I Used To Be

Chapter 6

Sunday.

I felt hungover. Maybe I was from the wine, but more than likely it was from last night's colossal b/p session. Since it had been a couple of weeks, and since I had actually succeeded in controlling myself and losing some weight during that time, I ate more food than I ever had during a single binge session. I also did something I had never done before – I purged, ate more, purged again. I did this probably three times. AND joy of joys, my gag reflex had seemingly repaired itself, so as far as I could tell, I got nearly everything up. When I finally made it out of bed and onto the scale, it confirmed as much. 120. I had actually lost weight. Consequently, I felt like I was going to fucking die. I was so dehydrated that my skin felt like burning paper, as if I had been lying out in the sun for hours with no water or sunscreen. I was hot. And sweaty. And fucking gross. But at least I was lighter. At least that was something.

It was 10:00. Considering I had passed out around 4 a.m. I didn't get much sleep, but I had a heart-pounding anxiety that at first didn't have a name, but then quickly had several names: Isabelle. Dyke. Fat pig. Disgusting whore. You know. Names like that.

I checked my phone. Brandy had already texted.

Dude! Wake the fuck up!! I heard someone already got an invite to the bbq today! Way to tell a ho. Hit me back. Holla.

I loved Brandy but she was a fucking moron. I sure as hell didn't feel like seeing her, or Cash, or all the preps that would be at this stupid barbeque, but I also knew, knew, that I would actually die sitting at home alone today. I would do anything to get out of my head. And I knew that this particular event would be stressful enough that it would actually take my mind off last night.

I was kind of surprised Isabelle hadn't texted me, but also kind of not. I mean, I knew she was mortified, ashamed. Good. She should be. She got me drunk and took advantage of me. She was a gross disgusting dyke. I never wanted to see her again. Good thing I had to see her the very next day. Even though our sessions were down to 3 a week after the observation, that was unfortunately Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Tomorrow was Monday. Fuck me.

Brandy decided we needed to arrive at the barbeque exactly 30 minutes late. No, 20. No, 25. We were literally sitting in a parking lot near Becky Washburn's house waiting for it to be 2:23 before we made our way down Craigshead Road, turning right into the exclusive neighborhood known creatively as Craigshead. Becky's house was at the end of a cul-de-sac which sloped upward presenting her house as though it were the star on top of a Christmas tree. It really was enormous. It didn't look like it should be a house; it should be a school, or a retreat center, or something that actually served a purpose for a reasonable number of people, more than Becky, her little brother, her lawyer-doctor-whatever dad and her professional housewife mom. Normally this would be the point at which I would really start to get nervous, question my outfit, and my general choices in life, but I couldn't have given less of a fuck today. Today was all about distraction. It was almost freeing – being so desperate to be out of my own head that it put me in the moment in this vital way that I wasn't used to. Maybe I should make terrible decisions more often in life.

Brandy had to park almost halfway down the street which was littered with brand-new BMW's and plenty of other cars whose brands I didn't recognize but could tell from the looks of them that I couldn't even afford to stand near them, and neither could anyone I had ever been related to or even remotely close to in life. This included Brandy, but she made it her job to try to hide the fact that, while certainly not poor, she was even lower on the socioeconomic totem pole than I was. Her dad worked for the post office and her mother, much to Brandy's horror, worked part-time at a fabric store in a strip mall. I never had the heart to tell Brandy that no one was ever going to find out where either of her parents worked because none of the people she was always so desperately trying to fit in with were ever going to get close enough to her where this could possibly be revealed. Emily and I knew of course, but who were we going to tell? Fuck. Emily. She had texted me a few times and I hadn't responded yet. She was home of course, they didn't even keep her overnight, but I was afraid to see her; afraid she would know something was different about me, that I had done something awful, something that seemed to . . . make me someone else, somehow. Someone I definitely did not want to be. Maybe Brandy was onto something. Maybe I should just set my sights on fitting in, on really trying to be normal. Normal people don't kiss their dance teachers, eat an entire grocery bag's worth of food and then spend the whole night throwing it up. Well no one's ever going to know about any of that. Not anyone. Not ever.