Perfectly Thin, page 13
“We couldn’t hear ya. But here, have this, you look like you have no energy at all.” She slides over an unopened packet of Skittles. My eyes widen as I look at the packet of calories she’s pushed over to me. There’s got to be thousands and thousands of calories in the one packet, I can’t eat them. If I do, I know what’s going to happen. Every single pound I’ve worked my ass off to lose will go straight back on as quick as a freight train.
“I’m okay,” I say as I slide them back to her.
But I can’t take my eyes off the candy. I really want one. Maybe I should indulge myself and have one. How many calories could one be? No, no, I really shouldn’t, because then I’ll want more.
But one won’t hurt.
Yeah, right, Jane, that’s how you became so fat to start with. One leads to two, which leads to the entire packet. I really shouldn’t.
Just one. Honestly, one won’t hurt.
Ugh.
“Here.” Emma tears the packet open, pours a handful into her palm, and shoves them all in her mouth in one go.
“I want some,” Presley says. She picks out the red and yellow ones. She then hands me the packet.
How many calories could one Skittle really be? Like five calories? Five calories aren’t going to make me gain weight.
Jane, do you really want to take the risk?
Ugh, I hate my brain. Shut up! Why do I have to struggle with something as miniscule as one damn Skittle? I take my phone out, open my calorie app, and type in Skittles. Yes, I was right, one candy is five calories.
Alright, I can have two candies and all they’ll be is ten calories.
How do I burn those ten calories off? I could go to the bathroom and do high knees for ten minutes after I have them. Or, I can run the block at home this afternoon twice, that will definitely burn the ten calories.
But I don’t know what Mom’s making for dinner. Hopefully it’s not more carbs, God, they’re like devil food.
“Are you having some or not?” Presley barks toward me.
I’ve been so lost in my head with how to burn those ten calories, that I’ve completely ignored the offer of the candy. “Yeah, I am.” I take the packet and stare down at the candies.
What colors should I have? Are different colors worth different calories?
“Jane!” Emma snaps. I look up to catch Emma staring at me, her mouth open, and her wondering eyes quietly judging me. “Hurry up.”
I swallow back the saliva pooling at the back of my mouth. I take one yellow candy, and stare at the other colors. Maybe a green one, I don’t know. Maybe I should only have the one, and not worry about a second candy.
“Are you having any more?” Emma asks, frustrated.
I swiftly hand her the pack, before I decide to ruin everything I’ve already worked for by shoving the rest of the pack into my mouth. The yellow candy is between my two fingers. I’m holding it, not really sure if I should actually put it in my mouth. My leg bounces beneath the table as I pretend to listen to the conversation Emma and Presley are having. My head though, is nowhere in the conversation. I keep thinking about this candy I’m holding.
Just eat it!
I pop it in my mouth, immediately drowning in a tsunami of soul-destroying grief. I take it out of my mouth, only having sucked it for a few seconds.
Leaning back in my chair, still holding the now-wet candy in my hand, I cover my mouth with my other hand. I can’t believe I did that. There’s a sour taste in my mouth, and it has nothing to do with the sweetness of the candy. It has everything to do with my inability to stay focused on losing weight.
What a damn waste of time, trying to achieve the perfect body.
This stupid candy has ruined it all. Everything I’ve worked for, all the exercise, all the meals I’ve cut down, everything is now blown out the damn window.
Stupid, stupid, Jane. I’m such an idiot. A Goddamned, fucking idiot.
I may as well eat the rest of what’s left of the candies, because I’ve screwed everything up now! Ugh, why can’t I control myself?
The bell sounds, and I jump to my feet, sling my bag over my shoulder and run to the bathroom. The moment I’m in there, I gulp water from the faucet, rinsing my mouth out, and hope to God I got as many calories out of my system before they absorbed into my body. I wish I had my toothbrush here. I’d scrub and scrub my tongue and the insides of my cheeks until they bled to ensure those damn calories are gone.
Lifting my head, I look in the mirror. I’m confronted with the horrible fat face staring back at me. I check that there’s no one else in here, quickly get on the floor and do twenty sit-ups.
Afterward, I splash water over my face, then get my bag from where I threw it when I entered the bathroom, and run to make class before the teacher marks me as tardy.
“Dinner,” Mom calls.
Dread fills me as I lay on my bed. I don’t want to go have dinner, because I know how Mom’s going to be. I know how they’re all going to be. Dragging myself off the bed, I’m incredibly hesitant as I stand, and slowly walk into the kitchen.
“Hey, can you let Papou and Yiayia know dinner’s ready?” Mom asks.
“Yeah.” I chew on the inside of my cheek, as I back out of the kitchen and head toward their granny flat.
How am I going to get out of dinner tonight? I don’t want to eat. I’m not hungry.
“Yiayia, Papou, Mom’s called dinner,” I say as I knock on their door.
“We’ll be there in a second,” Papou calls. “You go now.”
Weird, but okay, whatever. I return to the kitchen and set the table. Mom’s made spinach pie, and salad. Yum. “Mom,” I say as we wait for Dad, and my grandparents to come in for dinner. Dad needs to go back to work tonight for a few hours, so we’re actually eating dinner a bit early.
“Yeah, what is it?” Mom shoves a tray of the spinach pie in my hand, so I can take it to the table.
“I’ve got a bit of homework to do. Would you mind if I eat in my room tonight?”
“Why are you eating in your room?” Dad asks as he comes in, washes his hands, then takes the bowl of salad over to the table. “Is there bread?” He looks to Mom.
“Over there.” She pointedly looks to the cupboard. “You can eat in your room, just make sure you do eat,” she says to me.
“Yeah, I’m actually really hungry.”
The Greek salad looks so mouth-watering, with the copious amount of tomatoes, cucumber, red bell peppers, feta cheese and plump, black olives. But I know Mom drowns it in olive oil, salt, and vinegar. If only Mom didn’t put any dressing on it, I could probably have some tomatoes, cucumbers, and bell pepper. Not the cheese, no way. And certainly, not the olives.
I dish out what they think I’ll eat, which I know I won’t because two scoops of salad, and a slice of the spinach pie is way too much. I can’t even think how many calories all this has. The phyllo pastry in the pie alone would have a horrendous amount. I could go to the bathroom, and wash the dressing off the salad, maybe have a little. Oh yeah, what a great idea.
Mom stares at my plate. “Is that all you’re having?” I hate how she’s watching me so intently now.
“Yeah, I’m hungry but I don’t think I can eat more than this.” I hold up the plate.
“You need more than that, Jane. Especially with walking everywhere,” Dad says.
Here we go again. We’re back to how much I’m eating. “If I get hungry later, I’ll have more.”
“No, you won’t,” Mom says. “You haven’t been doing that for a while.”
Pinching my lips together, I exhale loudly. “I’ll eat when I’m hungry,” I say, snapping. Instantly, I regret my outburst, but damn it, can’t they lay off my case? “I’m sorry.” Mom’s shoulders drop, and she lowers her gaze, hurt by my lashing out at them. “I promise, I’ll eat.”
“Fine.” Mom gives me a weak smile. But I know there’s tension between us. I can feel it, everyone can feel the strain and pressure bubbling away. All because they won’t back off about my eating.
I take my food to my room, and place it on the desk. I sit on the bed, open my laptop, and start looking on Netflix for something to watch. If I can distract myself long enough for dinner to be over, I can take the food and throw it out without them knowing.
But, knowing my parents, they’ll come in to check on me. Suffocating me with their overbearing, unsupportive ways. I’m over the way they’re treating me. Can’t they just leave me alone?
The plate of food is in the background, behind my laptop, but for some reason, I can’t take my eyes off it. The plate taunts and teases me. It’s sitting there pretending it’s innocent, when in fact it’s laden with empty and unhealthy calories. I hate it. Despise it.
But Greek salad, man oh man, so good.
What if, I chew the food, but don’t swallow it? Does that add calories to my daily intake? I wonder. I click on the search bar, forgoing watching a movie, and start researching if chewing food, then spitting it out actually still puts weight on.
What’s this shit? Apparently, anyone who does this has an eating disorder. I don’t have an eating disorder, I’m fat. Like heifer fat, how can I have an eating disorder? All these searches for eating disorders quickly start filtering through. I roll my eyes, close out of the tabs, and go back on Netflix.
Eating disorder? Really? How utterly ridiculous. I laugh out loud at the stupidity of it all.
“I don’t have an eating disorder,” I say aloud to no one. I half-chuckle again. “Maybe my eating disorder is eating everything and becoming a huge, fat, whale no one is ever going to love or want.” Yeah, that’s it.
How dumb.
Ridiculous.
Stupid.
I get up, walk over to my food, and eat the stupid salad. See, I don’t have an eating disorder. I can eat whatever I want.
Suddenly, I start tugging at the collar of my t-shirt, my throat feeling like it’s swelling rapidly. My right hand splays against my stomach as I feel for any weight gain from eating the salad. I look at the plate, horrified I’ve eaten all those vegetables swimming in dressing. Thankfully, I’ve left the olives, cheese, and the spinach pie. I won’t eat those, I can’t. I’ve already eaten over the calories I’ve allowed myself for today.
Crap.
I stand in front of my closed door, and look in the full-length mirror. Oh my God, I think I’ve put on weight. I look at my clothes, and I can feel that they’ve gotten tighter. They have to have.
My heart is beating so fast, and I have tears in my eyes as I stare at the fat, ugly girl in the mirror. I’ve put weight on, it’s so obvious. My face is rounder, and my hips, holy shit, my hips. I make my hand into a fist, and start pounding on them. I can’t do this, I’m so fat. Why did I eat the stupid salad?
I go to the drawer in my desk, and reach for the laxatives that I’ve hidden in the back, I pop another one, knowing I need to get rid of what I’ve eaten. I can’t believe I let food control me, again.
All my life, I’ve allowed everyone to tell me to eat because I need to eat. To not eat because I’m too fat. To do this, or to do that. I was on my way to gaining control of myself and my body. And now, I let food control me instead.
I’m not letting you win, you, asshole. I control you, you don’t control me. To hell with you, food. I’ll eat when I want, not when you want to provoke me. I hate you.
You controlling, manipulative, evil, asshole.
I hate you.
“Pizza’s here,” Mom calls. Leaping out of my bed, I run down the hallway and sit at the table. Everyone’s here, my sisters, my grandparents, my parents, even Emma and Presley.
“Yum,” I say as I open one of the pizza boxes placed in front of me. “Extra cheese, and extra pepperoni. Yum.” I feel a little drool trickle out of my mouth. Grabbing a giant slice, I fold it in half and eat it so fast, I swear it hasn’t touched the sides of my throat. I eat a second, and can feel it sitting on my chest giving me indigestion. I don’t even care. Hot pizza with oozy cheese, and perfectly placed pepperoni just melts in my mouth. Oh my God. This is the best pizza I’ve ever eaten.
Startling awake, the vivid picture of the huge pizza is on my mind. “Did I just dream about pizza?” I ask myself.
Suddenly, I feel sick, ashamed that I’ve eaten pizza in my dreams. My skin erupts in fine goosebumps as the memory of the piping hot pizza still dances on my taste buds, even though I only dreamt it.
I wipe at my lips, just to make sure I’ve only dreamt about the pizza, and not actually sleep-walked and eaten any. Sitting up in bed, the smell of pizza still invades my senses. Everything about it felt so real. My chest tightens with guilt. I shouldn’t be dreaming about pizza.
Shit, what if dreaming about it actually makes me put on weight?
Nah, that’s ridiculous. No one can dream about food and wake up heavier.
That notion is so absurd it’s actually laughable. I lay down again, this time turning on my side. Hugging my blanket close to my chest, my mind can’t stop thinking.
I feel dirty. Like I shouldn’t have eaten the pizza, even in my dream. This is so bad. I can’t stop thinking about the dream. The delicious slices of pie, the way the cheese dripped down my chin, the smell of the pepperoni as the pizza came closer and closer to my mouth.
I can’t do this. I just can’t. I shouldn’t have had that dream.
I push the covers off me, and slide down to the floor. Punishing myself for having pizza, I start doing sit-ups. I shouldn’t have eaten it. How stupid was I to have three slices? I ate them so fast, they barely registered. Everyone was looking at me too. Flashes of Mom’s disgusted facial expression sits vividly in my mind. It’s a warning, I know it. It’s telling me to work harder to scrub the stupid dream out of my head, before I actually put on more weight.
I push myself, making sure I don’t stop doing sit-ups, regardless that my stomach is burning with pain. I don’t care, I have to hurt myself, and then maybe my stupid brain will learn its lesson, and never dream about food again.
With tears in my eyes, sweat rolling off my back, and my abs absolutely screaming in pain, I finish over two hundred crunches. Hugging my legs, I lay my head on my knees. “I’m such a joke, I’ll never be perfectly thin. I’ll always be fat.” I bash my forehead a few times on my knees, punishing myself even more.
Finally, I stop beating myself up, and lay on the floor. I reach for my pillow, and my blanket, curling up on the floor instead of my comfortable bed. I don’t deserve comfort, I deserve the cold, hard floor.
Opening my eyes, I look around my room, still really upset with myself that I dreamed about pizza last night. I don’t want to weigh myself today, because I have a sinking feeling I’ve put on weight.
Today’s Friday. I’m looking forward to no school for the next two days. The worst thing about staying home is how my parents watch me and judge me at dinner.
I think the smartest thing to start doing is to tell them I have exams that I need to study for, and eat in my room. By eat, I mean hide the food in my bag, and throw it out on the way to school on Monday.
Standing, I head into the bathroom, and catch sight of my reflection in the mirror as I brush my teeth.
Holy shit. Is it possible to put on weight from dreaming? Really, is it? I can see my two chins, wobbling as I gargle with mouthwash. Ugh. I’m so disgusting. No wonder Carson left me at the lookout. I would’ve left me too. I’m just so...gross.
There’s nothing appealing about me. Not yet, but when I lose weight, and I’m at a perfect one hundred and twenty pounds, I’ll be beautiful, and desirable and everyone will envy me.
Standing in front of the mirror, a vision of how phenomenal I’m going to look plays out in my head. I can wear those tiny bikinis, and my boobs will be luscious and round inside the tiny triangles just covering my nipples. My God, I’m going to look like a catwalk model, with no hips, and the ultimate gap between my thighs.
My head falls back, while I feel my lips draw up into a smile. I can see myself at my ideal weight. I’ll be perfect.
Perfectly wanted.
Perfectly envied.
Perfectly sexy.
Perfectly thin.
“I can’t wait,” I say as I open my eyes, and look past the grotesque fatty in the mirror. “You’re dead to me.” I point at her, and the dumb bitch just smiles coldly back to me. “Fat cow.” I snarl at her, before throwing my toothbrush on the counter, and walking out of the bathroom to go back to my room.
“Jane, do you want me to take you to school?” Dad calls from the kitchen.
“Aren’t you going to work today?” I respond, hanging half inside my room, and half out.
“No, I’ve got a day off. I’ve got to run into town, so I can take you to school on the way.”
I shouldn’t go with Dad to school, because I really need the exercise, but Dad’s not usually home through the weekdays, so it might be nice. “Um, yeah sure.” Why did I say yes? I need to walk. I start doing the calculations in my head of how many calories I won’t burn by not walking to school. I’ll have to do more this afternoon. Oh, at lunch, I’ll tell Emma and Presley I need to do some work in the library, and head down behind the school and walk around the track. Yeah, that’ll give me the exercise I’m missing out on this morning. I might even walk the field after school for a few laps, so I can get extra in before I come home.
“Be ready in twenty minutes?”
“Sure thing, Dad.” I close the door to my room, and sit on my bed. Ugh, what a crap day. What am I going to wear? Mustering all my energy, I get up, and walk over to my closet, opening it, I grab a long-sleeved t-shirt, and reach for a pair of jeans.
The t-shirt is a bit big, falling off my shoulders, and when I slide the jeans on, they fall to my hips without me having to unzip them, making them look saggy and horrible.
What’s going on? Have they stretched in the wash? I look at myself in the mirror, and balk at the burly reflection. I pull my jeans up, and as soon as I let them go, they fall again. Great, they’ve stretched in the wash, and now I can’t wear them. Taking them off, I throw them on the bed, and grab a pair of tights. At least I know they’ll fit. Sliding them up, they’re bunching a bit at the knees, but at least they don’t make me look like I’m wearing a diaper.
