STUPID

Today's word is stupid.

Don't believe me? Look up my exam results next month. The only thoughts that flooded to my head in those two and a half hours spent in that ridiculously cold gym were those of panic and defeat. I wrote on my hand.

FAILURE

I couldn't study. I couldn't do a simple thing like studying or not eating. I couldn't even sleep. I just lay in bed on my side, lifting my legs. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty.

Flip over.

Again and again and again until I feel a little less a guilty.

But then you wake up and it's morning. Is it? You can't tell. It's grey and cloudy and the covers pull you in. You don't want to get up. You want to sleep forever, not dead, just suspended in a dream.

It doesn't take as long as I expect to get dressed. Too depressed to care how fat I look. The fabric touches my stomach and I barely flinch. My stomach is sore. But I always hate when the fabric touches my stomach. Touches my stomach. Touches, brushes up against my fat. It makes me queasy.

I was hungry today. So hungry. I stared at an apple while I forced productivity out of my tired body. Finish leadership homework. Must finish. Need to turn 30% into 90% in two hours. Rush rush, glue here, tape here, an ugly poster stitched together in thirty minutes on how wonderful of a leader I have become this year. Pure, rotten, oozy bullshit. Whatever. It's everything they want to hear and more.

Then it's the bus ride home. The bus is a game where you measure yourself. First bus: I win. I am the skinniest person on it. The girl at the back is wide and loud. She throws around "dudes" and "retardeds" in a whiny high-pitched voice. Her laugh makes me almost jump in my seat. Her laugh is the sound my thighs make when I walk. BOOM BOOM BOOM. Not that much competition with only a handful on it. Second bus: I lose. She's built like a model. She's wide, but slim, like a wafer. She has long legs and tiny arms. Her hair is long and wavy and my jealousy radar peaks.

I'm overflowing.
Who gave me this body?
Who imprisoned me in the body of a 25-year-old fraternity slacker, a beer gut with no beer in it, love handles for nobody to love, thighs holding on to the hope that there's still some athleticism in me.

I don't want muscles.
I want bones.

I get off bus number two, defeated. She'll go home and eat a cheeseburger and wake up like it's just another day. I'll go home and eat dinner with the family. The preggers lady will get her healthy pregnant meal. Meanwhile the father and I will scarf down something fatty and regretful.

I go online to my ana chat. The whole world is on today. Somewhere between Kaya Scodelario and calories in an apple I find myself smiling. This is my food. This is the comfort no macaroni and cheese could ever provide me.

And then it's a gift from above, a heaven that I refuse to believe in, even when it grants me such blessings as the one today. Family dinner is no more. I get to eat alone. I go downstairs. Just half a piece of plain salmon, I promise. I promise.

I PROMISE.

I spread ketchup on a bun and stick a tangy pickle in the middle. I put half the salmon inside and half I leave out. I pick at the abandoned half of salmon, while occasionally wrapping my burger in paper towel, tucking it between my underwear and the elastic in my tights.

I am devious.
I am 156 calories.


BUT

I broke my promise. I ate two pickles and a quarter of my thintini bun. It could be worse. It could be much worse.
I could be the lady who rides in her scooter at the grocery store, picking up tubs of lard and deep-fried everythings.

I could be the lady who throws it all away for a cheeseburger.