Fighting Weight Read online

  Maybe it’s the stress of waiting to hear about the tour? I mean, up ’til now, I thought I’d been making progress. I’d even masturbated to images of Dustin and me last night after I came home from the most amazing date where he was the sweetest guy, totally making up for how he behaved the time before. I was finally feeling normal, excited that maybe my sex drive was returning after I’d been working so hard to heal my body and mind.

  Turns out I’m still broken. Will this damn fight ever end?

  My voice cracks as I look up, meeting Dustin’s not-so-sympathetic eyes. And why should they be sympathetic? It’s not like I’ve ever really opened up to him, given him the chance to support or help me. I decided a long time ago that this was my fight, and so, unlike my closest friends who may suspect, Dustin has no clue about my bully and Her hold on me. Lucky is the only one who knows for sure.

  “Come on, babe. Let me make you feel good,” he says, trying to run a hand up under my shirt.

  “I ca—can’t. Not yet,” I tell him earnestly, my voice a quaking shiver.

  Letting out an annoyed—yet justifiable from his point of view, I suppose—sigh, he drops his arms from my waist. He backs up and says, “I can’t keep doing this, Alina. I really like you. Why can’t you let me show you how much? Stop being such a prude. It’s been a few months that we’ve been together, and I’m tired of waiting,” he says, tacking on the dig. Part of me wants to laugh out loud, wants to tell him how much I wish it were simply a matter of me being a prude, rather than me being convinced that I’m disgusting and worried about seeing his reaction to the body I hate if my clothes should come off.

  Reaching for him, I want to comfort him, and myself. I step in close, praying that I might be able to suddenly be the girl who rips off her shirt with confidence and sex appeal so strong it would bring him to his knees.

  But I can’t. I’m not that girl. I’m not sure I ever will be…

  You can do this, Alina.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Can we try again?” I decide I need to do this. I need to show Her that I’m in control, that I can be intimate, and how much I want this.

  “Fuck, yeah. C’mere, Ali. Let me touch you,” Dustin says, wrapping his arms around me, his hands roaming up my back and slowly raising my shirt. He softly pulls on my bottom lip with his teeth, before giving in with a deep rumble and kissing me reverently.

  Her voice starts, low at first.

  You’re too ugly to bare yourself.

  And your stretch marks are such a turn-off.

  I try to shut Her out.

  The voice continues and, right now, I can’t remember any of the tricks I normally use to make Her be quiet.

  You are not enough.

  You’ll never be enough…

  Knowing I’m not worthy of love, and not ready for Dustin to see me no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, I step out of his grasp, shaking my head. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, I prepare for the blow-up I know is probably coming.

  He’s supposed to be my boyfriend.

  I should be able to give him this, even if it’s just sex and not love. Even if it’s just to prove to myself that I can be intimate with a man, to be able to again say: Progress!

  “This isn’t normal,” Dustin snarls. “You’re my girlfriend. I’m sick of this ‘over the shirt/lights off’ bullshit, Ali. What the fuck is wrong with you?” He puts more distance between us. “You’re a cocktease, you know that? And a waste of my fuckin’ time…”

  You’ll never be enough.

  Raising my arms to cover my head, I work hard to stop Her voice from taking me under completely. I can hear myself breathing in and out harshly. He’s the asshole, Alina. You’re in control…he’s not worth this…it’s okay to not be ready. He doesn’t deserve you. I think the words over and over, and will myself to believe them.

  Anger begins to take over as I think about how stupid I am for allowing him to get to me. Dustin Furlong is not the right man for me. Paisley was right; he’s an asshole. Despite his apologies, and his sometimes sweet and funny side, Dustin is moody, showing more and more glimpses of wanting to control me, with his subtle digs at my clothing choices, or the way I wear my hair.

  “Really, a concert shirt again?” he said last week when I removed my coat at dinner, followed by a shake of his head. “Can’t you ever dress up?”

  There had been text messages urging me to skip band rehearsals to be with him instead, stating that how no matter how much I practiced, I’d never be perfect.

  And then there were the comments at dinner about my food choices and how I’ll need to be more careful: “Might want to stick with a salad tonight, babe. Too many carbs aren’t gonna do that body any good.” Snide remarks, reminiscent of my aunt’s.

  I can feel my anger growing as I stand here looking at Dustin, thinking how blind and naïve I’ve been. The reality is he’s the last thing I need, and tonight proves what I already knew deep down. He makes me feel vulnerable, and he makes me question me.

  And I do not need this shit right now.

  Steeling my nerves, I wipe the tears from my face. I catch his eyes with mine. I want to shout out loud for everyone to hear: “I don’t know how to be normal, I’m fucking working on it! Bear the hell with me.” But I don’t, because he isn’t worth it. He doesn’t deserve my story, my fight, or me.

  So I say, “This isn’t working for me any more, Dustin. I think we’re done here. I’m done.”

  “Yeah, this nun routine isn’t fucking working for me either. The only thing I’m sorry for is that I wasted three months on you and your G-rated make out sessions. I’m out,” he says. He throws up his hands in surrender and slams the door in his retreat from the bedroom to either leave or join the party, I don’t know. And truth be told, I don’t care. I’m just happy it’s over with. I think I’ll give dating a break…indefinitely.

  Heading for the closet, I move Siobhán’s knapsack to one side and find my own underneath. Unzipping it, I dig around for the purse-sized version of the self-soothe box I carry with me. I can hear the growing sounds of some whoops and cheering coming from just beyond the door, and I want to go and join my band at the party, but I need a few minutes to compose myself first. This shit is exhausting and emotionally draining.

  I smile as I take out a picture of Lucky from when we were kids. He’s covered in mud. It was after our dad decided we should build a garden. Clearly, it was a messy job. I read a folded note listing some positive attributes about myself that I made in group awhile back, and I dab my wrists with a few drops of my favourite “Peace” essential oil rollerball. I start to feel better about ending things, knowing it was the best decision for me. I grab my phone out of my pocket, and pull up Lucky’s name before shooting him a text.

  Me: I broke up with Dustin.

  Within seconds, I see three small bubbles. Always there when I need him.

  Lucky: You okay? Need me?

  I laugh, knowing he’s three hours away.

  Me: I’m good, actually. I think I needed tonight to happen. He was kinda a big jerk. Funny sometimes, but really an asshole disguised as a handsome human. I should have ended things sooner.

  Lucky: Glad you’re okay, Squirt. I wasn’t a fan. There was something off about him. Paisley told me some things he’d said to you, but I’ve been trying to let you fight your own battles—because you CAN.

  I wipe an errant tear. This friggin’ guy.

  Me: Love you.

  Lucky: You too, Squirt.

  I’ve barely put the phone back in my pocket when Paisley comes tearing into the room as though she’s ready to battle. “Ali, are you okay?” she asks, coming to sit beside me on the floor.

  “Let me guess,” I laugh, already knowing the answer, leaning over to put my things back in my overnight bag.

  Waving her phone, she beams. “Yep. Lucky.”

  “I’m good. Is he still out there?” I ask, a wave of nerves now dancing in my stomach. I don’t think I can handle s
eeing Dustin right now.

  “No, he came storming out of here spewing a bunch of crap about you, so Roxie tossed his ass out for disrespecting and messing with her girl. There was no way we were letting that dickwad ruin your night.” Hearing that makes me smile. See, I am enough. I just need to believe it more often. And maybe—despite thinking it—I’m not fighting alone.

  “Wanna go get a drink?” Paisley asks, as I struggle to stand up again, my foot catching on Shiv’s knapsack.

  “You know I don’t really drink, unless it’s a special occasion,” I tell her, even though I wouldn’t pass up an offer of a huge-ass piece of chocolate cake right about now. We all have our poisons. But I know even that wouldn’t be enough tonight. It’s a whole cake kind of night. Instead, I smile, and agree to the drink.

  “Good call, Ali.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask, a little panicked that she might be more on to me than I thought. She laughs, sliding her arm into mine as we leave the bedroom.

  “We’re celebrating, silly,” she says, nudging me. It takes me a second, but I finally get it.

  “No. Really?” I ask, to be sure.

  “Yep. We got the call, Ali! We’re officially on the Consequence of Sound Tour.”

  “Shut up!” I squeal.

  “Nope,” she beams.

  “No way…” I say in disbelief.

  “Way.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Ready for that drink now?” Paisley smirks.

  “I might have two!” I giggle, as we barrel into the kitchen where Siobhán and Roxie are holding champagne flutes filled with beer, huge grins on their faces.

  “We’re going on tour, bitches!” Rox yells, and we laugh, cheer, and dance for the rest of the night. Dustin is not even a blip on my radar by this point.

  Later that night, I can’t seem to wipe the smile off my face. My heart thumps in my chest as reality sets in. We’re going on tour with Sicken Union. With Slater Jenkins. My smile deepens, knowing Dustin was wrong, and I feel a sense of victory knowing he can’t take this feeling away from me. Rolling over and burrowing into my blankets, a flash of memory of the intense stare in my direction I caught vibrating off Slater Jenkins at the audition pops into my mind as I start to drift off in a semi-drunken slumber. It’s a memory that makes my stomach dip.

  Note to self: no more than two drinks ever. I giggle, knowing I’m ridiculous.

  You’ll never be enough for a man like that…

  “Oh, shut up,” I say, out loud.

  “Okay there, drunky?” Paisley asks, hopping into bed beside me.

  “Yeah, just still so excited,” I say, because it’s true. Even if I know that tomorrow when the alcohol’s gone and reality sets in I’ll feel different, for now I’ll cling to this feeling and hold it close for as long as I can.

  And for the first time in what feels like forever, my thoughts are soft and happy as I drift off to sleep.

  18

  Alina

  “The real question is: do you think you’re ready for this type of attention?” Kristie Shepard—my therapist at Sheena’s Place—asks me in response to the question I’d asked her about whether or not she thinks I’m ready to go on tour.

  I can’t believe that we leave in a week. After all of the rehearsals, photoshoots, and prepping for upcoming interviews and press junkets, the last nine months have flown by. And I’ve relapsed twice.

  With my weight at 126 pounds, every day is a struggle to convince myself that I am not fat. I’m healthy now, despite at my lowest point having been down to 106 pounds when I was combining laxatives, some excessive exercise, and a lot more fasting after purges in the earlier stages of my illness. But apparently, relapsing twice in almost two years isn’t the end of the world. According to Kristie and others in the group, it happens, and it’s better to accept it and move on rather than dwelling on it and making myself feel so guilty that I slip back into old habits. So that’s what I’m doing.

  Of course, Kristie doesn’t answer me, instead she puts it right back on me: “Do you think you’re ready?” It’s a therapeutic technique I’ve grown used to when talking to her, so why I even bother to ask her anything at this point is beyond me.

  “I knew you were going to do that. Why can’t you just fucking give me your opinion?” I ask, raising my voice and smacking the cushion of the leather couch in frustration.

  Without missing a beat or holding my words against me, Kristie smiles and says, “Only you know how you feel, Ali. I can give you my opinion, but at the end of the day, this is your decision. You know yourself better than anyone.”

  “But do I?” I ask. I have such crazy emotions about the whole tour thing. One day, I’m so freaking excited for this experience that I can’t wait to go, then the next day I’m bookmarking the list of online therapy groups Kristie gave me that I can virtually attend while I’m out on the road, if needed. I mark them as “favourites” because I’ve convinced myself I’ll need them while working double time to fight off Her voice telling me to quit. And I ask myself the same questions, over and over: Can I actually do this? Am I healthy enough?

  “Know yourself? You do.”

  And Kristie’s right, I do. Only I know if I’m ready to head out on tour for eight weeks, even if Her voice is still there, just waiting to come in for the kill. And only I (and She) know what my biggest fear is: that I’m not good enough to pull this off. Yet I still want to hear Kristie tell me. I’m tired of playing through every potential good and bad circumstance and situation in my head. And Kristie knows I’ve been letting Her get to me, too, especially since I’ve been coming in at least two times a week over the last month as the tours start is getting closer. She’s been amazing and doesn’t deserve the way I’m treating her right now.

  “I’m sorry for swearing,” I say, “for getting frustrated.”

  “Please, it’s not the first time you’ve sworn at me, nor will it be the last. You’ve come a long way, Alina. Be proud of yourself. I am. Gone is the fragile girl who sat here a year-and-a-half ago telling me I was ‘fucking crazy’ if I thought she was bulimic,” she says. She tosses me a piece of bubble gum, the grape flavour that she knows is my favourite.

  “Thanks, Kris.”

  “It’s the truth. So, what do you say?”

  “Honestly?” I waver, rubbing the tattooed dots that form the constellation Cygnus on the inside of my wrist, a habit I’ve adopted when I’m nervous.

  “Honesty is the best policy,” she smiles, her brown eyes shining as she places her iPad on the wooden chest.

  “I think I am ready.” I tuck my purplish-black hair behind my ear. “I mean, I know my triggers. I have my self-talk down to a tee, and I want this so fucking much. The band, they’re counting on me, and this is a huge opportunity for us. I just need to believe in myself.”

  “Then I’d say you know the answer. You just gotta bring it,” she says, and smiles softly. “I’ll be here if you need me, or use those links I gave you. And maybe think about opening up to the band a little, or even just to Paisley. It might be good to have someone—”

  “No.” I cut her off. “No way. They’d baby me, and watch me like hawks. I’m better; I’m doing really well. The last three months have been my best.”

  “All right, I can see why you want to keep it to yourself, and that’s fine. Use your tools, bring a self-soothe box, and don’t be afraid to change your mind and open up to someone if you think it would help while you’re away,” Kristie adds, crossing one leg over the other.

  I nod, agreeing with everything she’s saying. “I’ve already packed a travel-sized soothe box. I even added a picture of you and me from the summer barbecue.” I look up and give her a sheepish grin.

  “Sounds as if you’re going on a trip, Miss Cassidy.” Kristie stands, clapping her hands together.

  “I think I am,” I say, looking up at her smiling face. And for the first time in weeks, I really feel it. I can do this.

  “Now, stand up and let me g
ive the famous guitar player a little hug. I’m so damn proud of you.”

  “Thank you for always being here for me, Kristie,” I say, giving her my best awkward embrace.

  “You’re a special girl, Ali. I can’t wait for the day when you believe that, too,” she says.

  And for some strange reason, I believe she really thinks I am.

  It’s been a while since I left a therapy session feeling this light.

  Now to keep that feeling going for the next nine weeks…

  19

  Alina

  “Siobhán, you can come on back. Paisley’s moved on to wardrobe, so Kelly and her team will see you for hair and makeup now,” Victoria Vu—our assigned personal assistant for the tour—calls, peeking her head around from where flashing lights and the sound of shutters clicking are going off behind her, to where Roxie, Siobhán, and I have been sitting on the plush brown couches, waiting our turns.

  Today we have a promo shoot and interview with the Toronto-based magazine, NOW. They’re running a spotlight on the upcoming Consequence of Sound Tour and its participating bands. And I feel like I might be sick. Sitting here, I can’t stop rubbing my hand over the tattoo on my inner wrist, wishing like hell I was anywhere but here.

  “See you on the flip side, bitches,” Shiv calls, giving us a two-finger salute as she walks away.

  “God, I hate this,” I mutter, and Roxie agrees.

  “Thank goodness, I thought it was just me. I’m so worried they’re going to stick me in an outfit that’s about three sizes too small then take my photo. The last thing anyone needs to see is my gunt.” She expels a long sigh, and gazes down at the non-existent fat she thinks resides between her lower stomach and private area. It’s a comment that has me rolling my eyes. As if that were even a possibility.