Phat

This is a poem I wrote during winter/spring 2015. It was 1 1/2 years since I had begun fighting in my struggle with bulemia. I knew that I had to confront the issue at some point, so I wrote this.

In eighth grade,

I walked a 19 minute mile,

 Not because that’s what 13 year old rebels are supposed to do,

But because the way my lungs burned and heart pounded against my chest from walking to the cafeteria scared me enough,

And unlike in the lunch line, I knew there wasn’t pizza encouraging me to power through to the finish line.

I remember on a January afternoon,

Asking my stepdad to take out the scale for me,

His gaze pleaded for me to change my mind,

Silently telling me “You don’t want this and neither do I”

But the type of puppy dog eyes and eager grin that self convince “Yes, I am a healthy boy”,

Despite the way that I waddled with a two liter bottle,

Made him feel too sorry to verbalize;

My heart landed in the pit of my stomach like a lead shot-put as 238.5 stood out instead of four numbers more like…

Four more reasons to sit in the back of classroom and not raise my hand,

Four more reasons to keep quiet when someone said hello,

Four more reasons to understand why I had no friends,

Four more reasons I wasn’t good enough.

We both knew what the numbers meant, he perhaps more than me,

The problem with 13 year old him was that he was too thin;

The scale can be a double aged death sentence.

I was paralyzed, hugging him tight, hoping that by the time I stopped sobbing and the numbers vanished, I could pretend once again that I was just a little husky.

In English class, we were writing a list of things we appreciated about each other,

And watching each perfectly paired set of friends write inside jokes and secrets shared,

I felt just slightly included;

But I had no smirk or joker to anticipate,

Maybe one who would take the opportunity to reach out;

Wishful thinking;

“Aaron- I appreciate that Aaron isn’t fat”

Two skinny boys reared coyote teeth, cackling hard, like their heartbreakingly genius irony wouldn’t drive me to go home and eat myself to sleep. Wait, don’t tell me; sad, I know.

But rather might make me realize that they care and want me to bear my heart and put the mirror of my self image back together piece by piece,

And this guerilla classroom assault was in fact the superglue I had been searching for;

For such a big kid I didn’t know I could feel so small.

I remember the first day of kickboxing,

After a spontaneous decision at an intersection, today everything was going to change.

Doubling over after mere minutes, 
I gasped out between breaths from the ground, with wet vomit building up in my throat “Please, just let me rest”

Sensei said yes,

And to get changed while I’m at it, because

“In this dojo, we do not accept weakness.”

And so I ran, and for the first time my demons didn’t seem like cracks developed in finely crafted china dishes, priming them for a garage sale appearance, but stubborn stains to be washed away with diligent work and faith.

In October my mom got a call, finding out that after a month in high school I was already failing all classes but two,

Because despite the pounds I may have shed,

The siege on my ego had not yet begun;

I still didn’t own I, let alone want what I was.

So went on the dreading of every imperfection that might be pointed out swiftly to trip me up just for the type of fantastic fall that doesn’t even need a laugh track.

As a punishment, kickboxing lessons discontinued until I could “begin caring” about school in the same way,

As if by having one passion taken away, the love would just transmute to academics. These aren’t emotions; they’re stocks to be adjusted and invested according to greatest profit margin;

And so broke five months of perfect attendance at weekday classes and when I could shake my stepdad hard enough early enough to wake him up, Saturdays too,

The last time I went to school was two months later.

In January I discovered the way that two fingers run down the throat and against the uvula can make your stomach empty entirely,

And for the first few months, thought confidently that there was nothing wrong with me,

Because I feel pretty enough to not need peer interaction, let alone peer approval.

I say pretty because that’s the only accurate word for the way I felt, like a plastic flower or printed napkin; Like all the things that make you smile briefly despite your eagerness to throw them away.

For just a moment, the self doubt and hate faded away just a little bit,

Even if it howled tenfold louder ten minutes later; addiction has no time for foresight.

After three months, I couldn’t remember the last meal I had held onto for more than an hour,

Though I still wouldn’t dare try and run the mile,

Because even if I was eager to read the number on the scale,

 150.5 can still be four reasons that you’re not good enough.

I don’t remember the day that I quit,

But what I do remember was a process;

 I remember running two blocks just to spit up phlegm and vomit, then slowly walk home,

I remember five minute workouts followed by twenty fine minute anxiety attacks on the floor of the gym bathroom,

And gourmand  vegan salads that wound up just looking pretty at the front of the fridge for one week and rotting in the back for three,

I used a keyboard for a pillow after surfing websites after website until 4AM for specialized diets and workouts,

 Stalking grocery store aisles like a lion sneaks up on a Savannah big game hunter,

 And up close he realizes just how tenuous his greatest fear is,

If he can just…

I do not know my weight right now other than that it’s in the 160s

But I’m sure if I did, it would merely be four reasons to sleep well at night.

These aren’t stretch marks that crack along my legs, torso and arms,

Only scars I’ve earned throughout the battle for a better life;

Yes my skin is loose and sags in some places,

It’s just resting after a long, arduous adventure;

I know they have a surgery for that, thanks anyway,

I’ve already wasted too much time experimenting with painful ways to throw away chunks of myself.