FAT

Today's word is FAT.

F-A-T, the thing no one wants to be and yet thinks they are. All the time. Turn this way — FAT. Turn the other way — FAT. Suck it in, in, in a little more. Better, but you can't breathe. Exhale — FAT.

I can't make myself look skinny today. It's probably because all I've done is eaten and eaten and eaten. I am weak. I am the sound of a thunderstorm when I run down the stairs. BOOM BOOM BOOM.

I try on my grad dress and I want to cry. Suck in — okay...can't breathe! Exhale — FAT. Again. I don't want to face the world knowing that all those photos that will be taken of me tomorrow will sit on mantles and and shelves as a horrible reminder of my failure. That's HER? But she looks so fat! I would just die if my parents kept those pictures on the wall. Look at how wide she is. It's a wonder she can even stand up. Poor, fat, ugly, stupid bitch.

BITCH

I am a bitch for complaining about myself all the time. I am vanity and self-indulgent self-pity. There are real people with real problems hurting more than me. My friend on my pro-ana site is struggling and I don't know how to help her. She lives on the other side of the country and I just want to reach out, reach out and grab her hand. Stop! Don't do it. It'll be okay, I'll say. It doesn't matter how many people in your life don't seem to love you. I love you. Don't go.

Why can't I help? Why won't my arm stretch across the land that separates us so that it may reach hers and lift her up? Why am I weighed down by my own native suffering? It's impossible to help someone when you can't even help yourself. We're paddling tirelessly in our boats.

She's drowning.

I am the boat stranded in the middle of a nameless sea, calling out for no one to hear. Is she still there? I call and call and hear nothing in reply.

I check my email over and over. Refresh refresh refresh. DAMMIT. Answer me. Answer me! I am helpless. I am weak. I am scared it might be too late. Real people live on the other side of an email, winding through the great World Wide Web. They have real problems. They are hurting like I am hurting. And there's nothing I can do. NOTHING I can do!

But I want to help.
I am the desperation that gets a person nowhere. Stranded. Floating. Calling out for no one to hear.

I wake up today with a weight in my stomach. It pulls me down, further and further into the blankets. No, it's not a weight. It is my own inability to put down a fucking sandwich, which drags me down.

I need to look pretty today, if not just for my sanity than for my job. I need a new job. I need more hours, more time, more money for next year. How much money have you saved up so far, the father asks. I shrug my shoulders. (None. I spent it on an iPod to replace the one you don't know I lost, only to lose the new one in less than a month.)

I am a failure.
I am a failure who must dress like a slut in order to get an interview. A local restaurant is hiring hostesses. People go to their restaurant for the scantily clad waitresses. It isn't like a Hooters. It's just a restaurant run by vain people for vain people.

Will I be pretty enough for them? I don't have cleavage, just bumps and lumps all over the place. I've tried to hide it. Do I look glowing and dolled up? Or do I look like a transvestite?

I am crawling in my skin.

They will laugh at me and never call me back for an interview.

I go on my job hunt. A flowery hotel is hiring cleaning ladies. I try to be charming and clever. I come off meek and unqualified. My resume has a horrible dirt stain on the second page. I am pathetic.

Subway isn't actually hiring, the manager says, but I fill out an application anyway. I take the "stupid test" on the back page. What would you do if this happened? What would you say if a customer told you this? What is the change you would give from a twenty dollar bill?

I am an idiot

But above Subway standards. Next stop is the restaurant. I have suffered hours of prancing in heels and ignoring the ogling eyes of half-blind, horny men. All for this. I check myself in the reflection of a store window. I am bloated and wide. I scrunch up my unwashed hair and walk in the restaurant with confidence. I feel like a lie.

Is your manager in?
No, not right now.
(Oh....)

I fill out an application anyway. I'll stop by tomorrow after graduation to see if he's there. I am desperate for work. The juicy temptation of full-time employment and an added self-esteem boost. Those half-blind men are the ones that make you roll your eyes and smile inwardly at the same time.

Dirty slut. You like it.

Then it's the grad barbeque. I am a circus performer juggling the father and the preggers lady on one hand and the mother on the opposite one, while the grandparents toss fiery batons of truce at my face. I tend to my friends, the mother, grandparents, father, mother again, preggers lady. I finally sit down. My friend's sister has newly dyed hair — blue. I say she looks like a blueberry was thrown at her head.

I come home to an email from my friend saying her sister went home and cried, washing her hair ten times to get it out.

I am an asshole. I am the jerk who makes little girls cry. I am the role model who doesn't deserve to be admired. The things I say. My mouth is the reason I hate myself. One of the reasons.

MANY reasons.

I get another email from my pro-ana friend. She tells me to smile and not to worry. She calls me her thinspiration. I feel undeserving. I am not what she sees. I am so much less. I am nothing.

I cry knowing that she is doing better. My heart feels relieved. I stare at the clock. Past midnight. I have to get up early for hair and makeup tomorrow morning for grad.

I pray that I will be thin and beautiful tomorrow.
My green tea pills are definitely helping with my appetite. I go all day without even feeling hungry and then force down some salmon and veggies at the barbeque. I eat a chocolate covered strawberry and scold myself.

This why I am weak.

This is why I am so

FAT