On The Outside

Zack writes about his eating disorder.

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            I like the dark. You’re probably thinking that, given what I am, liking the dark is just a given. It’s true that the night is all I’ve known for a long time. But the night isn’t dark for me. I’m Nightbreed. My eyes have been remade for total darkness. I like the dark because, for much of my life, it has been a loving cover for all of my sins.

            Case inpoint: I am fourteen years old. It is three in the morning, and I’m in thekitchen crying and eating. I don’t know what set me off; I only know that the absoluteonly way to stop the pain gnawing at my insides is to smother it in food. Undercover of darkness I down a whole liter of soda pop, a loaf of bread, two bagsof popcorn, a bag of crisps, everything I can microwave, and at least a gallonof tap water. I know that all of this will be coming up soon, eithervoluntarily or because my body can’t handle it, and I’m hoping the water willmake it hurt less. All the while tears pour down my cheeks.

            Suddenlysomeone turns the lights on. They flicker twice before illuminating the smallroom. Aaron stands in the doorway, his bathrobe wrapped around him.  “What are you doing?” He asks in confusion. Hesmoothes his sleep-tousled grey hair, adjusts his glasses and glares at me.  I had thought I couldn’t be more ashamed, butwhen his eyes fix on me I realize I was wrong. There is nothing worse thanAaron’s piercing eyes zeroing in on the spittle and crumbs on my cheek.

“It’s bad enough that themedication is going to make you gain weight. Do you want to make it worse? Goto bed.” That’s it. No concern for me, or for the wasted food. No ‘are you okay?’Just ‘don’t get fat’, as if this is a totally normal inconvenience.  He leaves me alone, the florescent lightsbringing the details of my binge into sharp contrast.

            Silently Ibegin cleaning up my mess. When the wrappers have been thrown away, theleftovers stored, and the countertops cleaned, I make my way upstairs to thebathroom. Without turning the light on, I kneel in front of the toilet and liftthe lid. Making myself vomit is difficult and messy, but afterward when I laycurled in a fetal position in the cold tile a feeling of euphoria comes overme. I have a sense of complete calm. I imagine I’ve died, and there is nothingafter life except the cold comfort of a windowless dark room. I feel that thereis no one in the world except me and the infinite cold, unyielding support ofthe porcelain tiles.

            Asexpected, this becomes a routine thing for me. Once a week-sometimes more oftenthan that-I become a whirlwind of destruction, consuming everything andanything I can get my hands on. I do it as silently as I can, the only sound myoccasional sob or cough. The only light I allow myself during these bingesessions is the thin sliver of yellow light from the open refridgerator.