hmmm... In? Out? Nope. Need a tank. Wait, skirt? Hmmm... That eyebrow hair is out of place. My lip-liner is crooked. Crap. Now I have to start over. I can't wear this anyway, it shows my stretch-reduction marks. I'm so ugly. I don't like my face at all. Everyone will be looking at me. I'm just going to stay home.



Do you fear criticism? Do you overextend yourself? Have you had problems with your own compulsive behavior? Do you have a need for perfection? Are you uneasy when your life is going smoothly, continually anticipating problems? Do you isolate yourself from other people?


"I just worked out for 45 minutes! And I got through it without dying for breath!"

"That's uh, that's good." weak and disappointed smile "Shouldn't you be moving on to another level, though?"

Oh, he's not happy. It's not good enough. He's ashamed of me. "Well, I have. I mean," slowly, carefully, afraid of needing his approval too much, "I'm working out 3 days a week now. And not just for 20 minutes anymore. I've got this new tape and --"

"But you really should be working out harder than this by now. I'm afraid you're not going to reach your goal. And you promised me you'd lose ten pounds."

Silence. I'd already lost 85.

"I know that's what we agreed to, but it's hard. It's not coming off the way I thought it would. I think I'm stuck..."

He shook his head in frustration and disgust. "You just have to try harder." He looked at my plate. "Isn't that too much salad?"

Five years later I was 10 pounds underweight. He still wasn't satisfied.


Do you constantly seek approval and affirmation? Do you fail to recognize your accomplishments? Do you have trouble with intimate relationships? Do you confuse pity with love? Do you attract and/or seek people who tend to be compulsive and/or abusive? Do you cling to relationships because you are afraid of being alone?


It's my birthday. Or the weekend closest to it. We are outside, having just embarked on the second half of the party, after the costumes and candy. The iPod is wailing a fine selection of Halloween-esque tunes. I'm sitting on the tailgate of a truck, drinking a water. My boyfriend is sitting behind me, scratching my back. All my friends are here. The bonfire is glorious. We are way out in the country at my parents' house; the stars are bright, the mood is relaxed and festive. I jump off the tailgate to head for the house. Boyfriend stays behind to socialize and sing.

I open the bathroom door and step into the kitchen, the counters now appropriately sized. Hard to believe they've been in this house for so long. It's totally different now. I love this house, but glad I don't live here anymore -- haven't lived here since I was 18. That's an accomplishment, I guess.

Friend steps in to chat. She's laughing. "Your boyfriend is a total sport!"

Terrified. "Why?"

"While you were gone, your Mom grabbed his hand and made him dance with her around the fire! It was soooo funny!"

My eyes hit the floor. I shrug. "I'm so sorry. That's... um... I'm sorry."

"Oh, no! It was hilarious!"

The door opens. In stumbles Mom, two bottles of wine and a whiskey sour the worse for wear. "Hey, Boo Boo!"

"Hey..." I stall, "having fun?" I have to keep it jovial, lest the obvious be exploded.

"Oh, YEAAAAAH! Woo." She pauses and steadies herself, swaying slightly. She looks around. "Where's Dad?"

He'd announced his retirement hours earlier. Not surprisingly, she forgot. "He's in the bed."

"Oh... Well I'm going to go check on him and hit the bathroom." She smiles in triumph. "Great party. I'll be back."

She never reappears.

Dad called the next day. He'd awoken later that night with her sleeping on top of the covers beside him.


Yeah, yeah... I've read the Al-Anon checklist. It's all there. *sigh* I've finally admitted to myself that I have an eating disorder. Fine. That's fine. I understand that I need help. I've got a workbook to help me through this. I'll do this just fine. I'll be okay. I stopped smoking on my own, I quit drugs on my own, I lost 100 pounds on my own. I just need to reign this in a little. No problem. No worries. I don't know how Al-Anon fits into all this. It seems so peripheral. But it's free, I guess. It couldn't hurt to check it out. Whatever. I'll go.

I'm not a victim though. That's weak. My parents are not to blame for everything that's happened to me. I am in control of my own life. I hate this touchy-feely bull crap. Ugh. Hope they don't make us all hold hands or something. I am not that weak. I don't need that.

Don't stop. Don't think. Don't feel. Don't question. Just keep going. Just keep going. Don't stop. You have too much work to do, too many people to help, too many workouts, too much cleaning and organizing. Keep going, nevermind the blood, push through the pain. Stop crying. Quit it! Keep going. Just keep going. Don't acknowledge it. It's your problem. You can work through it. What they've done has not affected you. And if it has, you can fix it all. Just admit your faults and move on. You are not weak. You do not have normal needs like weak people. Just keep going. Go on. GO!


I got up and worked out for and hour and a half, almost mechanically. It was great. It made me feel good. I was alert and ready; in control. I ate breakfast. Said goodbye to Husband. He left for work. I went upstairs to shower.

The water was slow and hot. But the knife in my stomach had not eased since the night before. I'd been working through my eating disorder workbook. The first few pages anyway. Al-Anon the previous week had been a big breakthrough. The meeting went well. I knew I belonged there.

I looked at the shower floor. The steam swirled around my eyes and dripped down the glass door. I stretched. I heard my breathing. I looked at my hands, my grandmother's hands -- the only person who had ever loved me unconditionally. I knew she was with me. The shower shirred and sputtered into a slow, falling cocoon.

I examined my arms, my delts; strong, capable, muscled, defined. The in-curve of my quad would make anyone happy. The ripples in my back are probably noteworthy. My fingers grasped my lat muscle, poking out from my side proudly. My belly's still pudgy and saggy above the bellybutton, though -- from the weight loss. No way to get rid of that. But I'd cut it off if I could. 10 pounds underweight, I still had that pooch. Not fair... I stared into the steam robotically.

Something was flashing; trying to get in. My brain did not recognize it.

My eyes clouded. The steam was thick; the swirling too loud; the cocoon too soft and safe. I looked at my hands again, pleading with them for wisdom; remembering how I couldn't cry at her funeral. I had to be strong. I couldn't feel it. I couldn't feel the loss until the next year. And then only in despair and confusion. I couldn't... feel. It was too soft. It was too safe. The shower was too gentle; too warm.

I started to cry. The shower held me. I started to weep. The shower warmed me. I started to wail. I groaned. I keened. The shower would not let up. It would not let me go. I yelled and sobbed and wracked my body until my muscles cramped from the force of it. I could not stop it. The crying would not stop. And the shower held me until it ran cold.


Do you think someone's drinking may have affected you?