Designated Fat Girl (2 page)

I just don’t have the fight in me anymore. I’ve been battling
myself for two solid days, part of a several-years-long war, and I am done. It’s exhausting, and I simply don’t have the strength. I am weak. I am a failure. I am a disgusting pig of a woman, and I’m tired of trying desperately to convince myself otherwise. What’s the point? Ultimately I will lose. Sooner or later I will give in to the compulsion that has plagued me for almost a decade. Why not get it over with now? Save myself the added failure of this doomed charade. Go ahead and prove my subconscious right—the voice that started as a whisper when we arrived at the beach on Sunday—the same voice that now, on Tuesday, is a pitch above shrieking. YOU ARE A WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT! YOU CAN’T CONTROL YOURSELF AND EVERYBODY KNOWS IT! THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS HAVE THE GUTS TO ADMIT YOU NEED IT! YOU CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT IT! YOU WILL DIE WITHOUT IT! YOU ARE A SPINELESS WIMP!

The room is almost completely dark. The shades are drawn on the two tiny windows, but I can still see the smallest sliver of light blue sky, readying to make its retreat for the night. I’ve been in here for a long time, and I need to pee. But in here is
safe and out there is a land mine of emotions that I don’t want to face. Disappointment. Hurt. Disgust. I see it in their eyes when they look at me, or rather, when they glance at me for a millisecond before averting their gaze. It hurts to look at me. I avoid it as much as possible myself.

It suddenly occurs to me what a ridiculous pose I strike. Michael and I were both flabbergasted when we got stuck with the bedroom with twin beds. The other rooms in the rented bungalow were needed for various reasons by other family members, and so this was it. We’d discussed pushing the beds together; but after two nights, that has yet to happen. And here I lay, with my mounds of flesh hanging off both sides of my assigned cot. Not even the almost complete darkness nor my dark top and even darker pants can keep me from reaching a surprising realization: I no longer fit on a twin bed. After some ten years as an active member of the morbidly obese, I thought I’d identified and experienced every humiliation possible. If only that were really true.

I wonder how long I can hide out in here. Every time Michael comes to check on me—at last count, three—I feign sleep. It’s a family vacation, and I am supposed to be spending time with family; instead I am in a dark room on a twin bed fighting with myself over whether or not I should eat. Sooner or later I’m going to have to go out and show myself. I will have to face my husband, who so doesn’t deserve this, but whom I can’t seem to treat the way he should be treated. He shows me nothing but love, care, and respect; in return he gets nothing but lies and a big fat mess of a wife. I often think I will burn in hell for the way I abuse the body that God gave me, but deep
down I know it’s my poor treatment of such a wonderful man that will haunt me for eternity.

I try to heave myself off the bed, but my middle is so large that it takes a few tries. My joints ache from lying there so long, and my head hurts from the tears that stain the pillow. I know what I must do, and my heart is heavy. I have to lie, again, and I have to go eat. There’s no turning back now. The decision has been made and that’s that. Time to get on with it already.

I turn on the light and immediately wince from the bare bright bulb hanging from the ceiling fan. As my eyes adjust, I go over to the small dresser that sits against the wall across from the beds. Grabbing a tissue, I blot at the black smears under my hazel eyes. I smooth down the wild, thin brown hair sticking up on my head. I press my clothes with both hands, willing the wrinkles to fall away. I shrug, knowing it really doesn’t matter anyway. I look like a big piece of shit, and nothing I do in the next thirty seconds, thirty days, or thirty years is going to change that. Nothing.

I’m almost out the door before the plaintive wail from deep within me can finally be heard.
Don’t do this! You’ve had two great days! Keep going! You are strong! You deserve better!

My hand pauses in midair above the doorknob. I want to hear the other side of the argument; I long to believe that I am worth saving, that my life has meaning and value. But I’ve been caught in the middle of this psychological push-pull for most of my adult life, and the truth is, it’s easier to believe the bad stuff. When you grow up assuming that you are worthless, it is an uphill battle even to try to think differently. Some days, like the last two, I am able to convince myself that yes, I am worthy.
Yes, I deserve happiness. I eat relatively well. I am able to beat back the voices of negativity that infest my psyche. But eventually the tide of self-hatred washes ashore, and it pulls with it every good intention of mine. I am breathless from the swift movement of all my hard work out to sea, and I am left drained and empty. I have no fight. I feel hopeless and doomed. I curl into a ball and let the ocean of misery reclaim my miserable soul. The final resignation, after hours and hours of going back and forth within myself, is a relief.

So it’s decided, but it doesn’t make the lie any easier. My heart pounding, I open the door and quickly step out into the hallway, before I change my mind yet again. All the other bedrooms in the house are dark; it appears everyone is either in the living room or the kitchen.

I slowly walk down the hall, making out the familiar sounds of the Madden NFL video game. Michael was like a kid, so excited to bring his Xbox so that he could play with his brother, Eddie. He had been looking forward to this vacation, so ready to spend time at the beach with his parents, his brother, his sister, and their families. I suppose he was happy to have me here, too, although I can’t imagine why. Surely no one thought a beach trip would be a good thing for me. Fat girls and the beach go together like vegetarians and pig pickin’s.

I reach the living room. Michael’s video game is emblazoned on the too-large television teetering on the too-small television stand. He and Eddie are gesturing wildly with their controls, deeply enthralled in their play. They don’t see me, their backs are to me, and I’m guessing not much could make them unglue their eyes from the screen. But little Eddie sees
me. My three-month-old nephew is lying on a blanket on the floor, his little legs kicking wildly inside his sleeper, all fuzzy and blue and covered with little white lambs. He gives me a huge gummy grin, kicks harder, and flails his little arms with glee. My throat catches, as it has many times during this trip.
I want one of those,
I say to myself for the thousandth time.
Then don’t do this,
that little voice finds another way to break the surface and get through to my conscious mind. But it’s a futile effort. My fate—at least for this night—has already been decided.

“Touchdown!” Michael jumps up and pumps his fist into the air, while Eddie drops his face into his hands. It’s obvious who is having the better game.

My stomach is fluttering with nerves, but I decide now is as good a time as any. “Hey.” I try to sound casual, but I’m sure they’ll see right through me. I swallow hard, waiting for their reaction to seeing me after all my time locked in my room.

It’s anticlimactic, to say the least. “Hey, honey,” Michael says, not looking up. He immediately laughs at Eddie. “How many times are you going to run that play, man? Give it up!”

I’m left standing there, stupidly. That’s it? No questions, no looking me over? I’m dumbfounded … and a little ticked.

“I’m going to go out and get a newspaper,” I say, waiting, almost willing Michael to whip around at me suspiciously, hitting me with questions.
Why do you need a newspaper? It’s raining out. Should you be driving? Can I go with you?

But there’s none of that. “Okay,” Michael says, and Eddie suddenly jumps up, as if doing so will improve his game. “Dude, where’s my kicker?!”

And that’s that. They’re playing, and I’m standing behind the couch, fingering the little tassels hanging from an afghan thrown over the top. And I’m pissed. Predictably, I’m looking for someone to blame, and Michael has walked right into my trap.
How could you let me do this?
I silently scream at him.
Don’t you see what I’m up to? Don’t you care?

Without another word, I grab my purse and my keys off the entryway table and walk out the door. Hot tears sting my eyes, but I’m not really sure why I’m crying now.

Do I really blame Michael for this? I know that can’t possibly be true, but I am weary from the self-hatred in which I’ve wallowed all afternoon. I’m looking for a reprieve, if even for a little while. I brush the ill-conceived animosity toward Michael aside and get into my car.

We’ve only been at the beach for two days and I haven’t driven by myself yet. With my horrible sense of direction, I just know I will get lost. Still, that doesn’t stop me. I am pretty sure I can get to the grocery store, and what I am looking for won’t be too far from that. I pull out of the main drive of the vacation resort and onto the highway. I breathe a deep sigh of relief. Finally I begin to let myself off the hook.

I turn on the radio. I hum a little with the familiar tune. The deal-making starts.
I’ve been really good the last two days,
I tell myself.
I’ve earned a little reward. I am on vacation, for Pete’s sake. And, I’m here with my in-laws! Talk about stress! It’s okay to go ahead and eat tonight. Tomorrow I can start fresh. Tomorrow there are five days left of this trip. Five solid days of eating right and exercising, and I can go home feeling good. Yes, a little treat tonight is in order. It’ll help keep me motivated for the rest of my time here!

Of course my reasoning is ridiculous. Of course my mood over the last several hours can only be described as manic. Beat myself up. Feel sorry for myself. Blame others. Pick myself up with lies. I know it’s a twisted existence, but having that knowledge doesn’t stop me from doing it, from living it. I’ve lived this way so long, I feel powerless to change it. I wouldn’t even know where to start.

No, I’m not going to let the reality of my psychosis get me down now. This is one of the only happy times I get in a day, the period right before I eat. I’ve suffered the hours of indecision, and I have finally relented to the temptation. Now I can enjoy it, revel in it. There will be plenty of time later for more self-loathing, for sure.

I exit the highway, heading toward the bright fluorescent glow of the shopping center. I quickly find what I’ve been looking for, and I pull the car into the familiar drive-thru. No, I haven’t been to this particular McDonald’s before, but it doesn’t matter. McDonald’s is my home. My comfort. The people here have exactly what I need, and nothing is going to stop me from getting it.

I smile for the first time in two days.

“Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?” the voice crackles on the other end of the speaker. Sometimes the voice is friendly and inviting; sometimes it’s rushed and annoyed. I suppose it doesn’t really matter, as long as it is here to help me.

“Yes, I’d like a double cheeseburger meal, super-sized, with a Coke,” I answer, not needing a menu. My order is always the same.

“Will that complete your order?”

No, it wouldn’t. “Oh, I forgot. I also need a ten-piece Chicken McNugget Meal with a Sprite, please.” I don’t know why I feel the need to try and make it sound like I’m ordering for two people, feigning forgetfulness and ordering a different drink with the second meal. Do I really care what the lady at McDonald’s thinks of me?

“Is that super-sized, too?” the disembodied voice asks.

“No thanks,” I say cheerily. No need to act like a pig. I crack myself up.

“Pull up to the window for your total.”

As I wait for my food, I wonder, bemusedly, how much money I’ve spent on fast food in my lifetime. Surely it is in the thousands of dollars. I feel a twinge of guilt, but I quickly stuff it down, turning up the radio and singing along. I refuse to feel bad now. In my mind the drive-thru line is my safe zone.

The smell of salt and grease fills me with joy. My mouth waters, and my throat aches for those first tastes. It’s been two whole days, an amazing amount of restraint on my part. My pulse quickens as the car in front of me pulls off and I move forward. I pay the lady and ask for extra ketchup. She gives me my change and my food and drinks. I haven’t even pulled away from the window before I am reaching into the bag for a handful of fries. I stuff them into my mouth, wincing from the heat, but chewing heartily anyway. They burn a little, but I don’t care. Now, for a brief moment, I don’t feel quite so empty.

I have almost finished the first carton of fries before I pull into the parking space in front of the grocery store. I suppose
the rain is keeping folks inside, as there are few cars in the parking lot. I don’t feel self-conscious at all as I polish off the double cheeseburger in record time. The ache in my stomach is beginning to dissipate, but I still want more. My mind is blank as I finish off the second batch of fries. I finally stop eating long enough to take a long slurp of Coke, enjoying the burn of the carbonation on my throat. I dust off the salt on my fingers and wipe the grease off my hands with a napkin. I take the box of chicken nuggets out of the bag and replace it with the trash from my eaten food. I take the bag and the Sprite and get out of the car. It’s a dance I’ve danced many, many times, and I have the moves down to a science. I throw the trash and the untouched soda in a wastebasket in front of the store and walk inside.

I wonder if I smell like fried food.
Better get something for the car,
I tell myself, making my way down the refrigerated section first. I start to grab an individual carton of Häagen-Dazs, but I think better of it and instead get a gallon of Breyers Chocolate Ripple. I then pick up a can of air freshener and a newspaper. As I wait in line to pay for my items, I grab a Hershey’s chocolate bar and a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I pay without making eye contact with the cashier. Suddenly worried about the time, I hurry back to the car.