Tuesday May 23 2000

"Going for a swim?" your mother asks, as you come breezing through the kitchen.

You check the stove and there are three different pots. Broccoli, which is fine, just a lot of water and fibre or whatever. Rice, which is only okay but still barely a threat. Creamed potatoes. As if regular potatoes weren't bad enough. These are creamed. Why would you cream a potato? And the icing, the piece de resistance is pot roast in the oven. An actual roasting pot. With gravy and oil and fat around the edge. You can't even bare to look it in its eye.

"Yeah, swimming," you reply and you roll your eyes. You're wearing a swimsuit and carrying a towel, which is appropriate attire for where? A school dance? The mall?

"Don't stay too long," she says, laying plates on the table, "Dinner's almost ready."

You can literally hear the roast in the oven, boiling and singing, "Yes, Masha, I'm almost done. Just a few more minutes and I'll be on your plate. Cantcha taste it? Cantcha just taste it?"

"I'm not hungry," you reply, cringing inwardly. Why won't it just shut up?

You mom puts down the forks and knives and wipes her hands down the front of her apron. And then you realize, she's wearing an apron. How June Cleaver.

"Well, after all that swimming you will be." She says it so casually, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

No I won't. But you don't say it aloud, just to yourself, because your mom just wouldn't get it.

"Yeah, you will, Masha," the roast sings in five part harmony, "And there's plenty to go around."

"It's a wonder how you do it," your mother continues, "All that swimming, day in and day out. You'd better be careful or your hair will start turning green."

She laughs as though what she has said is actually funny. You don't bother to remind her that your hair is much too dark to turn green, first of all. Second of all, wouldn't that just be perfect? Cellulite and green hair? There's a winning combination. You wonder, do Dolce and Gabana make a pair of shoes to match that?

You turn and leave.

Diving into the pool is like coming home for you. It's the only thing in your life, apart form your jogging, that feels familiar, comfortable, regular and routine. It used to be only twice a day: or whenever you felt like it. But you moved it up to three times a day; early in the morning, before your morning jog, late in the afternoon, before or after dinner (it used to be right after dinner but now that you don't eat dinner too often, it doesn't really matter), and before you go to bed, after your evening jog. You're considering moving it up to four times a day now that you aren't sleeping too well. You figure you could do a couple or three laps while the rest of the house sleeps. As long as you're quiet you should be able to pull it off.

You've completed maybe five laps before your mother calls you for dinner. You do a few clean and easy strokes under water so you won't have to acknowledge her but she's too persistent. Five laps is nothing. You usually do at least twenty, even though you feel out of breath and dizzy after fifteen. But that's what it's all about right? Pushing yourself to do more than you normally would. Like an Olympic athlete or whatever. That's the only way to succeed, right? Because you just have to lose the weight, and as soon as you do that...well, you just have to lose it, that's all. Five laps.

Your stomach grumbles, menacingly, but no one hears it, including yourself because they're too busy passing bowls of food around and shovelling it onto their plates. You let all the bowls of gross and greasy food pass you by. The only way you know your stomach is grumbling is from the sharp wincing pain in your abdomen.

The pot roast has been cut into neat little slices since it came out of the oven, so it doesn't say a word. But the stupid creamed potatoes pipe up in its absence, "Hey, Masha, have some potatoes. Look how your mom has even grated some cheese to put on top, have some cheese. And of course it's not the low-fat, soymilk cheese, no one uses that anymore. Just have a handful, or maybe two. There's plenty more where that came from."

You can truly feel the bile begin to rise in your throat. Your family eats this food willingly. Without protest or concern. How do they manage it? How do they manage to poison their bodies with no thought of recourse?

"Are you sure you're not hungry, Masha?" your mother asks you, with half eaten food tucked discreetly under her tongue, "The potatoes are great."

"I'm very sure," you reply.

"Well, at least have some peas, okay?" She passes the bowl to you.

You are about to tell her you don't want the peas, you don't want anything, but then your father says, "What, you're not having any dinner again? What's going on, Masha? Don't you like your mother's cooking anymore?"

He's looking at you questioningly, and your mother is frowning the way she does just before she gets really worried about something. Now she's going to freak out and ask if you're anorexic or sniffing glue or something.

"Of course I love Mom's cooking," you reply, smiling reassuringly, "It's just that I was over at Julie's this afternoon and we ate there. You know how her mom always makes you eat when you go there."

Your mom watches you doubtfully.

"She puts sour cream on everything," you add, hoping that will tip the scales.

"Uggh, I hate sour cream," your dad begins, "Remember last year when that tub of sour cream expired in the fridge and started growing mould? I still can't get the site of it out of my mind."

"I dared Bobby MacIntyre down the road to eat it and he did," your little brother pipes up, his mouth full of half chewed food, "It cost me a dollar but it was worth it."

"You did what?" Your dad looks at your brother, incredulously, "He could have gotten really sick. Don't ever do that again."

You are just about to excuse yourself, when your mom cuts in, "Well, have some peas, anyway. They're good for you."

"Really, I'm fine-"

"Masha," your mom insists, pushing the bowl into your hands.

Easier just to do it then to argue with her about it. You spoon a dozen peas onto your plate and eat them slowly, one by one.

"Can I finish swimming now?" you ask when you're done. Your mother nods and you go to complete your laps, but not before brushing your teeth and flossing-twice.

You do twenty-seven laps that night and even though you felt faint and collapsed onto your bed, you felt proud of yourself because when you looked in the mirror with just your bathing suit on you even looked thinner, and when you weighed yourself you discovered you'd lost two more pounds. You looked healthy, you felt happy and that was all that really mattered anyway.

It's been two weeks and you've lost eleven pounds and twelve ounces. Everyone is complimenting your new figure, even your best friend, Julie, even though she thought you were perfect before and one hundred and fifteen pounds is not over-weight (but then she's five-one and ninety-seven pounds on the dot, so how would she now, really?).

Your mother doesn't think you look to great though, and she says that if you don't start eating you'll waste away to nothing. She's constantly on your back to eat and now skipping dinner isn't so easy. But you've figured out a way to get around all that.

You're down in the basement doing aerobics to 100% Pure Dance or Extenda-Dance Mix of the Millennium or whatever it's called. You're not a big fan of dance or house or techno or whatever, but as far as aerobics goes, it always gets you wired. The phone has rung three times and no one has picked it up yet. Usually you don't stop exercising for anything but today you decide to take a break.

"Hello," you gasp breathlessly into the phone.

"Hi, Masha?"

"Yes."

"Hi, this is Nicos Svengala? I'm in your English class?"

"Oh, hi, Nicos," you reply, easily.

Your head has a weird, fuzzy feeling, like you aren't real, like this isn't real, and you know it's not because of the exercise. It's because of Nicos Svengala. Nicos with his blue-black curls and dark, mysterious eyes. Nicos who is smart and popular and good looking and every other clich� in the book. And he is calling you on the telephone.

He smiled at you yesterday in the hall, but you only half smiled back at him because you were positive he wasn't smiling at you. Your hips were still too wide and your stomach could still be seen bulging through your baggy sweater. You couldn't believe Nicos Svengala would smile at anyone with thunder thighs like yours. But now he's on the phone and it's real and your stomach grumbles but you don't even notice.

"You weren't busy, were you?" he continues.

"No, not at all," you reply. You press your palms against your hips and the bone there feels sharp and hard. You pat your concave stomach and strum your rib cage like guitar strings.

"Look, I know it's pretty short notice and you probably already have plans or whatever, but a bunch of us are hanging out tonight, like maybe a movie and a bite to eat. D'wanna come with?"

A movie. Nicos wants to know if you'll come to a movie with him and his friends. Like he would pick you up and you would all meet at the theatre and you would sit beside him and share popcorn.

"I mean, if you're busy it's cool," he goes on after you don't respond, "I know I sorta left it 'til the last minute and everything."

"No, it's cool, Nicos," you tell him, "It sounds like a great idea." The voice that says these words doesn't sound like yours at all. It sounds self-assured and sophisticated and like it belongs to a thin person.

After you hang up with Nicos, you gather up the c.d.'s and c.d. player and walk up the stairs. Your mother is in the kitchen, waiting.

"Look, Masha," she says, steering you into the kitchen, "I made you lunch. It's all your favourites."

On the table is a huge bowl of chicken noodle soup, which hasn't even been your 'favourite' in six or seven years. There's a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich, a can of regular soda, and a dessert dish of chocolate pudding. The pudding even has whipped cream on top. There is nothing here to be your salvation. There is no pickle slice for you to nibble on and then excuse yourself from table later. And regular soda? Who drinks regular soda anymore?

You expect to feel nauseated at the site of all this fattening food but instead your stomach grumbles and your mouth waters. But you can't eat all that. You have a seven-thirty group date with Nicos Svengala tonight. You can't be fat for that. There's just no way.

"Now, come sit down and eat, Masha," your mother pulls out a chair for you.

"Really, Mom, I'm not hungry," you say.

"Honey, you didn't eat breakfast this morning or dinner last night. You've got to be hungry. I hope you're not starving yourself to lose weight, Masha. You know that's not healthy."

"God, Mom, relax," you say, annoyed, "Of course I'm not starving myself. You always make everything into a big deal. I'm just not hungry, that's all."

"Masha, you haven't eaten for nearly twenty-four hours."

"Mom, I'm fine." You smile to reassure her.

"Well, I'd still feel better if you ate something. Please, honey, for me."

How do you beg out of this one? You can't eat that food, you just can't. Not after you've come this far. You decide to try to appeal to her sense of youthfulness.

"Look, Mom, I've got a date with Nicos Svengala from my English class tonight, and I just don't want to look fat, that's all. Just wrap all this stuff up and I'll eat it tomorrow or something."

Your mom was brutally popular in high school. You've seen all the photos from proms, and pep rallies to know. She knows what it's like to have an important date. And she knows what it's like to want to be thin for one. Just last month she went on that all-protein diet so she could fit into that beaded gown for your father's office party. If anyone would understand, it should be her.

"It isn't worth it to starve yourself for some boy, Masha. You never did this before any other date," she points out.

You narrow your eyes at her. You think to yourself, I never had any other date and thanks for noticing, Mother.

"Yeah, but this is Nicos Svengala, Mom. He's more important than any other guy."

She seems to consider it and you think you may have actually won this one.

"If you eat a lot now, you won't eat a lot later and look like a pig." She smiles triumphantly; she knows what she's just said makes perfect sense. Better face it. There's no way you're getting out of this.

You sit down and take a deep breath. You begin with the soup. Chicken noodle is the worst thing and you know it. The noodles organize themselves into little concentric circles, like tiny synchronized swimmers with miniature nose plugs and bathing caps. They smile up at you, "Have some soup, Masha," they taunt, "Remember when chicken noodle used to be your favourite?" You can even see the little pools of grease in the broth and those fattening chunks of chicken because it never once occurred to your mother to use lean chicken.

But then you taste it, you take the tiniest spoonful and suddenly something triggers in your mind and you have no control. The soup is gone in less than two minutes, then the sandwich and the cola. You're vaguely aware that it's not diet but you don't even care anymore. The food doesn't even have taste anymore and it barely touches your lips. Your mother just sits there watching, and even though you know that chocolate pudding is the worst possible thing, even worse than the soup and the four strips of bacon, you eat it all and lick the spoon clean.

"See?" your mom says, "I knew you were hungry."

You smile and get up from the table. Your stomach has this weird, full feeling that you're not at all used to. You can feel the food sloshing around in your stomach. You can still taste the chocolate pudding on your tongue.

When you get to your room, panic seizes. You have just gorged. All the hard work, the jogging, the laps in the pool, all for nothing. You strip down to your bra and underwear and you're huge. You're bigger than you were before you started the stupid diet in the first place. Never before were your hips so thick, your thighs so beefy, your stomach so bulging.

You quickly run to the adjoining bathroom, glimpsing yourself in the mirror and cringing. You fall to your knees in front of the toilet.

Get rid of it, your mind screams at you and in less than a minute it's all gone. Flushed down the john where it really should have gone in the first place.

You walk slowly back to your room and look in the mirror again. Your stomach is flat again and your thighs have deflated. You put on your bathing suit and giggle gleefully when you see it hang loose.

Ten laps, that's all you'll do. Your mom won't know, she's gone to the supermarket and then to the dry cleaners.

You hit the icy cold water and swim like a woman possessed in order to get in a good ten laps before your mom returns. It's much too cold to be swimming anyway; in fact, your parents are closing the pool next weekend. But until then...

It's been three months and you are down to ninety-four pounds and six ounces. Now you're not feeling so hot and you really don't look too great either. Now not only is your mom pestering you, the rest of your family and even your friends are too. The school nurse even called you into her office and weighed you.

"Masha, you're ninety-four pounds and five foot six. You're really underweight, Masha. Take a look in the mirror. Does that look like someone who needs to lose weight?"

And you looked at her as though she was high and replied, "Of course not, I'm not dieting, I just can't seem to gain any weight."

"Maybe you should see a doctor," she suggested.

"I did, and she ran some tests," you reply, smartly, "They think it might be a thyroid problem."

But you knew you could never really go see a doctor, because the doctor would only tell you what you already knew to be true. That you didn't weigh enough for a girl your height. But you couldn't gain the weight back because now you were seeing Nicos Svengala steadily and even though he joked about how you'd blow away in the next big wind, you knew he liked you thin.

And the nurse was wrong, you ate a lot. All the time, as a matter of fact. You just couldn't keep the food down. It upset your stomach and made you feel gross. And if you felt gross, you looked gross. And if you looked gross then everyone would know.

"When was the last time you ate, Masha?" you hear your mother say.

"How can you not be hungry? You never had dinner last night," your little brother says in your mind.

"Maybe you should eat something, Masha," your father suggests.

"One slice of pizza won't kill you, Masha!" Nicos says, and this time he's not joking.

But your ankles are still thick and your cheeks make you look like a chipmunk.

Just a few more pounds, Masha, and you'll be perfect. That's what it's all about, remember? Pushing yourself further than you'd normally go. Now get rid of the spaghetti you just ate.

And that's the loudest voice, the most important one. Because you just had to lose the weight, and as soon as you did that...

Two more months and you were down to ninety-pounds and eight ounces. But it got all screwed up. You collapsed after nearly two hours of aerobics. Your mother took you to the hospital emergency room and the doctor gave her a special menu of food for you to eat.

All fatty foods like hamburger and baked potato. And your mother sits and watches you eat it. She keeps close tabs on you afterwards to make sure you're not throwing it up. So now you're back to ninety-eight pounds, but it's all right because you've found a way to get out of it. "Honey, I'm so proud of you," your mother gushes after you finish eating one of the special dinners on the menu, "You've made me very happy."

She gets up from the table and begins washing dishes in her apron. Her back is to you so you quickly tie up the bag of baked potatoes and meatloaf stashed in your housecoat. After showing her your empty plate you go to the garage and put the food in one of the big green garbage bags. Tomorrow's garbage day so no one will even notice. And you won't gain any weight.

You go up to your room and debate on whether or not to call Nicos. You decide against it. Lately he's been pressuring you for sex and you keep putting him off. Like you don't have more important things on your mind. Besides if you had sex then he'd have to see you naked and you're way too fat for that.

On the way to the bathroom, you hear your parents talking in the kitchen.

"You weren't keeping an eye on her, Zahra," your father says.

"But I was watching her!" your mother objects, "She even showed me the empty plate."

"But she didn't eat any of it, Zahra!" says your father, and you realize that they've found the bag of food in the garage. There's a brief pause.

"The doctor said this wouldn't be easy. It's not her fault," your father says, and his tone is softer.

"I just don't understand it," your mother says, and she's crying again, "Why is she doing this to us?"

To them? Who were they kidding? You weren't doing anything to them; it had nothing to do with them at all. It was all about you, strictly between you and your body. And now that you had ballooned back up to ninety-eight pounds, your body was gross. All it really took was a few more pounds, that's all, like maybe five pounds. And that was barely anything at all really, just like ten more pounds. Yeah, ten more pounds and then you'd be perfect.

Three weeks later and you're back in the hospital. You wouldn't be here at all if your mother hadn't insisted you go to the doctor's office. You fought the entire way there, because you knew what the check-up would reveal. The doctor almost flipped out when she found you were eighty-nine pounds and you were promptly admitted to the hospital.

You hate it hear at the hospital, where nurses are continually watching you. But there is one good part. Your roommate, Andrea.

She's been here for almost a month and she hates it even more than you do. During the day the two of you go down to the maternity ward and make faces at all the newborns and at night you go onto the roof and smoke what seems to be an endless supply of pot.

"I have a friend in the oncology wing," Andrea explains.

"They just don't get it, y'know?" she goes on, "Like last year, when I was twelve, I weighed one hundred and thirty-five pounds. After I lost it all I swore to myself I would never get that big again."

"I know exactly what you mean. My parents seem to think that being fat is no big deal, it's like they want me to be miserable or something," you tell her, "I mean, my mom's been thin all her life, you'd think she'd be a little more understanding."

So you and Andrea have become fast friends and she's taught you how to get out of eating by stuffing some food in between your mattress or spitting it out in the napkin.

"A couple months ago, I was eighty-one pounds," Andrea tells you, "Holy, you should have seen me then. All the girls were so jealous because none of them had the will power to stick to a diet. And the guys! I have never been so popular. I even considered signing a modelling contract; I'm tall enough to do runway work, y'know. But then I had to come here."

Andrea doesn't cry or anything but you can tell she's really upset. You don't know what to say or do, so you do the only thing you can, "I get it, Andrea. They just don't know, they have no idea," you say.

You couldn't get out of it. You ate all the food they gave you, mostly because you were force-fed. But it doesn't matter because you're one hundred pound on the dot. And you're going home.

Andrea thinks you're so lucky and she would do anything to go home, except eat, of course. You've promised to come and visit her and it's a full week before you get the chance. It's been a hard week and everything is falling apart. Your studies, your family, your friends. And Nicos decided that instead of having sex with you he'd rather just break up with you.

"Andrea's gone," the nurse says when you go to her room and find it empty.

"They let her go home?" you ask, thrilled, "Cool! Can you give me her address?"

"She refused to eat," the nurse goes on, "She threw everything up. She killed herself."

She says it so matter-of-factly, like it happens everyday. Then she leaves.

Andrea is gone. You have nothing and no one now. You started with everything and now there's nothing left.

You know that two dozen strips of ice burg lettuce, small tomato wedges and cucumber rings have next to nothing in calories but that's what you are eating while sitting on the floor of your bedroom. The lettuce leaves stare up at you, "Wouldn't this be a lot better with some Thousand Islands dressing and bacon bits, Masha?"

You ignore it. It's a small one, but it's a start.

Your mother is pausing outside your bedroom door, "Masha? Masha, what are you doing in there?"

You close your eyes and lean your back up against the door so that she can't come in, "Nothing, Mom," you reply, "I'm just eating."

Copyright 2000 Halima Thompson

Contact me Sign My Guestbook View My Guestbook >

Learn to make your own web page Popular (free) Web Hosts Writing HTML
H. A. Thompson Home Autobiography Story Directory Links News and Updates

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws