Never Enough

Who Knew?

I gulp as my mother walks past me and heads downstairs expecting me to follow. I trudged behind her, nervous about the fate that will soon become of me.

My nervousness turns into anger as I remember Theresa's face when she saw me open the stall door. This is all her fault; everything was fine before. Why couldn't she just mind her damn business?

My mother pulls up a stool and takes a seat at the table as I sit across from her.

"Your school's guidance counselor called me today. She said you were found purposely vomiting in a toilet at school today and she expressed great concern," she says slowly, her  hands folded on the table as her fingers lift themselves up with emphasis after every couple words.

I look down at the table unable to meet her eye contact. I feel so disgusted with myself. I'm so fat that I have to make myself throw up just to feel a bit better about myself.

"Emma look at me," my mother says her voice growing more stern. I scratch the back of my head and look up, my eyes meeting hers. That's when I'm taken in surprise. I imagined her eyes to be filled with anger or frustration as they often are when confronting me about my habits, but instead they are dark and sad. Her expression almost empty and filled with sorrow and desperation.

I sulk in my chair and keep my eyes on the shiny white tiles.

"Are you- are you trying to kill yourself?" my mother hesitates and looks down trying to meet my eyes again.

I look up and see her eyes staring back intimately and that's when it hits me- she really thinks I want to end my life and maybe it's the way she's looking at me with those fearful eyes that I don't recognize or maybe it's just the heat of the moment or the fact that I just got caught, but for a minute I feel like I do.

I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out. I close it again, scrambling in my brain for words, any words, anything.

A loud cry interrupts my quest for words as I look up and see my mother covering her face with her small hands, loud sobs taking over her body, making her small frame shake and slouch.

This is the first time I've actually noticed my mother's fingers. They're thin, with small wrinkles creasing over her once smooth and soft skin from years of washing dishes and peeling fruit. Her nails are trimmed down to her fingers and I realize she hasn't painted them in months which seems like such an irrelevant detail right now but the memories of her painting her nails a different color every week flashes through my mind like a million pins dropping.

I open my mouth again. "Mom...Mom!" I call out, feeling my throat tighten.

She quickly grabs the end of her shirt and lifts a corner up and quickly daps at her tear smeared face. "I've been so stupid..."

"No, Mom I just...." I try to reason.

"This was all a call for help and I've been ignoring it. I'm a horrible mother," she whispers, her voice hoarse from crying.

"This isn't your fault and I'm not suicidal," I say louder.

"Regardless it's clear that you need help," she says, staring back at me.

I sit quietly as I try to avoid making eye contact with her again.

"The therapist didn't work last time even though I thought it was a great idea and clearly you've become so obsessed with your weight that it's getting in the way of your life," she says.

I cringe as I remember when my mother made me see the therapist for the first time. Her name was Dr. Avone and all she ever did was ask how I felt and poke questions about my looks and weight which I was already insecure about. Overall she just made me feel so uncomfortable and I would count down the minutes to when every appointment would end.

"I know you didn't like Dr. Avone," my mother says as if she can read through my thoughts. "But maybe she just wasn't a great fit we can find someone who can work with you but you have to give them a chance."

"I don't want to do anything," I say keeping my eyes on the floor.

"Yeah I know that's the damn problem."

She has nothing to worry about, her and Rebecca have it so easy. They don't feel eyes on them when they walk down the street, they don't know the humiliation of flipping through piles of clothes trying to a bigger size, they don't know the embarrassment of walking into a fast food restaurant and knowing that everyone around you is judging you.
"Why do you even care?"

My mother scoffs. "What are you talking about? I'm your mother I always care," she says, ironically in the most uncaring tone of voice.

"Yeah well I never have," I mutter as I lift myself up from the table.

"Emma sit back down!" she shouts, but I'm already inches away from the flight of stairs.

"Emma!" she warns.

I turn around. "Just let it go Mom it's really not that serious!"

"You starving yourself isn't something I can just ignore Emma! It is a big deal and it is serious; it's very serious!"

That line always has a way of pissing me off. Its not like I'm fucking anorexic. "I'm not starving myself!" I yell back.

"Emma you throw up everything you eat on purpose you practically are starving yourself," she says switching her tone to a less aggressive volume.

"Yeah well I'm not and maybe you should be lucky you don't look like me so you wouldn't have to do the same thing too," I say feeling the familiar twitchy feeling in my nose. I'm going to cry; I feel it and I'm not going to do it in front of my mother.

She gets up from the kitchen table and starts walking closer towards me. "Emma when you were a little girl not too long ago you were about the same size and you loved yourself. I was amazed at how such a young innocent girl could hold such confidence. What happened to her?"

I turn my head away from her as I feel the hot tears begin to run down my already flustered cheeks. "She died..." I responded quietly.

"Emma you're never going to get yourself better if you keep talking like that!" my mother shouts. She walks closer to the banister of the stairs in an attempt to get a good look at me. "Please Emma..."

"I don't want to get better! I wish you would you would just leave me the hell alone and let me hate myself in peace!" I shout before bolting up the stairs.

I can still hear her loud voice as I slam the door to my bedroom shut. "It's like I don't even know who you are anymore!" she screams.

Quite honestly, neither do I.