Eat Me

by Heather Nicholson

Charlotte’s throat choked out little gargles, gagging on the blunt end of her toothbrush and hoped they weren’t loud enough to slip under the bathroom door. Urine peppered the underside of the toilet seat, the stench of dehydration pungent enough to burn her tongue. If the toothbrush wasn’t enough to make her vomit maybe the stale piss would be.

Charlotte always wanted to be bulimic—learned the word in seventh grade when her mom found mason jars full of vomit in her older sister’s closet. Back then, Charlotte thought it was disgusting. Now at thirty-seven, she was jealous—jealous of Vicky’s sensitive gag reflex and jealous that Vicky mastered binge and purge. All Charlotte had managed to do was bury herself in family size bags of Lays and sweatshirts large enough to cover houses being treated for pest infestations.

Distended, her belly ached to empty itself. It was desperate. Panicked and alone, shaking in the corder of her abdomen, suffocating under the Polar Bear layer of fat pressing against it. Her husband didn’t understand. Said he loved her for who she was no matter how much weight she’d put on over their fifteen years of being together. The compliments were backhanded and followed by buts or what abouts. He wanted her to be skinny—rail thin like the models he drooled over. She knew it even if he wouldn’t admit it.

Yellow sponge cake chunks pathetically crept down the side of the porcelain bowl, a few of them bobbing and waltzing like the last few bites of Captain Crunch bathing in milk. She hoped the burn in her esophagus would ruin their sweetness. That maybe Twinkies would only taste like vomit now. It was a childish wish, pregnant with desperation and fraught with idealistic simplicity.

Shortly after discovering her sister’s compulsive binging, Charlotte learned there were two eating disorder classifications. Ms. Messerschmidt, who smoked two packs a day since nine and ironically taught health class, showed her impressionable twelve-year old students a Lifetime special about a girl who weighed less than a toddler and hid food in the shapeless tummy pouch of her hoodies at the dinner table. Then there was the video explaining the difference between anorexia and bulimia. In its clinical way it succeeded if, say, there were only two eating disorders.

Instead of asking questions about the girl’s mental instability or the nature of addiction, the unit test was nothing but skin and bone—multiple choice with no meaty insides to soften understanding. Choose from: A) Bulimic, B) Anorexic, C) Both, or D) None of the above. 

Charlotte chewed on her pencil, the eraser gnawed to pulp.  She clenched the wood, felt it squishing between her teeth and thought about the brisket sandwich in her locker—the one Toothpick Sally gave her. Toothpick had only bought it to convince her mom she was eating at school. And, without knowing, Mrs. Toothpick had been funding Charlotte’s second lunches for months.

The test stared at her, black and white, the orange Cheetos smudge mocking her, reminding her she hadn’t been diligent in washing her hands after lunch yet again. The pencil crunched, the required No. 2’s yellow paint flecking off in little sprinkles.

1. If Susan eats more than 2,000 calories, surpassing her daily suggested caloric intake,  in one sitting not exceeding two hours and subsequently purges, she’s: A) Bulimic.

2. If Brenda severely limits her caloric intake to an unhealthy level of 300 calories per day for an extended period of time exceeding two weeks, she’s: B) Anorexic.

But what if, 3. Jillian wakes up and immediately rolls onto her back so she doesn’t feel the fanny pack of belly fat pulling on her stretch marks. 

Or, 4. Brittney lays there for a few minutes contemplating how she’s supposed to feel about herself today—happy? Confident? Faking it so no one tells her she’s too sad but has a pretty face.

And what about, 5. Ruth Ann who thinks maybe she should skip breakfast. Not only does guilt shroud her from yesterday’s late-night binge but the thundering headache suggests an excessively elevated sugar intake that she’d love to blame on something else—someone else.

What about, E) Binge Disorder.

You could be skinny if you wanted to.

Her sister’s words spoken.

Her husband’s words whispered.

“You could be understanding if you wanted to,” Charlotte could scream back. But she never would and they would keep judging and whispering and wanting her to be something, someone else.

So, Charlotte swirled the rigid plastic around her throat, seeking happiness. Acceptance.

“If we aren’t defined by how others see us,” Charlotte thought, “then if they don’t see us at all, do we exist?”

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