It started when he left, when I realized that I needed to get everything in order so that we could live unencumbered, fed, clean and clothed.
I think it’s more appropriate to mention when my dad died and the only time I would let myself cry after his funeral was in the dark, in bed, with JDawg sleeping beside me. And I could only cry because he was never going to make right what he wronged so very badly.
Maybe it was when I slept with all of those people after we broke up the first time, knowing I was only doing it because I knew how much it would hurt him. Especially that one guy. And then I never told him.
No, it started when he and I were on the brink of bankruptcy, when we were spending more than we made and couldn’t afford to drink or smoke pot, but I handed over the money that we didn’t have so that he wouldn’t be anxious and we would have less of a reason to fight. Then I still fought.
Check that, it was when I dated that boy that I couldn’t sleep with because he was waiting for marriage. Then I saw JDawg walking along, smoking and looking angry. And I asked him out for drinks with my friends.
Okay, no. I started when I was trapped in that hotel room with my uncle, knowing what he was saying and trying to do wasn’t right and I ran all the way home. Then I told my father a few days later and he asked me what I did to lead him on.
Really, it started when I asked T back to my house, changed my mind and he held me down and made it so that I couldn’t walk to stand comfortably for three days. Then asked for a do over.
How about when rock star ex walked out and I sunk to the floor, crying and angry, choking on my snot. Then I blinked, stood up, washed my face and left the house – to return a half hour later with an eighth, a 26er and a pack of smokes.
trying one medication, then another, then another, until I’d tried most of what was available in a strength well enough to work and if it wasn’t, in a cocktail? Totally counts. So does repeatedly looking for a diagnosis that would explain why I am who I am and how I am.
When I quit smoking except for that one night of rebellion when I drank enough for alcohol poisoning and everyone ended up naked? Because he said that I had to quit everything that made me able to be me, or else he wouldn’t be with me anymore.
How about the time that I got into a screaming match with my mother and moved out the day after xmas? I was just 16.
When I walked out the door after my cheek bone was fractured? Yup, that too. After I came to, I mean.
When that man offered me an eight-ball for what essentially amounted to pedophiliac permission and I walked off the job. And never went back.
Then there was the second time that I felt a needle slip into my vein, knowing I had the ultimate handle on exactly how far and how fast I wanted to disappear.
All of those times that my fingernails scraped the back of my throat? They count, too. So do all of the 200 calorie days, the 2 hour runs, the multiple packs of cigarettes, cups of coffee, hours not slept, lists made, plans unhatched, 1000 sit-up days, measurements taken and scales stepped on.
It might have started when I ripped an NG tube out, bleeding and leaking liquid food everywhere – the morning after my first and not last heart attack. That’s a story for another day and it involves being strapped down in a not sexy way.
Overdoses and pills popped and skin razored, oh my. Yes, that’s certainly in the same genre, isn’t it?
When I’d been hit with the stick so hard that I couldn’t sit down two days later while being interviewed by children’s protection and I lied for him – for our life together – and then ran away the next day? Counts but led to an attempted suicide, forced vomiting and a fractured rib.
When I asked my teacher to let me work two years ahead in math, instead of participating in woodworking class because no one liked me or wanted to speak to me. That took some reign steering.
But wait, it must have started the first time that I flushed my lunch down the toilet and stopped getting up early enough to eat breakfast before school – leaving me with only one meal a day.
No! I know when it really was.
That last time that I ran into my apartment, sobbing about how the kids on the courtyard had pretended that I was causing an earthquake, that I was laughed at and called ‘Mrs. Piggy’ and my father said I was being stupid and he was tired of hearing about this bullshit. That if I had such a problem with my weight, to do something about it.
And I did.
This month marks the 20th anniversary of when a little girl decided that she was going to slowly starve herself to death. But that’s not really what this whole post has been about. It’s been all of these life’s snapshots, showing me each and every way that I have taken control of my actions. It’s how I controlled others. It’s how I manipulated and castrated, at some points.
It’s trying to figure out how to go about letting go.
