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She’s my best friend. She’s my roommate. And she’s my fiercest competitor in this game we play.
I don’t remember when it started or who started it, but it’s been going on for awhile.
She plays her part by subsisting on rice and water.
I play mine by eating pizza and coke, and then escaping to the bathroom when no one else is looking.
The numbers on the scale reflect our progress, and we glance at each other to see if the other is doing better. Because if one of us is winning then the other one is losing.
I spend more time at the gym than I ever have before. She always goes with me.
We both count calories and record them in a notebook.
My other friends don’t know about this. They would want to help, but I don’t need help. There isn’t anything wrong.
She doesn’t tell her friends either, except I think they are starting to catch on.
I am better at hiding it than she is.
I make excuses not to go eat meals with my other friends. I tell them I’m eating with her and they buy it.
She sleeps most of the day away.
Life becomes about exercising and counting and not eating.
And about the numbers.
The numbers that are never low enough and the reflection that’s never quite perfect.
I think I’ll be happy if the numbers could just drop. After all, I’m proud each time they trickle down.
But it’s never enough. After everything, it’s still never ever enough.
•••
We both go home for Christmas break. I only hear from her once but that’s okay.
Being home is nice, but being home is hard. Too many people, too many eyes, too many meals. Too many friends who want to go out for dessert.
But I tell myself it’s only four weeks, and soon I am back at school.
But something is different. It’s quiet in our room. She’s not here. She’s supposed to be here, though. She told me she would be.
So I unpack and I wait and I avoid the scale that sits on the bathroom floor, because I don’t want to see what four weeks away might have done.
And then there comes the knock on the door and the sad eyes of our friend and I ask where she is, because I know she knows.
And she tells me.
She tells me it got worse and then it got really bad and her parents finally took action and now she is in a clinic and she might be there for awhile.
My whole world tilts.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
•••
It’s been years now. But it’s still a secret, what I did back then. No one knows. Except her. And we lost touch long ago.
Maybe no one will ever know. Because I don’t think they would understand. And admitting it out loud makes it real.
Besides, I don’t need help. It’s different now.
Sort of.
I don’t stand on the scale every day. I don’t count each calorie I put in my mouth. I haven’t put my finger down my throat in a really long time.
But it’s not always better. I know that, too.
I never eat three meals a day. I never look in the mirror and feel happy. I never stand on the scale and feel satisfied.
I fell asleep without eating the other day.
It still felt like an accomplishment.
Sometimes that scares me. But not enough to let someone in.
May someday. Not today.
Disclaimer: I feel like I need to say something after all that, but there is really nothing to say. So there you go.
