Fighting Weight Page 5

  I’ll admit there are times when my triggers are there, and the need for control is so strong I almost cave, but I haven’t in almost a year. Instead, I’m learning to listen to me, and not to Her. Today, I’m fighting back: with therapy, my brother, my lists, my band, and—most of all—with my will. I am determined to win my battle against the weight. Not just the physical weight, but also the psychological bullshit I carry around from the trauma of losing my parents, the verbal and emotional abuse, feelings of inadequacy, and most of all from Her voice telling me I need to be skinny to be any resemblance of perfection. I’m fighting to save my battleship before She sinks it and officially declares my mother and Aunt Liz the winners. Fuck them all. This is my fight, and I will not go down.

  Approaching my stop, I head towards the exit door. With a deep sigh, I smile and shake off all my negative thoughts, knowing I’m about to see my tribe.

  “Catch ya later, Mrs. V.,” I call as I step off the bus. Walking with determination down the block, I quickly pull up my favourite Spotify playlist and shuffle thorough it to play Martha Wainwright’s “Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole” for the last leg of my trip. I’ve got myself all revved up and more determined than ever to beat this bitch, and this song is the perfect marching tune for the mood I’m in.

  8

  Alina

  “Hey, Rust!” I pull out my earbuds and greet the familiar smiling face working the grill behind the breakfast bar as I enter his diner, shaking off the early chill the month of September has brought along with it.

  “Hey, girl. Your ladies are already here, back in your usual spot.”

  “Perfect,” I nod, as I pass the lines of well-worn, red pleather stools. The smell of coffee and grease permeates the air, making my stomach growl. I try in vain to avoid looking at the glass displays of Rusty’s fresh baked goods (ones I’ve taken to go and eaten a baker’s dozen of a time or two in the past).

  I got this. I keep on walking, remembering there’s exciting news I’ve yet to hear.

  “Greetings, early risers!” I say happily, as I sidle up to Happenstance’s regular table, the one we’ve been eating at for years. “Sorry I’m a little late. That damn bus is brutal on the Sunday schedule.”

  “God, don’t remind me,” Roxie says. “It’s still too early to even compute that I’m dressed, have on matching socks, and actually made it here.” We all laugh.

  “You’re right on time. We only just ordered drinks.” Siobhán raises a steaming cup of joe to her lips, the steam billowing in the air.

  “Perfect.” I remove my jean jacket and hang it off the back of my chair, just as our regular server, Nelle, makes her way over to us.

  “Coffee, Ali?” she asks, raising the black carafe.

  “Yes, please,” I say, sitting down and flipping my cup over so she can pour.

  “Need a minute? Or are you all having your usuals?” Nelle asks, searching around in her puffy grey updo for her pencil, which she soon discovers resting behind her ear.

  My usual consists of a small bowl of fresh fruit, yogurt, an egg white, and one slice of toast. Discreetly, so my friends don’t see while they make small substitutions to their orders, I wrap my index finger and thumb around my wrist, checking the diameter. It’s an action I shouldn’t be doing, yet it’s a habit I can’t seem to break. The last thing I need is for them to catch me at it and make me explain myself. My bandmates have no idea of the battle I fight everyday, and I intend to keep it that way. Once pleased with the result, I move my hands back to the tabletop, disappointed in myself for even doing the check. I make a mental note to add it to my list of fails today. Bulimia is like an addiction, and silencing Her voice is so fucking tiring. The worst part? She will always be within me, so I need to focus on keeping Her as dormant as possible.

  “Sure, I’ll have my usual, please.” I do my best to smile despite the pit I feel in my stomach. “And, actually, I’ll have two pieces of toast today,” I tack on, trying to prove to myself that I’m in control. But as soon as the words escape, I have to work to ignore the panicked inner voice screaming at me for adding more carbs to my diet.

  No wonder the towel doesn’t fit right, She taunts.

  I take a deep breath, feeling a rush of panic, and stuff my hands under the table to check my wrist again. Maybe She’s right?

  Weren’t you there this morning? You’re going to have to get rid of it later, fatty. Her voice is so loud, but I know I can’t give in.

  “And a large glass of water, too, please,” I call out as Nelle’s walking away.

  “Sure thing, Ali.”

  “All right. Now that we’re all here, the suspense is killing me,” Roxie says, thankfully pulling me out of my head. “What the hell is going on, Paisley, that we needed to meet at eight in the goddamn morning on a Sunday, after a late-night gig, no less?” she asks around her porcelain mug.

  “Holy shit, guys. You’re gonna love my ass off for years,” Paisley practically squeals. She does her best to collect herself. “Okay…so you know how my sister, Laurel, is dating that guy, Tommy?” She pauses, waiting for us all to nod that we remember. “Well, I met him for the first time last week and almost had a coronary. Her Tommy is actually Tommy-Fucking-Dreshand,” she beams.

  “Shut up!” falls from my lips.

  “As in the Tommy Dreshand who manages Sicken Union?” Siobhán leans in and whispers, as though if she says it too loudly, it’ll jinx us.

  “Yep. And oh my shit, guys, I begged him to hear our demo,” Paisley says.

  “Holy crap! I think I’m going to faint,” Roxie says, not-so-gently banging her cup back into its saucer.

  “Right? And the best part?” Paisley hisses.

  “What?” the rest of us say in unison, and we all three lean in closer now, hanging on every word.

  “He loved us! He’s going to have Sicken Union listen to it, and hopefully we’ll be invited to audition for the upcoming Consequence of Sound Tour, starting next June. He’d messaged me late last night, but I didn’t see the text until this morning. And there was no way I was going to tell you news this big in a group text.”

  “Holy crap, you can wake me up any time of day with news like this!” Roxie says happily. “You’re forgiven. I agree this needed to be done face to face. One last thing, though. How didn’t we know that Laurel’s Tommy was Tommy Dreshand?” Roxie rambles on at inhuman speed and we all laugh, just as our food is placed in front of us.

  “Told you. This news has no place in a text message,” Paisley grins, and picks up a piece of bacon. I will my eyes to look away from the tantalizing strip of smoky deliciousness that I used to love. Now, it’s a food that I avoid eating. It’s saltiness reminds me too much of a saltwater concoction I’d tried a few times during the early stages of my bulimia. I’d read that adding salt to about 200 mL of water would help me to purge easier by breaking down the solids. So I tried it, more times than I would like to admit, as a go-to aid for vomiting before realizing the salt was making me not only dehydrated but also bloated. That had pissed me off, then scared the hell out of me once I researched it properly and discovered how dangerous consuming too much salt can be. It’s insane, the things I as a bulimic tried in order to rid my body of food when in a binge/purge cycle.

  “It’s the weirdest thing,” Paisley says, drawing me back. I pick up a piece of my toast and listen. “Laurel never mentioned that Tommy managed a band. She just said he worked in the music industry, and I never even second-guessed that Tommy would or could be, you know, Tommy. It wasn’t until he actually showed up at my sister’s on Wednesday when I was there that I actually put two and two together. I went mental over the guy and begged, going so far as offering Laurel’s mouth for infinite blowjobs if he’d humour me and take the smallest listen. And voila! I guess he listened last night, and loved our sound.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve been sitting on this. It must have been killing you, but I’m kind of surprised Laurel didn’t kill you first.” Siobhán remarks about
our friend Paisley, who is not known for being the best secret keeper of the bunch.

  “Let me get this straight,” I say, leaning in closer, “are you telling us that Happenstance, our little band, could have a chance to play on a real stage on a real tour nine months from now—and for the whole summer?” I suddenly feel my anxiety skyrocket, despite my excitement. Being in recovery takes a lot, and I’m not sure being away from home, therapy, and Lucky, would be the best thing for me when I’m still pretty fragile. Especially when I continue to have mornings that start out like today’s did.

  “Uh-huh!” Paisley nods.

  “Fuck me,” Rox whispers.

  “Holy shit, you guys. This is huge.” Siobhán stands and yanks us all up so we can group hug it out while jumping up and down and giggling, so unlike the sophisticated twenty-something ladies we are. We spend the rest of our breakfast making plans over coffee for which songs we’ll sing, which members of Sicken Union we are looking forward to meeting most at the audition, and, most of all, praying that we actually get the gig.

  It’s been a long time since I felt a high like this. Now to hope this high isn’t chased by a low that will have me leaning over the throne of the porcelain god. Fingers crossed.

  9

  Alina

  “Welcome, ladies and gents. Glad you could make it out to group this fine Tuesday evening. Be it your first visit or your hundredth, showing up is a step in the right direction.” Elijah, one of the Sheena’s Place facilitators, starts tonight’s group therapy session, his hazel eyes bright as he greets everyone and introduces the new members before taking his seat amongst the ten or so of us sitting in the circle.

  It’s been a few days since Paisley told our band about the possible audition, and after Lucky returned home, he and I had sat down over coffee and had a good chat about the possible tour and what it might mean for my health. I decided that attending group tonight might be a good idea, as well, since I’ve learned to recognize when my anxiety levels rise, and they have been climbing steadily since Sunday’s possibly life-changing announcement. And knowing Elijah was running group tonight, I knew it would be a good one.

  At first, I’d been reluctant to participate in any group sessions he ran. Being male, I wondered what he could possibly know about the goddamn uphill battle I’m trying to fight? But after Lucky convinced me to attend one of his sessions one night a few months ago, Elijah quickly became one of my favourite facilitators here at Sheena’s Place, because it turns out he knows all too well what it’s like to be in our shoes, and so do a lot of other men.

  His story is an interesting one. Elijah started swimming three times a week, wanting to get more fit. He soon realized he was losing a significant amount of weight, and quite easily, too. He liked the feeling of control it gave him and the way he looked, so he increased his exercise, but didn’t up his food intake to counterbalance the calories he was working off. Soon enough, he was skipping meals entirely, weighing himself multiple times a day and—eventually—not eating at all in order to keep the high he was feeling from his new “healthier” lifestyle. At first, swimming and not eating was only a three-day-a-week routine, but quickly turned into a daily obsession, which led to him becoming anorexic. Thankfully, a friend confronted him and helped him to see he had a problem. He’s been in recovery now for about five years. Elijah went on to get a degree in psychology, because he wanted to help others like himself who might be suffering. He’s got a really cool and relaxed way of dealing with people, and I think that’s why he’s quickly become my favourite. Tonight, he’s going to talk to us about our body checking rituals.

  “Hey, Elijah,” most of us greet him in return from our seats in one of the meeting rooms. Sheena’s Place is where they work with individuals seventeen and older who, like me, suffer from eating disorders. Sheena’s Place is here to help anyone who needs it, and I can truly say they’ve helped me. I was in such a dark place for what seemed like forever. Finally, after years of binging and purging, I’m learning to control things a different way, and see myself for who I am rather than who I am not.

  “I’d like to jump right into tonight’s topic, which is body checking rituals. Let me put you all at ease by reminding you that we’re not here to judge, we’re here to listen, offer advice, and, hopefully, some coping strategies. Remember the rule, please. There are to be no negative comments directed at each other. We’re all recovering, and we all have our own stories, opinions, and recovery plan. Understood?”

  “Understood,” we repeat back, after hearing the norms of group participation reiterated.

  “All right, who wants to start?”

  Abigail, a twenty-one year old university student pipes up. “I stand in front of the mirror for what seems like ages, turning this way and that way, angling my body in different directions, hoping that if I stand there long enough something might change.” Her admission earns a collective round of “yeses” from the circle.

  “That’s a really common one, Abby,” Elijah shares. “It’s a hard one to break, too. I have a few suggestions I’ll share a little later, might be a place to start.”

  “I step on the scale about ten times a day,” Nicholas admits, shaking his head. Belinda, a nurse and mom of three who’s been battling bulimia for fifteen years, moves her hand to his back and offers a few comforting rubs. Sharing and letting people into this world is hard. It’s personal, it’s gritty, and it’s embarrassing. Group therapy isn’t for everyone. It took me awhile to see its benefits, to be willing to open up and participate, to share my story, to feel how encouraging it is to see firsthand that I’m not the only person facing a similar fight.

  “Don’t get down on yourselves for this.” Elijah’s voice breaks my reverie. “You’re here, and these checks are all still a normal part of recovery and are most likely things you’ll do self-consciously maybe forever, to some degree. The goal is to learn to decrease the amount of times we do them. Body checking rituals are sort of like being unsure. Think of it as that need to go back to check that the oven is off, that you’ve locked the door, or turned off your hair straightener. It takes time to shake those feelings off. It means retraining your brain to stop checking,” Elijah finishes. Looking around the strategically-set circular seating plan, I notice a lot of my peers sitting in their chairs nodding, knowing what he’s saying is true.

  “I stand in front of the mirror a lot, too,” Lydia shares, looking defeated. “Just yesterday, I stood there for probably an hour, trying to see if I could see my ribs as well as I could the night before. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help it. And when I say it out loud, it really pisses me off that I’m still doing it.”

  This is the part of therapy I hate. That low feeling I get knowing I do all these things too, that feeling of shame that washes over me as I sit here wondering: “How the fuck did I get here?” Sitting here listening, I’m uneasy with the idea of sharing the things that I still do to test my weight, habits I’ve developed to make myself feel like I’m not completely giving up on weight control while I work to get myself healthy. Although I’ve not actually binged or purged in almost a year now, I admit each day is a struggle to see myself the same way those close to me see me, instead of as the fat girl I see each and every time I catch my reflection.

  I’m getting better, though. Not only am I looking healthier, I’m laughing and being social more than I ever have. I even initiate outings with the girls, which never used to happen. I try to surround myself with positives, and things I enjoy doing.

  Four years ago I’d had to drop out of the Applied Music program at Mohawk College in Hamilton, located about an hour-and-a-half away from Scarborough—having lasted only one semester. My illness had made it nearly impossible to handle the rigidity of the three-year diploma program’s workload, as well as to continue to successfully hide my illness from the other girls living on my floor. No matter what I might have pulled out of my arsenal of tricks, it had all just finally become unbearable. That’s when I had discover
ed the power of oranges. I’d take two into the communal showers with me late at night when I needed to purge. Once peeled, the strong citrus scent combined with the steam was usually enough to mask the strong odour that lingers when purging. But usually wasn’t always, and a few girls had confronted me, coming right out and asking me if I had an eating disorder. They’d smelled the stench over the scent of the orange peels and heard me retching a few nights before when I’d found out I’d received an “F” on one of my compositions and had engaged in a lengthy binge/purge cycle, and rightly had suspicions that something was wrong with me. Between the failing grade, and the girls coming so close to discovering my secret, I decided it was time to head back home, like the failure I was.

  Eventually, I decided to try going to school again. It took a good chunk of time, but I did it. And today I work as a hairdresser at Paisley’s hair salon, Moxie. It’s a perfect job for me, with flex hours available as needed. As I continue to recover, I’ve been able to work longer and longer, slowly adding more hours to my week, and have managed to build up a small list of clients who ask for me specifically, which has definitely been a great ego boost.

  Biting the bullet, I decide, “Piss it”, and decide to share tonight, even though I wasn’t planning to. “I test the size of my wrist a few times a day, checking to make sure it’s not getting fatter.” I take a deep breath. “I measure it by wrapping my fingers around my wrist to gauge the space, how loose or tight it feels, which fingers I can close around it. I do it when I wake up in the morning, and before I go to sleep every night,” I shrug, keeping my eyes downcast as I continue to admit, “and sometimes after I eat. Maybe even before, too…it’s a habit. One I can’t seem to break. And it’s stressful feeling my wrists getting a little bigger, even though I know that it means I’m starting to be a healthy weight again.” I blow out a sigh, feeling unsure, feeling that maybe this is just a weird thing I do.