Gossamery

Your affliction is weighing beauty in the amount of bones you can count that rise to the surface just under your skin. / Trigger warning: eating disorder & overdose.

A day will come, and it will seem more surreal than any other.

You slip into your black lace dress, you know, the one with the minute tear on the shoulder? Yes, that’s it. The bow underscores your waist that comes in like the five spaces for paragraph indentation that you were taught in school. You ask yourself, “When did this happen?” Ultimately you shrug unconcernedly, but secretly you are pleased. Somewhat; it needs more work. A ten space indentation, perhaps? That’s more like it. Pastel rays of sunshine glint and gleam off of the clear glass of your vanity, as you set your hair in curls that have succeeded in making you feel like a brunette Veronica Lake.

Out you go into the world, and when you arrive at your destination, you catch your reflection in a pool that holds last night’s rain; the rain that soothed you into a sound slumber. You look wispy; you notice your arms, widest at the elbow, that made your mother cry when she saw them.

You are waiting in a glass tunnel, and gosh, there are those dyed rays of sun again. It’s like you have found a way to crawl inside of a kaleidoscope. There’s some woman here, her heels click-clacking on the linoleum much like yours. As she passes in a perfumed cloud, she halts to inspect you. “You are like a doll; a porcelain doll.” Then, “Do you know that?” You shake your head, but smile as she turns, because you have been reminded of the name your grandfather lovingly called you. Dolly.

A doll. That’s what you want to be. Pale and fragile, painted boldly in all the sweetest places: eyes, cheeks, and lips. Blue, pink, and crimson. That’s why your affliction is weighing beauty in the amount of bones you can count that rise to the surface just under your skin. It will continue to rise with time, until it threatens to rip through. Sometimes you trace these outlines with your fingertips; the curved, pointed, and straight. They are striking in their symmetry.

To be a doll, you must be nearly weightless. In your dreams you see yourself walking through snow in the barren, bleak months of winter. If you look behind you, you will see that you have left no trail of footprints in your wake. Your feet are like feathers, swooping down off the wind to merely caress the earth below. You want to feel small in a man’s arms when he holds you close to him. You want to be lifted up, and never fear that a look of strain will cloud his features as you die right then and there from shame.

Later on you walk into a diner with your father, and if you were alone, you wouldn’t even eat, or be there. But you dine to appease him, and you count every bite that you take. You look at the others at their tables, assessing their meals. You were never good at mathematics, but you are comparable to Einstein in terms of calories, fat, and portions. You have memorized it so well, you could add it up in your sleep. Surprise, surprise. You do. Numbers are your victory, and consequently, your downfall. It’s bittersweet.

A heinous car ride on a practically deserted highway. Pain gnaws at you from the depths of your stomach; you equate it to swallowing razor blades in multiples. You spend so long gripping the door handle that each of the knuckles on your right hand are drained of color. The tears that were threatening to escape, stinging your eyes fiercely, have broken free of their restraints. They fall freely into your lap, and you imagine the liquid spreading out wider onto the fabric of your dress. It would have been visible if there was more light; all the lights illuminate green signs with the bolded, white lettering of towns and exits. Exit. Yes… if only you could escape from all of this. That’s what you start mumbling to your father. A glance at him tells you that he’s preparing for a catastrophe.

Questions. Too many to answer; too much to think about. A doctor asks you to rate your pain on a scale from one to ten. You say eight, but then call him back and tell him it was nine after all. You wait. Your blood is drawn, and you hold your father’s hand as if you were a little child. The truth is, you’ve always been afraid of needles and the swirling redness filling up vial after vial. A nurse with a round face pushes and prods your bare midriff. The lightened marks running through your skin like little streams catches her attention. She questions how much weight you’ve lost, and you give her your honest answer. I don’t know. Alarm creeps into her voice as she asks you why you’ve done this to yourself.

What do you tell her? What could you possibly say to make her understand? You despise yourself. The reflection you see in the mirror each morning reduces you to tears. Then the insults start, and you have such anger inside of you for being the only one brave enough to tell you the truth about yourself. You are fat. You are ugly. No one would want you. You start by cutting your meals in half as a punishment. That is, until it’s not enough. You take one meal out completely, then another, until you only eat once a day. Your workouts go up to four hours. It leaves you exhausted, and your legs involuntarily shake as you climb the stairs to bed. Your last thoughts before you sleep are of the calories you’ve burned �" in the thousands �" versus the calories you’ve taken in �" under a hundred. This is your regime. You tell the nurse nothing. Instead, you turn your head away from her.

They tell you it’s an ulcer. You have caused a furious sore within your stomach as a result of starving yourself. The needles come out from lab coat pockets as you’re administered morphine for the pain. What you don’t know is that you are deathly allergic to it. You also don’t know that a mistake has been made. You are given too much; a dosage that would take down a man fully grown. All of the muscles in your body unclench. A deadened hand dangles off the side of your stretcher. This moment becomes a blur. Lights, sounds, and movement. You perceive them, yet remain detached. Once you realize how cold you are in this whitewashed room. You cry out of discomfort, fear, and frustration. A man cleaning the floors hears you. Somehow, your cries affect him enough to act. He brings warm blankets to you, and later you hear him berating the doctor outside of your door. You never managed to thank him like you should have.

You keep drifting. In, out, and back in. You’re awake, yet dreaming. You see things you shouldn’t. Then, you can’t see at all. Nor move. Nor talk. Nothing. All of it is too arduous a task. In your weakest moment, you are floating above a plum sea. There is no sound. A distant light can be seen. It’s perfectly centered. You come back to reality, and you reach out to your father. You haven’t the faintest where he is. You can hear him tell you that he’s standing right beside you, but yet you feel as if you have moved across the room. Once more your reality merges with your vision. The light that you see is closer now. It blinds you. A voice calling your name drifts to you like it originated in another dimension. You feel arms encircling you, possibly lifting you, and then you fade out like the flame of a candle being extinguished in one breath.