Maybe I don’t want to grow up.
I want my parents to realize I really needed help. Maybe their help. Maybe someone else’s. But I needed help. I needed for them to recognize why I wouldn’t eat. I wanted them to worry about something else besides my grades. My athletics. I wanted their attention. I wanted my dad to stop talking about my brothers baseball for one minute.
This is what confuses me. I was completely petrified of them finding out. I was nervous ALL the time about it. I would dream about it. Sometimes I even cringed when the phone rang because I was paranoid somehow someone was going to inform them I was not eating lunch at school. I wanted them to think I was perfect. Of course, you can’t be fat as well as perfect. On the other hand you can’t be perfect and have problems like this. What?
I remember being called out of spanish class, first hour of the day. Freshmen year.Emily, to the nurse’s office she said. I froze. I made it across campus to the nurses office, I’d never been there before. Please be for some sort of routine screening. I knew why. I could barely breath. I should never have confided in Amber.
I lied to everyone. I told the nurse they were making it up and I didn’t know why they would do such a thing. She really had no choice but to believe. I told my parents they were exaggerating and that I had in fact skipped lunch a few times but it was only because I had to go the library and I didn’t have time…and I would eat when I got home, anyway. They believed all of it. How could their daughter engage in such activities?
I vividly remember my dad telling me he could understand if I was not eating, but to throw up food was disgusting and he hoped I would never do that. He made me call the nurse that night (she had given him her number in case he wanted to discuss the situation and get numbers for places that could help. She gave them fucking remuda ranch, as if I was ever, ever in that bad of a condition.) He made me tell her, in front of him, that I would never do those things, and I was completely fine. I remember wishing it could have been a private conversation. I remember feeling awful that I’d lied to her. Awful that I’d made my friends out to be conniving people. Most of all, I had wanted both of my parents to react much much differently. I had wanted them to understand.
I’m still looking for them to understand. I am still fifteen years old sitting at the kitchen table in tears because I was being accused of everything I had tried so hard to not let them see. Being told I am a big girl, I’ll never be like Jessica, I should accept that. Sitting their in tears, watching my mother cry. Oh how I wished I had Jessica’s body.
Did they really believe me? Did they? Probably not…………so why didn’t they do anything?
I kept getting older, but this isn’t something you grow out of, like they thought. The problem was, I started eating. And throwing up an awful lot. It’s a stress reliever. I still want to have that conversation. I want it to go differently. I want them to understand.
How do I know it won’t go the same way as it did before? History repeats itself; I don’t want to be witness to that statement.
If I could have one super power it would be to fly.