Perfectly Thin, page 20
“Wh-...,” Mom whispers.
“I’m fat, okay. I don’t want to eat because of how fat I am. Look.” I lift my shirt, and grab hold of the bigger of the two rolls on my stomach. “I’m fat. And I don’t want to be fat anymore!” I scream at them. “I don’t want to be a something, I want to be a someone. And I can’t be a someone if I’m this fat.” Papou and Yiayia look horrified. Their mouths are open, and they’re staring at my big, fat, chunky, revolting stomach.
I can’t bear them staring at me with so much disgust.
I run into my room, slam the door, and throw myself on my bed.
Bursting into tears, I cry.
And cry.
And cry.
I want to die.
Standing in the bathroom, I’m dreading the moment I get on the scales. It’s been ten days since I lost my shit at my family, and I haven’t been out to eat dinner since. I stay in my room every night, either doing squats or sit-ups, trying to lose as much weight as I can.
I’m trying not to obsess over the scales, because even though Mom promised me she changed the batteries, the scales have been reading ridiculous numbers.
Four days ago, it said I’m one hundred and thirty-one pounds. It frustrates me how they don’t work for me, but work for anyone else who uses them. I can’t quite wrap my head around the reason why they don’t work for me.
In my head, I know it doesn’t matter if I stand on them or not. The scales are going to give me a completely illogical number of pounds, which obviously, is a lie.
Stripping down to my underwear, I take the scales out, and place my foot on them to wake them up. It comes up a perfect red zero, which tells me they’re ready to lie to me.
I stand on the scales, and look down at the stupid number.
I burst into laughter when I see one hundred and twenty-four pounds. “What is wrong with you?” I angrily spit at the useless scales. Why won’t they work when I’m on them? Is this some kind of stupid conspiracy theory?
Stepping off the scales, I slide them back where they usually stay, and notice my reflection in the mirror. Ugh, why do I insist on torturing myself? Absurd. How can I be one hundred and twenty-four pounds, when all I see is rolls of fat, thighs so flabby they have divots in them, knees that meet, and upper arms that could easily hold a week’s worth of groceries. “More like two hundred and twenty-four pounds,” I say as I balk at the grotesque fat chick in the mirror.
Picking up my clothes, I get dressed, and with my head lowered I make my way back to my bedroom. I lay on my bed, completely unmotivated to get up and get ready for school. Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, and try to find something good to look forward to, something to persuade me to get my ass into gear for school.
“Why bother?” I say to myself.
My phone vibrates on my bed, and I know it’ll be Emma or Presley. I look at it, and see it’s Emma. I don’t bother responding. Ignoring them is hard, but I can’t offer them anything while I’m still as fat as I am. I’m no fun. I can’t make this stupid weight come off, no matter how hard I try. I feel like I’m holding them back. They’re better off without me.
Everyone’s better off without me.
I mean, if I keep staying at this weight, I’m only going to be a complete strain on everyone.
“Jane, get up. You’re not going to school today,” Mom says as she bursts through my bedroom door.
“What?” I keep my back to her, utterly uncaring for the reason.
“We’re going to see a doctor.”
Again, I don’t care. “I’ll stay here,” I say in a small voice. My eyes drift close because I’m super tired.
“Nope. You’re coming with us. And can you change? They’re the same clothes from yesterday.”
“Nothing fits. I’m too fat,” I respond. It’s true, all my clothes have stretched beyond any kind of formation. All I have is the tights I’m wearing.
“You’re not fat, you’re thin. And they don’t fit because you’ve lost too much weight.”
My eyelids flutter shut, as I sigh. “Aha,” I say, totally not believing a single word she’s saying.
“Get up. The appointment is for nine-thirty.”
“Five more minutes,” I say.
“No, Jane. Now. Your father has to go to work after the appointment, so hurry up,” she says urgently. She shuts the door, and I hear her walking down the hallway.
With unbearable heaviness in my body, I drag myself out of bed. I look down at what I’m wearing, and I don’t care if they’re the same clothes as yesterday. I just can’t be bothered. I’m so tired of everything.
“Jane!” Dad’s voice booms.
My hair’s a mess, and I have a God-awful taste in my mouth, but who cares? I don’t. Opening my bedroom door, I stick my feet in slip-ons, grab my incredibly heavy school bag, and go to find Mom and Dad. “I’m ready,” I say.
“Have you had breakfast?” Dad asks.
“Not hungry.”
Dad nods, and looks me over. “Are you sick? Because you look like death, Jane.”
Great. “Thanks, Dad.” I dump my bag where I’m standing, and head back to my room. What a great way to make me feel. If I already wasn’t feeling like complete shit because the fucking scales are obviously malfunctioning, Dad’s comment tells me I look like how I feel.
I slide on a pair of jeans that have been stretched beyond recognition, a clean t-shirt, and an oversized sweater. At least, the oversized sweater hides exactly how fat I am. I can conceal the flab, rather than have it on display for everyone to see and stare. And probably feel sick to their core when they see a beach-bound whale walking around.
I go out to find Dad near the front door. “Better?” I ask.
“Yeah, you don’t look like...”
“Yeah, I know. Shit,” I say finishing his sentence.
“I didn’t say shit, Jane. I said, death. You look sick.”
My shoulders droop, because even though Dad didn’t say it, he meant it. “Whatever. I’m ready.”
Mom follows, and we all leave the house. Mom gets in the driver’s seat, Dad in the passenger seat, and me in the back. Closing my eyes, I figure I can catch a bit more sleep before we get to this doctor’s appointment. I don’t even know where we’re going, or why.
Before I know it, Mom’s parked, and I open my eyes when the car jolts to a stop. “Where are we?” I ask.
Mom looks to Dad, and Dad’s brows lift. “We’re at a psychologist’s office. We think you need help,” Dad says.
“Oh right.” So I look like shit, and I’m crazy. Can this day get any worse? “What kind of help?” I ask, my tone flat, yet pissed.
“We think you may have an eating disorder,” Mom replies.
I burst into laughter. “Aha, okay then.”
“What does that mean?” Dad asks as he turns in his seat to look at me.
“An eating disorder? Me? Are you kidding? Have you seen the size of my ass, Dad? Or maybe my thighs? My stomach? Any of me?” It dawns on me quite quickly. “Oh, you mean I eat too much?”
My parents look at each other again. “Jane, you’re not eating, and we need to address this.”
“Well, for starters, I’m not crazy, so I don’t need help. And secondly, unless you want to get me a membership to the gym, then this is useless. I don’t have an eating disorder.” I point out the window toward the shrink’s office.
“We think you do.”
“And I know, you’re wrong,” I argue. There’s a spark inside of me. Something’s telling me, they’re full of crap. “Wait, is this because of what happened with Josh? I’m over it, you know?”
“That’s part of why we want you to talk to a psychologist,” Mom says.
“So, according to you, not only do I have an eating disorder, which is clearly ridiculous, but I’m also hung up on what happened with Josh? Wow, I’m a regular fucked-up teenager, right?” I snap, getting madder by the second.
“Hey, language, young lady.” Dad points his finger at me, and it’s fairly obvious by his harsh tone, and narrow eyes, he’s angry with me.
“Well, come on,” I say sarcastically. “Listen to you both. I have an eating disorder? Really?” I turn my head away, avoiding this entire bullshit situation.
“We want you to go in and see him.”
“See this shrink?” My head’s buzzing with fatigue and struggle. Why would they want me to see a shrink? I’m not crazy.
“Yes, we think he’ll do you a world of good for you,” Mom answers.
“I’m not going in there, I don’t care what you say or do, I’m not going in there. This is ludicrous.” I cross my arms over in front of my chest, defiantly.
“We’ll all go in together,” Dad offers. “Your mother and I will be in there with you.”
“I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are,” Dad says, his tone even harder.
“No, I’m not. Because one, I don’t have an eating disorder, and two, I’m not batshit crazy! You’ve wasted your time and your money. Take me to school, or I’ll walk. Either is fine with me.”
“Listen,” Mom sighs. She lowers her head, and I notice she rubs at her eyes. Crap, the guilt trip. She’s about to lay it on thick. “Jane, I’m worried about you. Really worried,” her voice cracks.
My shoulders slump forward, as I lower my gaze and look at my shoes. Why do I have to cause them so much pain? Obviously, they just want to help me, but can’t they see there’s nothing to help? I’m fine. I don’t have an eating disorder, and I’m totally over what happened with Josh. If only I could escape all of this and not be a burden on anyone anymore.
“Your dad and I, we only want what’s best for you, and we don’t know how to help.”
Maybe I’ll agonize through an hour or so of whatever this insufferable psychologist has to actually say. It couldn’t hurt, I guess. Mom wipes at her eyes again. God, I feel like I’m such a strain on my parents. “Fine, I’ll go. But I’m only going once, I’m not doing this again.”
Mom smiles. “Thank you,” she says.
We all get out of the car. As my parents walk ahead of me, all I can think about is how embarrassing this is. Embarrassing for them, not me. He’s going to take one look at me, and burst into laughter. Clearly, I’m way too fat to have an eating disorder. And as far as the Josh thing, nothing really happened, so what exactly are we supposed to do there? Nothing, that’s what.
But if this gets my parents off my back, then I’ll do it.
Dad opens the door to this old-looking house that’s been partially renovated. There’s a heap of certificates framed on the wall facing the door, some are crooked, some are straight but most have a layer of dust on top. There are two doors, and to the right, at the end of the entry hall, there’s a lady sitting at a desk, working behind a laptop. She stops what she’s doing when we enter the room, looks up from the computer screen, and offers us a smile.
I sit on one of the eight empty chairs, and Dad sits beside me. Mom walks forward to talk to the lady. “You doing okay?” Dad asks.
I turn to look at him, and force a smile to my face. “Great,” I say as I give him two-thumbs up.
“You don’t have to be so immature, Jane. We’re doing this to help you.”
If he wanted a different reaction, they shouldn’t have brought me here. This is completely crap. “Sure, Dad,” I mumble.
Mom comes to sit down besides us, and fills out a bunch of papers. I cross my arms in front of my chest, and look around the boring, room. The psychologist’s name appears to be Berton Hughes. What a name. Judging by the age of the certificates, and the dust on top of them, this guy has to be pushing, like, Papou’s age. Is he even still able to practice?
One of the doors opens, and I turn my head to see an old, old guy walking out.
Please tell me this guy is a patient and not the psychologist.
He’s wearing brown slacks, and a cream shirt, with a brown tie. The eighties called, they want their brown back, old man.
He talks with the lady behind the computer, before picking up a file and reading it. Great, he’s the psychologist.
“Jane?” He eagerly looks to us.
“Yeah,” I answer, less enthusiastic then him.
“Please, come this way.” He indicates to follow him into a room.
Dad, Mom, and I all stand. This is what my parents want, and I agreed to one session. But this guy, I don’t think he’s going to work. He’s so...old.
“Please, take a seat.” He sits in a chair, and crosses his legs over, while reading the papers he has in front of him. “Tell me a little about why you’re here.”
I look to Mom. I have nothing to say.
Mom starts, “We believe Jane has an eating disorder.”
He lowers the papers, and I realize he’s wearing frameless, square glasses. He peers over the top of them, and looks me up and down. I get a creepy feeling from him. My skin crawls, and my arms explode in goosebumps.
“And why do you think this?” he asks.
“She hasn’t been eating, and she’s been dropping large amounts of weight quite quickly.”
He nods, and begins to write on the paper. “Are you having trouble at school...ahhh.” He looks at something, before hastily adding, “Jane?”
How could he forget my name from forty seconds ago when he saw me in the waiting room? I really don’t want to be here. “No,” I answer flatly.
“And what about with boys?”
Other than Carson who was horrible to me, no. “No.”
“Are you having issues with your friends?”
I blink stoically, and answer, “No.”
Is this like a checklist of questions to ask? Am I an inconvenience to his busy schedule? Does he even want to be here? I sure know I don’t. Certainly, not now. And most definitely, not with him.
“Tell me a bit about your home life...” Pause. “Jane.”
How can he not remember my name? It’s not difficult. Think plain, and automatically you’ll think Jane. I mimic his pause, before I say, “Not much to tell.” Looking around his office, I’m unimpressed by the brown-ness of it all. The outside looked partially freshened up, the inside, well, fake timber wood paneling, and even more beige. So exciting.
“Do you have any siblings?” He tilts his head to look over his glasses at me. “Brothers, sisters?” He gestures with a hand movement.
“Two sisters, both older.” I look to Mom and Dad. Mom’s sitting upright, with a straight back, hanging on everything Mr. Colorless is saying, Dad doesn’t look so convinced. He’s posture is more slumped. He catches me looking at him, and I silently plead to get me out of here.
“Aha, and how is your relationship with them?”
“Fine,” I reply, detached from anything happening in this room.
“Do you like your sisters?”
“They’re fine.”
“Well, there was a problem a little while back, on Jane’s eighteenth birthday,” Mom says.
“What kind of problem?”
And this is where I get lost. Lost in the thoughts of my head. I don’t want to be here; I’d rather be anywhere but here. Literally, I’d take the pits of hell over this place.
Staring at the doc, I can see his lips moving while he talks, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mom soaking up everything he’s saying. But I have no idea what words he’s actually speaking, because I’ve tuned out.
My eyelids suddenly become heavy, and I yawn, trying to stay awake.
His voice has melted into background noise, like when you fall asleep with the TV on, and wake to some obscure program playing, then you fall asleep again with the same program running in the background.
He’s just noise.
A drowning noise that lulls you to sleep.
“...looks fine to me, actually she could probably stand to lose some pounds from around her thighs,” I hear him say. “It’s just an age thing, she’ll eat when she’s hungry. Most teenagers go through something like this, and not many end up with an eating disorder. I think she’ll grow out of it.”
Wait, what? “Huh?” I say, as I blink the fog away and suddenly become vested in what he’s saying.
“You’ll eat when you’re hungry,” he repeats.
But he also said I’m really fat and I need to lose weight, especially around my thighs. With wide eyes, and a discerning gaze, I check my thighs out. Or, I should say, my thunder thighs.
Crap, what kind of exercise can I do that’s good for my thighs? Mental note to myself: explore the internet for best thigh exercises. Oh my God, I see it. I see how bad they are. I need to get the perfect thigh gap happening, and then no one can make fun of me, or say I need to lose any more weight.
If a doctor said I’m fat, then obviously, I’ve been right all along. I’m fat. And what I’m doing isn’t enough.
I’ll have to step up the program, make sure I’m doing more.
Crap, crap, crap. I need to move, burn as many calories as I can. My thighs are fat. I have to lose inches off my thighs. I have to.
Oh my God, will everyone make fun of me because my thighs are huge?
Finally, someone else says I’m fat too.
“It’s been five weeks since we saw the therapist, and she’s getting worse,” I hear Mom say to Dad.
“I told you then, and I’ll tell you again, he wasn’t a good therapist. We need to find someone else for her.” I can hear them mumbling, and as I strain to listen. I swear I hear Dad say the words, treatment program.
I can barely hear my parents talking as I lie in bed, too tired to get up and get ready for school. That’s what happens when you’re the size of a house. Everything shuts down, and you don’t have the energy to move, let alone get ready for school.
I should check my weight today. Not like I’m actually expecting it to be a decent number. When I look in the mirror, I keep getting fatter. When I get on the scales, they lie.
“She’s lost more weight. I’m really worried,” Mom says. “We have to do something, and soon.”
Why are they talking about me like this? As if I’m trouble. I suppose, I am, because this damn weight won’t come off. “Why am I so fat?” I burst into tears, crying into the pillow I’m hugging. If I wasn’t like this, then no one would worry about me. I hate myself for being such a burden on everyone.
