Others found joy in late night runs to Maccies, a face full of cheeseburgers, a long inhale of chicken tenders, and even more so the snacks in between. She had a similar appetite, but only for instant gratification (the kind with no calories).
She was hungry for meaningless approvals, empty gestures of admiration, and anything that didn’t have an ingredient list on its back. They tell her the only nutrient she needs is indefinite anxiety.
The number of calories looked like price tags to her with a set of numbers floating above every bite.
She memorised all of them as if they were the lines on her lover’s palm. She multiplied them by the trips she would have to take to the toilet to feel less like herself and more like what everyone wanted her to be.
Her lips were more frequently kissed by the soft bristles of her brush because her lover’s vision only allowed him access below her chin. She stepped on her scales for the fifth time that morning. Her heart grated against her dangling ribs as the numbers started calculating her worth.
It told her how good enough she was for that day. Just a little more, she thought.
A little more skin to lose,
A little more bones to see,
A little more gap in between those legs,
A little more of nothing to feel a little bit of something.
Dinnertime was escape time for most. It meant quality time with the family, a 30 minute break from reality. But instead, she saw the plate as a battlefield with her spoon as the shield and her fork as a sword. The knife in front of her made it difficult to distinguish a crime scene from a family meal.
It was 30 minutes of private war. 30 minutes of fighting against the monstrous grumble of her stomach from yesterday and the urge to throw up the last litre of water she had. All because it looked disgusting. Not what was on the plate, but what it would look like in her.
Her mother asked why she refused to eat.
She panicked and considered telling her.
But mother couldn’t understand.
Mother got angry.
‘Do you know how many people are dying because of starvation?’, she asked, simmering with disappointment. The girl who was mourning the unwanted parts of herself decided not to talk back, even though she knew she was one of them.
Dinnertime was nothing like escape time.
It was imprisonment,
Prosecution,
Rapture,
All in one sitting.
It meant quality time with what her body wanted and what her body needed.
A 30 minute call to reality.
30 minutes of the clock reminding her
Every meal is a struggle in itself.
Beauty is a game,
A sport, and our bodies―
The equipment.
Survival of the fittest, they call it.
Jan Lunette
24 May 2017
Jan Lunette 