27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter 27
Leslie
I returned downstairs, where Dot sat fidgeting on the sofa. She stood as I entered.
“Was that your mom? What’d she say?” She vibrated with the love and concern I craved from my mother. Emotions Mom was incapable of expressing. I was fortunate to have other sources.
“She’s not happy, but I need to do what’s right for me. It’s the only way for me to get well.”
I fell into Dot’s arms while sobs wracked my body. I hated myself for wanting Mom’s approval. Too often I twisted myself into a pretzel to earn praise she doled out by the meager teaspoon. Too little to satisfy but just enough to make me think more was possible. That, of course, was a fantasy. Mom would more likely raise a pitchfork against me than shower me with love. I could hear her sharpening the tines as retribution for losing her most reliable disciple. Her robot assistant. But I refused to parrot her dogma anymore, and scant else bound us together. Estrangement had long since become our norm, and right now that was fine by me.
I lifted my head off Dot’s soaked shoulder, wiping my face dry with the hem of Risto’s shirt. “Sorry for that.”
“We all need a good cry sometimes.”
That must be true, because as my sadness dissipated, a lightness took over. Free of the guilt and shame, I centered on a sensation that was growing more familiar by the day. Hunger. It wasn’t a nagging hollowness, doomed to be ignored. It was a tap on the shoulder, a reminder to take action.
“After I finish eating the breakfast Risto made, I’d love for us to go to the grocery store,” I said. “I’ll head over to your house shortly to get ready.”
Dot left and I sat before the plate my sexy hunk of a boyfriend fixed for me.
Devoid of the morning’s excitement, the only sounds came from the undercurrent of Risto’s house. The barely audible hum from the refrigerator. Water droplets settling down the kitchen drain. Muffled tweets from the area’s songbirds outside. Alone, I savored my breakfast like I belonged here. Risto welcomed me home last night. Today, the house sighed its own greeting. I hoped it could tell how much I treasured the welcome.
A calm awareness settled over me that I rarely permitted. My belly was full but comfortable. I’d left half a piece of toast and some egg untouched on my plate, knowing this was only my first meal of the day. There’d be more. Today. Tomorrow. The next day. I’d have to keep reminding myself.
I slotted my dirty dishes into the dishwasher and made ready for another milestone.
Dot glanced over from the driver’s seat on our way to the grocery store.
“When you’re at the beginning of your recovery, food shopping can be scary. For some, it’s akin to being let loose in a candy shop. But the point is to build a new relationship with food, one where you take back the control and make decisions for yourself without guilt or fear.”
“Sounds like heaven,” I joked.
“It is. But after the joy comes the anger. All the years you wasted restricting, implementing strict rules, and punishing yourself when you couldn’t measure up. You’re about to learn a better, healthier, more empowered way to live. I’m excited for you to learn and then share it with the world.” Dot beamed with pride.
No pressure.
Unlike other people suffering from disordered eating, there was a public service aspect to my journey that was impossible to ignore. Chronicling my progress, and reporting back, would be an essential part of bringing authenticity to this important topic. I would be a counterbalance to all the celebrity false prophets hawking diet plans that failed so spectacularly they ran straight to diet pills after they regained their weight. Those would also fail because we were human. The sooner the masses got this message, the better off we’d all be.
But it started with me.
Dot parked at the far end of the parking lot and turned off the ignition. “Every step counts.”
I loved how determined she was to get back to her usual routine. Already, I found it hard to keep pace with her when we were out walking Pepper. Dot planned to return to yoga next week and insisted I go with her. An exercise class was something I never would have been able to attempt before, since I got lightheaded and clumsy at the slightest exertion. Now fed, the competitor in me looked forward to seeing Dot in action at the studio, even if she wasn’t yet teaching the class herself.
The world certainly underestimated the fitness abilities of large-bodied people. Dot recommended I follow a bunch of body-liberation creators on Instagram. Each posted video after video showing fitness moves impossible for me to contemplate doing myself.
Lifting heavy weights.
Bending and stretching with fluid, controlled movements.
Hiking in forests and across mountains.
Multi-day kayak trips with overland portages.
Biking and swimming.
These influencers honored their large bodies in tight spandex that hugged every curve, roll, and cellulite dimple. They proudly reclaimed fitness wear formerly reserved for the lithe and trim. It was a positive reminder that movement was for everyone. It led to stronger bodies and freer minds, and I’d have to make moving a priority.
But first I needed to buy the fuel.
At the market entrance, I yanked an enormous shopping cart from the corral of nested carriages and followed Dot through the automated doors.
“We’ll go up and down every aisle and see how it goes,” she said. “This entire store is yours and you can buy—and eat—anything in it. Some foods are more nutrient dense, have more whole grains, and will keep you feeling fuller longer. They also have more vitamins and minerals, but you aren’t a better person for choosing a melon over a bag of chips. It’s just food. Right?”
I nodded but knew that was my first lie. I’d absorbed too many negative body messages down to the cellular level. Anxiety crept up my legs, so I clutched the cart handle tight to center on its solidness.
I was screwed. We were only standing in the produce section. What would happen when we got to the cookie aisle?
Dot paused by pyramids of apples and oranges. Across the aisle, clear plastic cartons of berries called to me. I crossed to stand before the strawberries, lifting the container to inhale their fruity perfume.
I imagined red, juicy berries, cut in half and topped with plump blueberries.
I picked up a box of each, holding them against my chest, waiting for a store alarm to sound. Like I’d snatched a jewel out of a display case guarded by a laser-triggered security system.
Dot suppressed her amusement. “It’s okay for you to touch things here. No one is going to tackle you in the aisle for buying food.”
I let out a breath and placed the berries in the cart seat, flipping the plastic guard up so they wouldn’t slide through the gaps. Next, I got some apples, baby spinach, walnuts, cranberries, and a creamy salad dressing that would’ve made my mom shudder with anger at the mere suggestion. It looked like garlicky, creamy heaven in those refrigerated glass jars. I pictured myself ripping the top off and chugging it, white cream dripping down my chin.
Yeah, not a good look.
We rounded the produce section to the refrigerated meat cases, and I selected a package of boneless chicken breast. Dot said she’d show me what to do with it. Visions of grilled chicken fluttered in my head as we hit the cereal aisle. Colorful boxes flashed across my field of vision, fueling my desire for Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. Mom barely let me eat cereal and certainly not anything sugared. Once after a sleepover at a friend’s house, we woke and ate the crunchy, sweet balls. They bobbed in my milk as I dipped my spoon in, leaving me with a delicious milk treat that I drank from the bowl after my friend slurped hers. Delighted, I begged Mom to buy some. She not only didn’t buy it, Mom never let me have a sleepover at that girl’s house ever again. Hurt, the girl drifted away, leaving me friendless. I lost my best friend over fucking breakfast cereal.
I snatched a box off the shelf, grasping the Peanut Butter cereal so hard, the cardboard sides puffed out. Then I tossed the Crunch Berries flavor in the cart too, alongside the Original variety. I was staging a three-box breakfast cereal rebellion.
I grinned up at Dot, who barely pulsed an eyebrow.
“Where to next?” I asked.
She stepped aside. “Why don’t you lead the way?”
We took care to walk up and down every aisle. Instead of the usual overwhelm that typically left me fleeing the store empty handed, cartoon-style through the wall, I calmly browsed. I read labels, and Dot and I discussed the importance of eating a variety of foods. While I was now following a specific meal plan to restart my system, eventually my hunger signals would return. Once that happened, I’d be able to follow my cravings like the women talked about at Dot’s meeting. So odd to think of trusting my body after fighting it for so long.
We entered the refrigerated dairy aisle, and a tub of rice pudding called to me. I reached for it but stopped myself.
“I always wanted to buy this. Once I had it at someone’s house and thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
“What’s stopping you?” Dot asked.
I scanned my overflowing cart. While my usual shopping trips barely filled a handbasket, this sucker was full. I’d always envied shoppers when in the checkout line. As I starved to the point of near fainting, I watched their delectables travel down the black conveyor belt where the cashier would bag them out of sight. I dreamed of launching myself onto the slick surface to sneak home with them. Instead, I’d haul my meager provisions to my apartment and stand in front of my empty fridge to draw nourishment from the chilly air.
I shivered, thinking of it. Of who I used to be.
Today was my first day going to the store and buying whatever I wanted. Would I be able to eat this stuff? Actually, get it past my lips? I trusted Dot, but it still seemed unlikely that once I started eating I’d be able to stop. In my head, I’d keep eating and eating and eating, ballooning out until my body exploded undigested food all over the walls. Looking at the pudding carton near my hand, a wave of nausea rolled through me.
“I changed my mind.” Body erect, I turned to leave.
But Dot blocked the cart with her body. “Hold on now. Tell me what just happened?”
My shoulders sagged. “Do I have to?”
“Muneca, you’re stuck in a polarized way of thinking. You’re either starving yourself or you’re an enormous human ball rolling down the street. Am I right?”
She had me. “Kinda. Yeah.”
“Have you ever imagined yourself in the middle? Where you enjoy eating food that tastes good, have what you want, then stop?”
“Is that even possible?”
“Yes, but you need to learn to trust yourself.” She lifted the carton of rice pudding. “Rice pudding is fine to eat. It’s no better or worse than anything else in the store. Tell me the truth. If we leave this pudding behind, what happens?”
“I get home and wish I had it.”
“Then what?”
“I’d obsess about it and make myself miserable.”
She laughed. “I’m the same. Only difference for me was that I’d launch into a binge. I’d keep eating things, wishing they were the item I craved. By the end, I would have consumed way more than I intended or wanted. When I dieted, bad days became ‘free days.’ I killed my diet for the week already, so what was the point of trying? But I was searching for something I couldn’t put in my mouth.”
“What was it?”
“So many things. Happiness. Love. Companionship, when I was missing your uncle Arty. Peace when I wanted to calm down about a frustrating situation. If I finished a book and was sad it was over. It could be anything. But what was the one thing I never hoped to fix?”
I shook my head, not knowing.
“Not once was I ever hungry. I was overcome with another emotion and used food to fill the gap. What were you feeling when you reached for the pudding?”
Visions of me in a pink lollipop wonderland flashed to mind. I was smiling and sitting in front of a table with a clear glass sundae cup full of rice pudding. The goofy vision made me smile. “Happy. I felt happy.”
“And when you pulled away?”
Fear.
After eating too much, I’d stroll into the street and be surrounded by jeering people. They’d stop, point, and laugh at me and my fatness. I’d end up lonely and unloved because I was too weak to resist a fucking bowl of pudding.
Shoppers rolled carts past where we stood in the center of the wide dairy aisle. Not a single one giving either of us any notice. They didn’t care. Why was I so scared of offending strangers? They’d pass by into their own lives, and I’d never see them again. They’d have no memories of the gal they saw at the supermarket, petrified by a tub of rice pudding.
Dot still held it. A glossy white container with an image of a purple tablecloth under a mounded dish of rice pudding sprinkled with cinnamon. This time, the tub didn’t make me happy or afraid. I felt nothing. But I might like to have some later, so I lifted it off her flat palm and placed it in the shopping cart.
She gave me a kiss. “I’m proud of you.”
“For choosing pudding?”
“For taking control of your life.” She bumped me with her hip as she took over the cart and headed toward the checkout.
A glow warmed me from within as I strutted behind her.
I’m proud of me too.