Friday, March 18, 2005 @6:17 AM
Miri's departure was my fuel. I was determined not to follow in her satin-toed footsteps and shatter into worthless, unwanted shards. I was going to make it as an actress in Hollywood and I was not about to let trival matters such as my weight obscure my my aspiration.
The pharmacy in Los Feliz was nearly deserted when I slunk in on a Saturday morning. A creaking rotary fan sat near the counter, where the dozing sales clerk huddled. I swallowed hard and pretended to wander innocuously down the aisles. Hair care. Bath supplies. Magazine racks. I reached down and ran my finger lightly over one of the glossy pages. Rows and rows of covers, an entire gallery of stars, enough to drive one insane with longing.
I paused in front of the 'Health and Fitness' shelf and scanned its selections. I'd spent dinner time drinking in the perfumed contents of Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Bazaar, leafing through them repeatedly as though they were paged miracles. I slipped my hand into the pocket of my jacket and fingered the soft, almost down-like dollar bills I'd stashed there. My gaze darted to the palm-size bottle of laxatives, then at the drowsy cashier. I knew exactly what I had to do.
I strode purposefully towards the clerk and slid a Snickers bar across the countertop. I set two folded bills next to the chocolate and cleared my throat expectantly.
The cashier looked at me through heavy-lidded eyes. She snapped her gum loudly. The pale green film clung wetly to her chapped lips. "That's all?"
I nodded mutely as she processed my sale. I accepted the candy, together with two quarters in change, and barrelled out of the drug store. My heart was hammering my chest. I felt exhilarated, like how I imagined eagles were before taking flight.
The snickers bar let out a sickening cruch under the heel of my left sneaker, its caramel-peanut butter innards seeping into the blacktop from under my sole. The laxatives rattled quietly in the waistband of my jeans.
"Thank you, come again," the cashier called out tonelessly after me. I ignored her and quickened my pace.
I stopped consuming dairy products first. Once, I sent a china plate crashing against the dining room wall because my mother attempted to make me eat a hard-boiled egg. During trips to the grocer's, I would watch my mother's every move obsessively, examing every can or package closely before setting it into the cart. I scanned nutrition labels compulsively, keeping track of every calorie, every ounce of fat. Soon, I rejected even fruit and vegetables. The sweet scent of apples and tomatoes sent waves of nausea snaking through my body.
My mother was convinced it was a psychological problem. My father insisted it was just an adolescent phase I was going through, but did not protest when she hauled me to a private clinic in downtown LA for a consultation. Dr Werner spent the entire appointment peering at me over the rim of her tortoise-shell glasses, throwing me occasional concerned glances. She moved stethoscope around my spine, over my now-prominent ribs, murmuring inaudibly to herself. She asked me ceaseless questions about my life, San Angelo, my diet. I was made to draw pictures of my family, decipher abstract drawings, and formulate stories about inkblots. Realization hit me like a ton of bricks while I was constructing airplanes from sheets of neon paper. They were treating me as though I was a delusional lunatic. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud.
I answered Dr Werner as thoroughly as I could. I gushed about the Californian weather, San Angelo, and let dozens of faceless names tumble from my lips. "Oh, I have tons of friends, all right." My voice reverberated in the chambers of my brain. "Rachel, Cammie, Lynn, Joanna, Melissa.." These were some of the most popular girls at school, and to put it mildly, they had never given me the time of the day. Well, with the exception of Rachel Armstrong, my biggest destractor and nemesis. "We have lunch everyday at the low brick wall next to the drama centre. We are inseparable."
"I don't know what I'll do without my parents, " I went on, punctuating my statement with a blissful sigh. "They've been invaluable pillars of support to me. I adore the times when we would just sit down and have meaningful conversations, like a real close-knit family..."
Dr Werner nodded sympathetically at my words, absorbing my pretence like a sponge. I spoke carefully and deliberately, examining her hair, skin, nails at the same time. She had delicate cheekbones, and was fairly tanned. But her shade of mauve lipstick seemed out of place, and there were hints of grey in her chocolate-brown hair. And her ghastly posture would send Mrs Whittmer screaming into the night.
I noticed an intricate gold wedding band on Dr Werner's ring finger. The piece of jewellery glittered in the harsh lighting of the office and I blinked rapidly. All of a sudden, everything seemed unreal, like swirls of Technicolour. A fog was beginning to bloom in my mind. "May I leave now, please?"
During our next meeting, Dr Werner voiced her suspicions that I had an eating disorder known as anorexia. I twirled a finger around a fat lock of my dark hair as she spoke. Her announcement was lost on me. Next to me,my mother clapped a hand over her mouth at the news, looking stricken. I rolled my eyes upward and toyed with the cuffs of my jacket.
"Julia, are you listening?" Dr Werner prodded.
"Yes," I muttered. I stifled a yawn.
Later, Dr Werner placed a platter of spaghetti in front of me, together with a tall glass of juice. I wasn't allow to leave the clinic until I'd cleaned the entire plate. The spicy intoxicating aroma of tomato and meatballs hit me squarely in the face, and for a split second I thought I was going to vomit.
I grasped the fork with trembling hands and began shovelling the noodles dutifully into my mouth. My mother was relieved and gratified. The meat tasted raw and flavourless, like sawdust. I swallowed the pieces whole, not willing to chew.
I beamed painfully at Dr Werner as we left the office, but my innards were churning. I felt soiled and contaminated, having consumed such a substantial amount of fat and carbohydrates. I could feel the impure contents surging through my viens. My meal was rising steadily up my gullet. I shuddered and bolted into the nearest bathroom, plunging two finger down my throat as I fell to my knees next to the toilet, convulsing uncontrollably.