Day thirteen

I'm clicking the tears closed behind my lids, counting the seconds to the thousands I've accumulated thus far.  I tell myself I'm not concerned with food.  I'm weak, weaker than a dog to its bell, groomed to react with a shovel to my stomach, groveling for scraps and quiet pity.  I closed the candies you shuttled for me from Europe in the freezer, the black icebox a chastity belt for the gummy candies beckoning my consumption.  Why did I cry yesterday during lunch when the plate was delivered?  I knew our order would be too cumbersome, as mine always is, the person behind the counter writing each bewildered request feverishly as my demands overflow.  I made up my mind that this was not what I expected as we waited to pay, condoning another excuse to give into the frustrations of eating a "normal" meal.  Our order arrived together, my salad and black beans sharing porcelain with your stir-fry.  I clapped my right foot against my left shin, pretzeling my arms around my midsection, slicing my head away from you as my tears jumped to my cheeks.  This isn't right, this isn't what I wanted ... if only they had listened to me ... listen to me.

I imagine myself as the little girl in The Secret History, trapped in the water tower squirming with snakes and rodents, her curiosity and devilish mind to blame for her fate, or as Ashley Judd in Kiss the Girls, dumped into a well lined blood and cancer, like a bulimic's esophagus.  All of those years of conditioning with dance and aerobics and running, singing and laughing and reading, now as pale as the sunlight, dimming as the minutes blur into years.  I must remember the end result - that all of my dirt and scarring and soiled past is irrelevant, as long as I make it out of this hole.  Scars will heal, dirt will be laundered and scented with lavender, and the past ten years of conditioning will be blinded by the brightness of the distant light.