Читать книгу Leaving the OCD Circus - Kirsten Pagacz - Страница 31

CAN YOU SEE MY BROKEN BONES AND DEFORMITIES

POKING THROUGH MY HEAVY CLOAK HIDING MY MALFORMITIES

A VAPID SPIDER ONCE DESTROYED ME DEEP INSIDE MY BRAIN

WHEN I HIT MY TEENAGE YEARS I GREW IN KNOTS AND MAIMED

THE COVER-UP WAS ELABORATE TO DISTRACT FROM WHAT'S BENEATH

SELF-WORTH AT ZERO AND SOME MISSING TEETH

THE DEVIL PLUCKS AT WEAKNESS ALL THE PETALS TOSSED AWAY

WHEN YOUR SHINE IS STOLEN IN DARKNESS YOU MAY STAY

AS DARK AS ANY CORNER WERE EACH AND EVERY DAY

SO DEAD I FELT THE FLESH HUNG ON, TO SEE ME FADE AWAY

One day, about two years into my extreme dieting and weight loss, I opened the refrigerator at home and found a big, homemade heart-shaped cake slathered in white frosting with globs of red sugar sprinkles on it. It was clearly homemade by my brother's girlfriend for Valentine's Day. Without a moment's hesitation, I took the cake out of the fridge and, using only my hands, scooped the rich, extremely sweet white cake into my mouth, messy handful after messy handful. I almost choked it down, I was so starved. I ate almost the entire thing, leaving only a small piece of the left top curve of it.

When my brother saw what I'd done, he went ballistic on me. “What the hell is the matter with you? You are so fucking weird and unbelievable!”

Of course, there was also hell to pay with Sergeant. “You totally ruined your brother's surprise. He and his girlfriend think you're an asshole and you are! A fucking fat pig asshole. Today you will have very little to eat to pay for your inexcusable behavior!” I did as I was told.

For years afterward, I heard about my odd and unforgivable behavior from my brother and his girlfriend. Every time someone brought up the story again, I felt deeply ashamed and embarrassed. How could they not know how sick I was? Healthy people don't do that.

My mom and I would talk about what we thought “I might have,” what was plaguing me and not allowing me to rest, and why I had constant mental discomfort and an internal feeling of being shaken all the time. Worry could grab my ankle and drag me under. Sometimes I would have to leave class to go home and check

 the ashtrays for any still-burning cigarettes I may have carelessly left.

 the front door to make sure it was locked to prevent a blood-bath murder.

 the stove to make sure the burners weren't on to prevent a skin-melting fire.

 the faucets to make sure no water was running to prevent flooding and completely ruining all the things my mom had worked so hard for.

While my friends went away together on spring break, I stayed back. I couldn't let them find out how ill I really was and that I was only eating raw white mushrooms with mustard and store-bought cans of green beans. One night while all my friends were in Florida drinking rum runners, an angel came to me in a dream. She showed me versions of myself in cavern-like prison cells with no bars. The last one was shrieking and looked like a tormented ghost, flying wildly with no way out.

I woke up chanting, “I will forgive myself” again and again. At the time I didn't know how to interpret those words and their significance. But I did get the message of the dream: Change your ways or you will die. I started allowing myself to eat more, but I was not enjoying it. Finally, the school year ended and I graduated. It was a miracle.

Right after graduation, my main girlfriend, the one who had helped me plot and strategize through high school, and I went to Europe. So did Sergeant. While we were in Italy, I thought maybe I should take the train by myself to Sweden. Maybe there I'd find some happiness. But I was too mentally overwhelmed to deal with securing a ticket and all the details of navigating by myself. We returned to the US at the end of August.

Sergeant and I came back from Europe to a new living situation. My mom and her boyfriend of fifteen years, Richard, had gotten married. He had nine kids from a previous marriage, and my mom had us three. Out of everyone I was the youngest. Mom and Richard mainly waited for me to finish high school before signing the contract, but now the deed was done. Not only had they married, but they'd bought a new house, their dream home (he intended for them).

It was lovely. Perfectly perfect and spotless just like a model home. My mom was very proud of it. It had half-dollar-sized, peach-colored, rose-shaped guest soaps and peach-colored, velour, embroidered guest towels in the bathroom. Our lives before this had always been a little more scrappy. In her mind, she had arrived. In my mind, she had departed. She and I had departed. From each other.

Her new husband was demanding, highly opinionated, and prone to anger. Without question, he was the king of the castle. He had good traits—don't get me wrong. He was analytical, hardworking, smart, and a successful businessman. He had a green thumb, was a wonderful cook, and deeply loved his nine children, but it didn't take much for those good things to be overshadowed, especially living under his roof. He also had a tendency to redline when he perceived things weren't going his way. His rage was a lot like Sergeant's, and the two of them were just too much on my nervous system.

Richard would have preferred me out of the house completely so he and my mom could be alone and kid-free. I was messing with his dream, and believe me, I felt it. I was like the red wine spill on his white countertop. This feeling of being the odd girl out was wonderful kindling for Sergeant and brought me to another level of depression—not a step deeper into the dungeon, but a leap.