I was thirteen. My hair was frizzy, and I had braces.
I trudged to the car from where I was waiting, alone, among the rest of the car riders.
I slung my bag into the backseat and let out a defeated sigh as I do the same to my body, only this time in the front.
I was quiet, waiting for my mother's typical greeting, but I am instead met only by silence. I paused a moment more, and then break the hush.
"How was yo-"
"You forgot your lunch. Again." Her tone was cold, and this prompts me to turn to face her. She was not smiling.
I did not want to talk about this, and my heart assaulted the inside of my chest with palpitations as I decided what to do.
I took a breath, and murmur a small "oh".
I am half praying that this is the end of the conversation, and half hoping that she has finally realized what is going on and how to help me.
I'm wrong on all fronts. And as I glance at her again I recognize her expression as one from my childhood, it's a warning, dark and hooded, and exactly what I don't wish to see.
She explodes.
I have imagined this scenario hundreds of times, but never have I foreseen to this outcome. There are no comforting words, no apologies or heart-broken sobs. She is not wounded.
Instead she plays defense. Attacking me with everything she has. I can only half listen, the rest of me consumed by my own self pity as I wallow in sadness.
She is still yelling when she finally pulls away from the curb, and I control my face, hoping that if any prospective friends do see me, they are unable to tell that my insides are shattering.
Of everything I could have imagined, never did I see my own mother blaming me for an eating disorder.
I wanted doctors and sympathy and gentle words, but instead I was berated as she drove to the nearest pizzeria.
She practically dragged me in, voice calm only in the public eye.
We sat in a corner booth and I wore jeans and long sleeves, despite the warm September weather. She eyed this, and my shaking frame as she laid the rules in front of me.
I did not speak as she ordered a Coke for me and an entire pizza for us to split.
She explained quietly and venomously that we were leaving only when I had finished three slices, and that if from this point on if she found a dissatisfaction in my eating habits, my life was over.
She would pull me from school and track and dance, and she would monitor my meals as if I were a child.
I wanted to cry, but my throat was dry, caked with anger and dry pizza crust.
My stomach has shrunk, and choking down three pieces of pizza is still what I cite as the most difficult relay I have completed, that and watching my mother loathe me for being sick.
