One on four

1. NICOLE

TW: EATING DISORDER, SUICIDE THOUGHTS 

One hundred forty-two.

Those are the kilocalories of this small package of potato chips.

"Are you going to eat those or...?"

He looked down at me. I'm not sure if he wanted to test my ability to resist the hunger or if he was just worried. I feel his judgment on every inch of my body.

"Sure."

I am eating with such eagerness that I don't even recognize myself anymore. I was starving. I hadn't eaten since last night. I threw up my lunch this afternoon, so I am technically okay for today.

Today is my diet rip-off day; I can eat whatever I want. From my point of view, it is pointless to eat anything I want anyway since I'm on a diet. At lunch, I made myself a plate of pasta; because of my hunger, I accidentally ate eighty grams of pasta instead of forty. Next time, I'm sure I can eat even less, maybe twenty.

"I'm worried about you."

His voice does not break or tremble. He stays so rationally icy and detached. I look up, but I can't read his expression. I can't understand it. I am very confused at the moment. I started this diet in June, knowing it would be good for me since he told me that with a few pounds less I would look perfect.

"Why?"

"You're crying."

Suddenly, I feel a tear fall, but I can't do it. I'm not weak, and I can't cry in front of him over some stupid potato chips.

I know I shouldn't eat them, I am so wrong about this, but I was starving. I feel I have to justify myself somehow for the mistake I'm making, the guilt is eating me from the inside.

"It's nothing."

"Why aren't you eating?"

Because you told me to. You, my friends, the first boyfriend I had: all of you. My body is vibrating in anger, my lungs are filled with social pollution, and everyone is still taking a piece of myself. I nervously look at my hands: I have nothing left. I run after social stigmas, hoping to prove to my parents that I am the perfect daughter, proving to him that I am stunning when I am self-harming my heart, my body...me.

If I follow my rules, everything will be fine; if I follow their rules, I will be perfect.

"Do you know how much you hurt me? You destroyed me like a sheet of paper. I look at you, begging for your approval, even though I rationally know that I will never be enough for you. You destroyed me so that I could stand here, next to you while I open my limbs, stab my heart, and tear out my hair one by one: you were ready to kill me to keep my deceased body rather than let me live free. You stole my life. The other day I took my first laxative." It hurts. I am admitting it out loud and it hurts. "And I feel ashamed. I want to take a knife and rip my stomach out. I'm not proud of being happy while I go to bed with my belly still empty. I feel guilty every time I eat and I feel regret every time I don't. I feel relieved thinking about myself on a roof. I can perceive the pleasure of a blade cutting my wrists. And the worst thing is that I love you, cause I was enchanted by your distorted support of a fictitious reality. I know you're holding me like a puppet. You helped me create the problem and now you want to be the guardian angel who cures it? But who are you? I'm trying to think how good it would have been not to know you. You are under my skin, and I feel guilty about feeling bad. I feel guilty blaming you. Every part of me drowns in the chaos you've created."

If I am not mistaken, the brain is divided into two hemispheres. In a nutshell, I know that I'm screwing up: I know perfectly well that I don't need a diet, I know that not eating is bad for me, and I know that I'm hurting my family and those who love me ... Like myself?What no one understands, though, is that we survive for others. I would have killed myself already if it were not for my parents, my family, or my friends. I would never want to hurt my loved ones... But I wake up feeling guilty for being alive. I love thinking about how annoying it is when my friends always park close to the entrance of a store because the more you walk, the more calories you burn or how much I hate pulling the elastic of my underwear higher than usual to look slimmer or how irritating my belly is when I haven't drunk enough water.

Marginalized people are forced to find happiness in pain.

"I know you feel bad for me. You whipped me, told me I'm a failure, made me hate myself... And then, you locked me up with my thoughts in a room full of weapons, screaming to be used on my skin to cure my pain. You expect me not to shoot myself, now?"My tone is neutral and detached now. My head is spinning, my vision is foggy: it's happening again. That feeling of detachment, a sheet of ice in a world of fire. The detachment is such a powerful spell on me. I could kill someone and feel nothing. I could see their blood running on the floor and start thinking about what color could match it. So cold, so angry, so disconnected that I would be ready to put out his cigarette on my hand without feeling pain.

"Are you all right?"

"Hmm?"

"You didn't answer my question... Why aren't you eating?"

I sigh. The fictional answer I created will not come out of my mouth. The truth is that I'm not brave enough to say those things. I'm not strong enough to take another punch in my stomach. Dejected and angry, I fix my eyes on his. He is sad, anxious, and paranoid. He knows he had hurt me and manipulated my brain; but most of all, he knows I know.

"Look at me: I'm eating. Maybe I eat when I'm alone. You never know..."

I gently laugh, ironically. He does not laugh.

"I'm serious, cut the crap."

"Do you think I found myself here? Do you think I looked for it?"

My legs are shaking. I don't know who spoke, but that was certainly not me. I swallow the sadness, feeling the bitterness on my tongue and the burning truth in my throat. He looks away: now, he feels guilty. I feel a weird sense of relief. Maybe, it's power. I was brave enough. I took the knife he was pointing at me from the blame, just to show him I was not scared.

"I did nothing."

"It's not easy to sleep with someone who doesn't like you."

"I never said I didn't like you."

"You told me I'd look better with two pounds less and that I'm not your type, so-"

"That's not the same thing. I never said I don't like you."

He did say that. Or maybe not? Maybe they don't mean the same thing. The package of chips is empty and I don't even know when I finished it.

I admit that I don't care what he is saying. When something doesn't interest me, I unconsciously tend to think about whatever is around me. The bag of the lady near us, for example. I am thinking about the color: a blue bag would look better on her, because of her skin tone.

I can tell he finished talking just because I can hear his silence.

In a nutshell: he told me a bunch of bullshit using elegant and nice words so that it would sound like a heartfelt and important speech.

"All right."

I give up. I'm just thinking how far I'll have to walk to remove those calories from my body. He damaged me, and I'll build myself again. On my own.