Chapter 16 Ash #2
But still it wasn’t enough. I was still too big, too heavy.
The first time I made myself sick after a meal, I’d felt relieved.
I had eaten a good meal, but I knew I’d overeaten.
It had been my mom’s birthday, and the tease of “it’s just one day” hadn’t convinced me that I could eat all that sugar and food and not be weighed down by it. Pun intended.
I made myself sick, and I felt better. I had enjoyed the good food, and I wouldn’t see the consequences on the next weigh day.
I was sure it was a one-off.
The next time, I had a bad practice, and Coach was mentioning trying me on defense again.
I went to the store and bought so much food that the cashier asked if there was a party they hadn’t been invited to.
I ate it under the bleachers in the school gym.
Within forty minutes of the final wrapper hitting the floor, I was in the boys’ restroom, violently throwing up.
I felt so bad afterward, I convinced myself I would have been sick anyway. A body wasn’t meant to consume that much junk food in such a short time.
Whether it was stress, puberty, or all in my head, my weight only got heavier, and my speed didn’t increase.
I was never going to be a tight end. I started making myself sick after every second meal, and the weight started to slowly come off me. I had cracked it.
Or so I thought.
My body started reacting to the fact that I wasn’t letting it have any nutrients. I was tired, more so than usual. If I didn’t have school or practice, I was sleeping the day away.
Gray noticed before anyone else. I thought I had been so clever until I walked out of my bathroom one night, and my cousin was sitting on my bed waiting for me.
He had heard me being sick after a family meal, and no amount of trying to convince him that I had eaten something that didn’t agree with me worked. He wasn’t buying my bullshit, and he went and got Jett.
When I confessed it all to them, they then accompanied me downstairs and sat with me while I told my mom and dad.
I was at a health specialist’s first thing on Monday morning, where they told me I suffered from bulimia.
When I came home, Quinn was waiting with a notebook, and she took a hand in my meal planning with my mom.
A few times since then, I had an episode, as they called them. My family gave me amazing support, so I had no idea why I turned to food for comfort, when it was the one thing that I hated most about myself, my ability to eat.
Between Mom and Quinn, I knew what I was eating was right.
And when Quinn and I broke up, I started to panic.
I knew we would all be coming to college, and I knew Quinn was no longer an option to help me.
My parents offered to get us a cook, but a cook in a football house only raised questions.
Gray took over the preparation of my meals.
Jett tried to cook, but was quite frankly awful at it, a trait he obviously inherited from his mom.
The few times I’d tried to cook before we started college, I had gotten my portion size wrong, or I snacked during cooking. The snacks were not part of the plan, and knowing that, I would then make myself sick.
As I got older, I thought I had handled it better. I hadn’t had one binge since the start of sophomore year and only once in freshman year, and that time, I hadn’t made myself sick, but I had made Gray come with me every day to the gym until I worked it off.
Six ounces of chicken can only take a man of my size and sport so far, which is why Quinn’s studying nutrition was such a boost. I was so strict with what I ate, and I had the support of my family to keep me from being overwhelmed and on track.
Then tonight happened. When I got home, the fridge was only my destination due to the fact that’s where Mom kept the calendar of Santo coming and goings. I’d opened the fridge for a drink and saw cold cuts, leftovers, cake, and all the other things I denied myself.
I started on the meatloaf. Mom made the best, and it was something I was just not allowed on my food plan.
It had been good, but hadn’t satisfied me.
I ate the turkey on a large slab of bread, thick with butter and sprinkled with salt.
That had also been a treat and so damn good I’d been sorry when it was finished.
When I went to get another drink, I noticed the carton of doughnuts.
Four left, out of who knew how many — each a different kind.
I tried one. One hadn’t been enough. Curious to know the other flavor, I ate it too.
Before I knew it, I had finished the box.
Feeling slightly disgusted, I grabbed a Coke and a bag of chips and headed to bed, somehow snagging a couple of candy bars for later, just in case.
I ate it all as soon as I sat on my bed.
Then I felt sick. Which, of course, I would, as I packed an insane amount of food and sugar into my belly, but I was sure I was healthier in my mind now; I would keep it down.
While I finished my Coke, I looked up the calories in a doughnut. Within moments, I was bent over the toilet and emptying my stomach. I stayed in there for a good while, and when I came out, my phone had already been lighting up with calls and messages.
I was in no state to talk to anyone, so I ignored them.
I knew what my aunt would have seen when she came in. I would have been too pale, sweaty, and the dark rings under my eyes would have let her know I had been sick.
My bulimia was well known to my family. Even Tilly knew that I didn’t get the same food as her because I was “allergic.”
Was it Quinn’s fault I binged tonight? No.
Was it Gray’s fault? No.
Was it mine? Absolutely.