Everything You Gave [Meddison/MerAdd]

The Inherent Struggle of Mealtime

Addison

Saturday September 10th 1994, 12:31 pm eastern time

I walk down the grand staircase of our house into the ornate dining room, as I've just been called down to dinner by the shrill voice of my mother, or rather, Bizzy, as I prefer to call her lately.

I've been dreading mealtime ever since my mother less than eloquently pointed out one of my biggest insecurities at the mall a few days ago. I've always been tall and have deemed myself "big-boned," but it didn't occur to me until the incident at the mall that my mother, the one who literally grew me inside of her, the one who is supposed to be my ultimate caregiver, took issue with the fact that I'm not perfectly thin and frail-boned like the ideal WASP.

Who gives a fuck?

Well, apparently my mother does.

And now, well, long story short, I'm terrified to eat.

The only problem is, I love food. Eating has always fostered a sense of enjoyment within me. Its almost as if the delectable flavors and aromas of food were a light in the darkness---one of the only true respites I had from feeling like shit all the time. Well, that and cutting, and seriously contemplating suicide, but that's beside the point right now.

I enter the dining room to see Bizzy, the Captain and Archer all seated stiffly at the table. The aroma of a well-made pot roast wafts through the air. The scent of one of my previously favorite dishes makes me vaguely nauseous. I want nothing more than to run for the hills.

I can't eat this. There's no way in hell I can eat this. The meat itself.

No. Just no.

I can't be seen eating in copious amounts, if at all, if I want my mother to notice that I'm trying to lose weight.

I sit down in a dubious manner, smoothing my skirt under me and pulling my chair in close to the heavy wooden table. I can feel my palms beginning to sweat and my heart racing.

When did mealtime become such a big issue for me? I love food! Hell, I love to eat!

I think, 'Maybe it wouldn't hurt to eat this delicious meal. I need food to survive, after all!'

Reassured by the logic that I do indeed need food to survive (although I'm not entirely sure I want to be alive, but that's a dichotomy we'll discuss later), I decide to be as carefree as possible and just simply enjoy the meal that has been placed before me.

Nervously, I glance at each of my family members, giving them a tight-lipped smile, feigning certainty and confidence.

I tuck into the portion of pot roast put on my plate by our cook. I'm immediately engulfed by the wondrous tastes of one of my favorite dishes. All of my sadness and turmoil seem to melt away instantly. I'm completely lost in the comfort of eating this exceptionally well-prepared dish.

Because of this, it takes me a bit too long to notice my mother, father, and brother staring at me in pure awe (or maybe disgust, I'm not sure which).

"Addison," my mother says.

"Slow down. The food is not going to run away from you," she continues.

I sheepishly set my knife and fork down and glance at my mother, embarrassed.

"Don't be greedy!" she says to me.

"Sorry..." I manage to get out.

'God. Now my mother assuredly thinks I'm a pig,' I think.

Fuck.

Great job Addie. Just wonderful. Way to sabotage yourself even more.

I can feel my cheeks begin to burn as the embarrassment flares up inside me.

God fucking damn it.

"May I be excused?" I mutter meekly.

"Speak up, Addison! No one will ever respect you if you talk so quietly and act so unconfident all the time," spits my mother, albeit matter of factly.

"May I be excused?" I mutter, louder this time, the anger evident in my voice.

"Yes, you may," replies my mother.

I begin to stand up, struggling to push the heavy chair backwards and away from the table, as my father interrupts me.

"Now, just where do you think you're heading off to, young lady?" my father asks me, clearly indignant.

"You better not be sneaking off to a party to get drunk off your ass or to have sex with some boy," he adds.

Two sentiments pop into my head as soon as he says this.

1) If only. No one would dare want quiet, proper, fatso, buzzkill Addison Montgomery at their party. Maybe getting drunk of my ass could solve all of my misery.

and

2) If only boys were the problem. If there were boys lining up at my door, maybe I could learn that I'm just misled, that I'm not actually helplessly attracted to girls. Maybe that would teach me that I do indeed like boys.

"I'm just going up to my room, father," I reply, clearly annoyed.

'Yeah, up to my room to rid myself of all of this rich food,' I think.

I run up the stairs in flurry of discontent and haste. I run into my bathroom and lock the door, making sure to shove a towel under the door so no one can hear what I'm about to do.

As I begin to stick my fingers down my throat, I realize just how familiar this situation is becoming.

And I'm not sure whether that's good or bad.