You Have to Keep Trying

I dragged my fingers across my ribs in a xylophone glissando. The only notes are the ringing of whispered voices that call me what I am. “Pig.” “Slob.” “Fatty.” I looked down at everything I’d just done and knew it was probably bullshit. If the big medical companies couldn't help, I couldn't expect much from this shitty ritual. Still, I had to try something, no matter how taboo.  

Nothing changed after I did it. The growling of my stomach still echoed in my empty apartment. The cold didn't magically slip from my bones. Just a mess of blood and feathers in symbols that probably meant nothing for me to clean. 

After hours of scrubbing and crying, I gave up. I lay down on my bed, letting my tears from another failure become my lullaby. 

I woke to a nightmare. Grease-stained chopsticks leaned on empty takeout cartons, judging me. Burger wrappers covered me like a blanket. I ran to the restroom. 

Over the years, I'd grown accustomed to this dance. My fingers were familiar with the steps. They dipped into the heat of my throat. My knuckles slipped into eroded grooves in my soft palate. Fingertips curled downward so deep I could almost pull my half-digested shame back out by my nails. 

The first gag is never the right one. The tightening of my core, the ache of strain on my shoulders, was always a warning that what I wanted, what I needed, was just beyond the horizon. I pushed deeper, the corners of my mouth beginning to sting from being pressed against teeth. 

Finally, the floodgates released. Oily brown liquid poured over my knuckles and down the back of my hand. My fingers raced fragments of food, barely escaping the wet meteor shower erupting around them. 

The relief that spread over me warmed my body for the first time in days. When the shudders took hold, they were euphoric instead of painful. I stared down into that beautiful soup with satisfaction until the stars faded from my vision and I could stand. 

At the sink, I washed my face, opening my eyes after the water cleared my lashes, and screamed. I turned so quickly I got dizzy. I had seen it. Someone large standing outside of the bathroom and down the hallway. At least, I thought I saw them. There was nothing now. When I turned back to the mirror, it was clear as well. 

I took cautious steps back to my bed. The comfort of my blankets and my phone singing a siren song. I stayed up as long as I could, rekindling my motivation by scrolling through some of the models that inspired me. Eventually, sleep claimed my exhaustion. 

The vibrations of my phone pulled me into the waking world. My mouth was gummy, tongue sticking behind my teeth as dehydration set in after my purge. My stomach hurt, my throat burned, but there was peace over me. My bed was free from wrappers, free from crumbs, from my weakness. 

My stomach rolled as dread took hold of me. My sister had texted me to remind me that we had a lunch date that day. The weekly ritual of surface-level conversations as she watched my every bite with her big blue eyes, her maternal judgment barely hidden behind the smile of self-satisfaction that she was “helping me.” 

I rose, showered, and dressed. Making sure to snap a few pictures for my Thinstagram before I left. As I walked to the cafe, I mentally prepared myself. 

As usual, she had beaten me there. Her smile reflected the sun in our window booth. When she hugged me, it was with a nursing-home hospice touch.  When she complimented my dress, I knew what she was really saying: “You’re finally gaining weight.” I faked joy and sat. 

We talked about her family. How her kids' sports were going, and how much they missed their aunt. How her husband had been home late and had to go on a weekend trip at the end of the month. I stirred pink salt into my water. Oprah swore by it, and who could deny how much better she looked now. 

I indulged her though. I always did, pretending work was so engrossing I could gush so much I forgot to take bites. When the spinach finally touched my lips, I clenched my stomach, knowing the bloating would come soon and silently praying I could sleep through it this afternoon. 

That's when I noticed it. The human elephant's foot was staring at us through a window so fogged I couldn't see anything other than the wide smiles of its multiple chins and long, grease-matted hair. As I swallowed, it stepped closer to the glass. 

When the hanging mass of its stomach flattened against the glass, I winced and turned away. My sister must have seen my disgust. She had that look on her face, of worry, of pity. The same one Mom used to put on at dinner. 

I turned back to the window only to be mocked by the cheerful day outside. No creep breathing heavily and perving on my sister. I couldn’t understand. I excused myself and rushed to the bathroom, where the stall walls could hide my panic. 

When I came out, the bill had been paid, and the booth sat empty. A napkin perched on top of my boxed-up salad with a note that said, “You have to keep trying, Mar.” Both of these things went into the trash before I left.

The rest of my day was simpler; hiding behind emails and team chats was one of the few blessings I had left. No one had to see my tears or the small sips of salt water I took to try and stop the shakes. 

When the day finished, I began my nightly ritual, placing a shot glass of water in front of each pill. Iron. Multivitamin. Vitamin D. Calcium. Fish oil. B12. Everything a growing girl needs, I tell myself as I swallow the last of what the doctors said I needed. 

This was the only full stomach that felt good. The safety in the knowledge that no doctor would tell me how terrible I was or tell me how much help I needed. No, this small daily sacrifice helped me towards my goal, and I knew it. 

In bed, I snuggled up with blankets, finally allowing desperation to open the comments on my post from earlier. There they sat, mocking me, comment after comment about my dress, my hair, my makeup. 

Everyone avoided telling me how the poofy sleeves of my dress made the sag of my arms look like spilling custard. How my dress was too short to hide how my thighs embraced each other when I stood normally. 

I deleted the post and rolled over, unable to take the lies after my sister’s judgment and the creepy smile of whatever that was that tried to watch us eat. I let Heathers lull me into devouring my favorite dinner, sleep. 

That night I dreamed of eating. My legs splayed out like a toddler in my childhood kitchen, the eyes of our Kit-Cat Clock judging me in the glow of the open refrigerator door. Tupperware with lids thrown off haphazardly sat around me. 

The floor beneath me was a puddle of grease and mess as I shoveled decadent flavors onto my tongue only to chew and spit them back out. Rib bones picked clean, stacked like logs for a fire. Feet of sausages uncoiling as I inhaled bite after bite. 

The various delicacies ranged from soft and bursting with fresh, juicy flavor to tough meats that got stuck in my teeth; I couldn't stop. I found myself swallowing instead of spitting, no longer concerned. I convinced myself I could purge everything after, but I needed more now. 

I barely registered the large shadow on the wall in front of me. As I went to turn, I bit down on something hard enough to crack a tooth. Spitting out the fragments of what had caused the stabbing pain in my mouth, I was shocked. The white splinters wouldn't make sense to me. 

In my hand sat a molar, the roots split like a wishbone, and the head fractured. I closed my eyes as if not seeing it would make what was about to happen easier. My fingers tentatively slipped between my lips, finding a glaring emptiness where it should have once been. 

A heavy hand came to rest on my shoulder, causing me to slam my eyes open to the sad scene of the kitchen in my apartment. I was slumped against the closed fridge, crying as I looked down at a Tupperware of something I didn’t remember buying. I had binged again. 

I cried as I showered with the curtain open, the full-length mirror a comforting companion whispering how flat my stomach was, how toned my legs looked, and how much smaller that hanging fat under my arm was today. Dressing took longer than usual, my dress tight and difficult to pull over my wet skin. The blazer I put on was a pervert's trench coat, hiding my body beneath until I was ready to show it off. 

As the bus rolled to the office, I floated in and out of daydreams of getting to my desk, taking off my blazer, and no one looking at me like a sideshow attraction. No eyes on my arms, no one looking down at the bulge of my stomach, everyone looking me in the eyes instead of at my second chin. 

They kept the office colder than I remembered; the shakes set in immediately as I entered the large glass doors. Hannah smiled at me from the front desk. Her eyes looking me over as if she might prevent me from going up if I didn't pass her appraisal. 

She turned as I walked by and pressed the elevator call button. In the minute it took to come down, I heard it. Hannah had never been the quietest, but this time her whispers were so loud. I was supposed to hear. 

“That’s Mary?” “...doesn't look so good.” “Days since…” “...I hope everything’s alright.” I knew what she meant. That bitch had the audacity to judge me just because she was born thin with big tits. 

I took deep breaths, going through a checklist of comparisons. Breasts are fat. They sag. When she bends over, the pouch of her stomach folds. She has hip dips. 

I flashed my reflection in the warped gold of the elevator’s interior. My body looked lumpy and disproportionate in the unfriendly metal. I shook my head, unsuccessfully trying to convince myself it was just the dents and that I wasn't really bloating from my failure last night. 

As the elevator dinged on the wrong floor, I took a polite step back and then one that was less polite, one out of fear. The doors opened. Rolls and bulges squeezed through first, dwarfing the cart of mops and brooms behind them. 

Eyes closed, back against the wall, I felt the floor sag as the clunk of her heavy boots echoed around me. I opened my eyes as the cart bumped me. A sheepish “Sorry” came from under bright red curls. 

Muttering an apology of my own through an exhale I fought to keep under control, I found sudden interest in my feet. “Big day?” The question came thick with the false accent of Midwestern friendliness. They got so good at backhanded compliments, at passive aggression, at lying behind their meanings. A quality too familiar to me. The long exposure to it even still lingers in my speech. 

I did not reply, trying not to think of how short I was. How my height compounded my weight. How Rosie the Riveter could afford to be heavy because she was tall. How under her jumpsuit she could hide her rolls and love handles. I wished I had worn something baggy, cursing my overconfidence. 

When the door dinged to my floor, I mashed the close door button. Pushed the button for the underground parking lot and left. The whole bus ride back, my head stayed on a swivel, waiting for her to appear again. 

Door lock, deadbolt, chain under the door handle, bedroom door lock, another chair. I changed into loose pajamas and climbed into bed, wrapping the covers around me like a straitjacket. Sleep, and I would reconcile; if I couldn't get out, nothing could get in. If I couldn't get out, I couldn't eat. 

I woke up to pain. My fingers throbbing, my mouth stinging in the frigid bedroom air. My body clenched like a fist. I slid my hand under my pillow for a second and jerked it back with a pained curse. I must have chewed my nails to the quick. 

I spent a second with my eyes closed. Rationalizing that a bit of keratin is better than pad Thai, and that it really wouldn't, couldn't affect me. My eyes slowly opened, not ready to see the extent of my failure. 

The trail of blood led out of the borough of my blankets, tracing the line my hand took as it foraged for my phone. Maybe I had eaten them down too far. Maybe I pulled at the corners so they would sting and bleed for the rest of the day. 

My hand came up into my vision, offering me swollen nail beds, a mixture of attempted scabbing and fresh-flowing blood. Each nail’s absence was replaced with throbbing pain and angry flesh. Bits of skin picked away, a long thin strip pulled back all the way to the knuckle. 

I opened my mouth to scream and tasted blood. My lips split as I did. My swollen tongue bathed in the flowing blood from patches of missing meat in my inner cheeks. 

When I threw myself out of bed, the ground rushed to catch me. The twisted blankets wrapped around my legs as if to tell me I was better off without fully revealing what I had done, but I had to know, had to see what else I might have eaten this time. 

The light speared my vision, causing me to wince as I tried to see my own reflection. I failed, my gaze stolen by something sitting on the bed. The thing that had been following me.  

Her. 

Her form folded in on itself. Curves chasing the end of curves in endless loops. Stains of food long forgotten by time made her look like she was wearing a street of fallen leaves. Her belly button a sickly green deepening into a black hole. Her legs were so massive they looked like discarded fabric draped over soggy bread. 

Her hair slithered over her shoulders, stuck in thick, greasy tangles and matted throughout. Behind the curtain of her bangs sat a soft blue eye and a gentle smile rimmed with a crust of different sauces. An arm covered in sores and snaked with blue veins extended from her. A melted, fleshy bulb sat at the end, patting the place I once slept so peacefully. 

I smashed the mirror; blood splashed on spiderweb cracks, leaving drops like morning dew. Tears and fresh blood fell onto the carpet as I whipped around, screaming to an empty audience. My knees fell into glass fragments as I sobbed into numb hands. 

When determination overcame helplessness, I began to move. Parts of a plan sticking together with loose threads as I used blanket after blanket to cover every mirror in the apartment. This thing would not beat me. I was stronger than this. 

After my reflection was banished to blackness, I attacked the kitchen. There was too much temptation in that room. Crackers, Tupperware of thin meats, a bag of shredded cheese, the siren song of the last few bites of a frozen cheesecake that had nearly lasted the year. All of it disappearing into the gnashing teeth of the garbage disposal. 

The final pieces of my plan lined up like prisoners for slaughter. Each bottle took the hand of its partnered shot glass. The ranks joined today by two dusty, nearly forgotten friends. Adderall and Carisoprodol. 

If there is nothing in the house, I can't eat. If I can't sleep, I can't eat. If I do sleep but can't move, I can't eat. I swallow each of my nightly pills and the double dose of the new additions. 

I lay in the center of my floor, certain my neighbors could hear the thumping of my heart. Panic set in as my limbs finally grew heavy. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. My full stomach is finally bringing me warmth. 

It started at my toes, rolling gently up my thighs in waves, until the pressure mounted. My eyes opened. My head was too heavy to lift, but I stared down past the bridge of my nose. Between an oil spill of thin, greasy hair, two pale blue eyes. Beneath, a warm smile as her lips pressed down to my flattened thigh. 

My scream was aborted in my throat, never gaining the strength to breach my lips. Tears streamed freely as shuddering sobs began to shake my body. I could see myself shuddering from somewhere far away, unable to feel it. I couldn't feel her second kiss or when her lips began to part. When I couldn't feel her teeth enter my flesh, I didn't allow myself to watch either. 

Eyes shut tight like a child, I was left floating in the sounds of an empty room. As my senses faded, sound became the dominatrix of my world. She lashed me with wet, rhythmic chewing. The slow, sticky pull of something being torn free. The thick click of teeth meeting teeth. A tongue dragging noisily across them afterward. Something sloshed. Something swallowed with a deep, satisfied gulp. 

There was no relief between bites, only the quiet smacking of lips, the wet catch of breath through her nose, the occasional scrape of teeth against something hard. 

Desperate to escape, my mind ran to anything else. My heartbeat. The distant rush of traffic outside. Even the hum of the refrigerator. 

No sound could overcome the disgusting choir in my lap. Breath, then bite. Chew, then swallow. Breath, then bite. Chew, then swallow. Then the worst of it all, a single shaky moan. The punctuation to the whole ordeal. 

I dared open my eyes again as I felt her lips begin to leave breadcrumb kisses across my pelvis. Looking down, I saw each print stamped in the bright red that covered thick lips. 

Pale blue eyes matched mine as thick, maggot-like fingers wriggled their way under my shirt to expose the waistline of my shorts and the mound of flesh that sat on top of it. She kissed there too, a tender touch like a virgin lover. 

She was not here to hurt me. She never was. She wanted to help me. She wanted to love me. If I could, I would have nodded as I closed my eyes to accept her gift. 

I felt her teeth sink deeper. My scream rose and died somewhere inside me. I could feel the warmth beneath me. The pressure. The pulling. Her moans never stopped. 

My eyes swam as I pleaded for it to be over, for her to stop. Now hollow, I could barely breathe. Her pleasure gone with the last bites of her meal, her blue eyes opened to show me a misty warmth. Her tears reflected mine in their ferocity. Then she began to move. 

As she slid further, her slug tongue left a trail across my chest. I desperately fought to move my arms as I felt her kiss just under my jaw.  

I struggled, convulsed, did everything I could. Telling myself over and over again: “You just have to keep trying, Mar.”