Thinned Out

Every year in the early days of spring my father pulls on a pair of tanned leather gloves, thick with a layer of soil, but broken in deep from years of protecting his hands. Many men dread doing yard work, but after of the number of hours he’s spent with his butt planted in his office chair at work, work in the open air feels like a break and brings about a certain nostalgia of summer days in his childhood when his chores took place outdoors. Whenever I feel his hands, I always question how weekend golf and managing a business which he loves as his own children could leave his hands so permanently calloused. My hands are fair with long, delicate fingers that barely hold a size-five ring. They look like little twigs when interlaced in his strong, firm grip.

            But this story is less about my father and his hands than it is about how his hands compare in size to my own. I could really use anyone’s hands for frame of reference in this story, but I use my father’s because it’s the feature he mentioned when he noticed that I was thinning out. I don’t like to use the words losing weight. For most, the words losing weight have a positive association, like it’s always something good for your health, but lose too much and those words mean something different. At that point, losing weight becomes something vain and disordered. They look at you like you're some sort of selfish addict, relating the need to be skinny solely with the intention of being pretty. I’d prefer not to meet the qualifications for that association. 

            “I can tell, Jess.” The words left his mouth softly, like how a sheet falls when you’re putting fresh linens on a bed. I didn’t really feel them at first, but as they settled, their weight sank into me, wrapping me up whole.

            His hand reached across the table, slowly enough that I could have withdrawn if I wanted. Do it. I didn’t want to. He grasped my fingers, just by the ends, leaving just enough looseness that I could have pulled away. Do it. I didn’t want to.

            “It’s becoming noticeable,” he said. His manner was non-confrontational and I didn’t feel targeted, but I noticed my toes curling in and out, the friction creating heat between my socks and the soles of my shoes. When I was little and still scared of getting injections, my friend’s mom always told me to curl my toes as a distraction. Now I just do it anytime I feel the nerves sinking in. I need that distraction. 

            He looked down at the azure veins showing lightly through my paper thin skin. “I can see it in your hands,” he said. “Your fingers,” he continued, “they’ve become so thin.” I knew he was right, but I’d never see it.

            He could have mentioned any other feature, but he was delicate in that sense.

            Most people don’t pick the hands when they talk about weight loss. Usually people look at the larger view. They’ll point out the obvious places, like the legs or hips. “You have such a flat stomach,” they’ll say, unaware of how these statements register within me. My mind feeds off those words, translating them into a motivating voice. Thinner. Thinner.  

            But he saw my hands. He saw the small details that no one else did. Pointing this out felt less aggressive, but at the same time it hurt more. He knows. His statement didn’t feel like the, “You’re so skinny!” complimentary remarks that others will make. People always point out weight loss in areas where the world wants us to be thin. Then it feels like I’m accomplishing something or achieving some expectation. Push further.

            “I’m worried,” he said, and then nothing.

             Those last words wrenched in my almost-nonexistent gut. The problem was there before this conversation, but I was in control. I never asked anyone else to worry about it, but now that he noticed, it became his problem as well. Like a pest, it invaded, making its home in the most inconvenient place. And there it would stay, making a nest out of the dignity and strength its stolen from me. Hissing, You won’t exterminate me.

* * * * *

            I still haven’t really figured out what’s worse: watching someone suffer or suffering yourself. Every part of me knows I could make everyone else feel better if I just went into treatment and gained the weight back. But I know that the thoughts would worsen. The pest would remain inside me, even if I didn’t show it to anyone else.

            And it seems obvious that going into treatment should be a choice made for myself and my personal health, but I feel like choosing that route would be more of a choice made for everyone else. It’d be for my parents, my close friends, my doctors, so they wouldn’t have to watch me suffer. But just because they wouldn’t see it doesn’t mean it wouldn’t still be there. You don’t want me to go.

* * * * *

            I remember sitting on the table at the doctor’s office when I was in sixth grade, seeing the pamphlets for anorexia and bulimia tucked neatly into boxes on the wall. They hung almost unseen next to the information for major diseases and sicknesses, like Tuberculosis, Malaria, and HIV, so I never took them seriously. It’s not really a disease in the eyes of many. It’s technically a psychological disorder, but really it infects someone the same way as any illness, unstoppably creeping in and making its nest within the innocent. I’m here, it says. I won’t bite. But it’s vicious.

            “Let’s have you step on the scale now,” the nurse said. She was rounder than most and had an appearance that reminded me of a soft marshmallow, which I liked. “Take your shoes off first.”

            I stepped on the scale, watching the meter bob up and down as she pushed the metal tab back and forth trying to get an accurate read. My dad used to tell me that his father used to take each kid in his family out for a banana split when they reached one hundred pounds. For so long I thought that was the best incentive. I can’t completely remember when weight started mattering to me. I don’t remember when the idea of getting a banana split would have been enough incentive for me to gain. Actually now a banana split would just be a disincentive. You’ll just gain more.

            “I don’t ever remembering weighing that,” she joked, writing down the number.

            “How much?,” I asked.

            Looking up from the scribbles on her doctor’s notice she said, “Thirty-four kilograms, which is roughly seventy five pounds.” She flipped back a few pages in her books. “Looks like that’s been about the same for the past two years,” she continued. “It puts you in about the thirtieth percentile for your age weight, so don’t worry about the ice cream.” She smiled a genuine smile and gave me a wink.

            The pamphlets stayed where they were before she weighed me. She didn’t suspect anything, and neither did I. Little do you know, I’m coming. Now I realize that was the first time I kind of cared, but not really about the weight as much as the percentile. Hearing the percentile made it feel almost as a competition. You can win this one, the voice would say now. But the thoughts weren’t there yet then.

* * * * *

            Technically I could change at any point. I could start eating and stop compulsively working out, but I’d have to live with the constant nagging in my head, telling me just how disgusting I was. The illness is internal from my viewpoint, but everyone else only sees it outwardly. For them, progress is gaining and maintaining the weight. They can’t see what’s going on inside. But the only real progress for me is getting the thoughts to silence. The only solution I’ve found thus yet has been to listen to them. To restrict my intake and exert my body to exhaustion. I have yet to find a way to just turn down the volume.

             From a distance it really only looks like there’s only me. It looks like I’m the one in control. Take a step closer and you’ll see there’s two of us. Anorexia is so thin you can’t even see it standing there, controlling. It makes a scapegoat of the person it’s hiding behind. It works inside a person, playing with her like she is some sort of marionette. But the stage’s lights never shine back at the puppeteer. The audience thinks I pull the strings, like this is some sort of show.  But I never even tried out for this role.

* * * * *

            I’ll walk into the gym and I’ll look strong. People don’t guess there’s a problem when they see me run for miles and notice the muscle, dimensional beneath my black running tights. All I see is the downward view though. I see my thighs shake as my feet pound against the treadmill. I feel like my stomach folds over my waistband as I sit down on the spin cycles. Delusional, I know it, but I can’t see it.

            “You ran how many miles?” the guy I always see at the gym asks me yet again.

            He’s in wonderful shape and cares about fitness more than anyone I know personally. He knows I’m the same way, but he doesn’t know that my care is different than his, how it’s twisted and sick.

            “Five,” I repeat myself. I always run at least five.

            He also doesn’t know that I’m sensitive and care too much about what others think. He jokingly told me that I was canceling out my workout when I was getting a to go cup of ice cream at the dining hall one night after the gym. He didn’t realize I skipped dinner just so I could rationalize my indulgence. I threw it out when I got home, still without dinner. I haven’t had ice cream since.

            “And now you’re going to swim?” he asks. The sweat on his face makes him look like he’s brightening. Like I’m amazing him in some way.

            “Just for a while,” I say, trying to be casual about it. I prefer admiration to judgement.

            “I always tell you, but you should really join the team,” he says. He’s on the cheer team at the University of Southern California, but he says tuition is just a really expensive gym membership. We run into each other every night around five o’clock at the fitness center. With that I guess tuition is just the same for me.

            “Yeah, I’d need a bit more coordination for that to work,” I laugh, thinking about the girls on the team. At every game their long legs and tiny hourglass figures are thrusted high into the air like little figurines. Their spray tans make them look two sizes thinner. If I got one I’d fit in just fine. No you wouldn’t.

            “Well you sure have the physique,” he says with a wink, walking away to continue his perfectly-plotted workout.

            A half an hour later I’m standing in the shower. From the outside it looks like I’ve done myself well. A little over an hour of cardio and thirty minutes of strength. I’m in great health, everyone thinks. You’re in great health. This is good for you. It’s just perception.

            Standing in the shower, my knees shake with exhaustion. My body craves protein, needs it to live, just like everyone else. My head spins and I grab the shower curtain, as if that sheet of plastic would hold me up if I were to fall. I my mind I can picture the meal I already have planned out for dinner. The thought of it wrenches in my gut. My stomach growls, but my mind growls back.

            I’m not hungry.

            I’m so hungry.

            You can wait.

            I can wait.

* * * * *

            Sometimes our biggest struggles do the best at hiding themselves. They’ll play disguise, inconspicuous to the outside world, but meanwhile they’ll eat us from the inside out, enjoying each layer of carnal flesh, thinking about what we’re serving for dessert tonight. And the harsh reality is, we’re the ones that continue to feed them. We keep them glutinous. To think I can continue to feed the problem but not feed myself is delusional. I know it, but the voice lingers, begging me to sacrifice myself for it. I’m hungry, you’re not.

            The only way someone would know about my problem would be if I told them or if they have incredibly keen awareness. They’d have to know what I was like before the problem existed. They’d have to see how my tendencies have changed, how my eating and workout schedules have become increasingly regimented; they’d have to feel the anxiety like I do, surrendering to its dictatorship.

* * * * *

            I’ll sit down at a burger joint and go straight to the salad section on the menu. Little do the other people at the table know, I’ll usually have already researched the menu and have picked what to order before having even sat down.

            I remember being out to dinner with my girlfriends for my friend’s twentieth birthday. None of us were bold enough to use our fake IDs at the restaurant, as everyone knew the place had a scanner in the back. I usually didn’t order alcohol much anyway. People thought it was because my moral little self felt sinful drinking underaged, but my avoidance was less due to ethics and more due to my steadfast devotion to the nutrition label. I used to order diet soda until I heard from someone else about how it’s just another setback. I’d read it before they told me, but hearing it aloud from someone else made it real.

            “What are you getting, Jess?” the birthday girl asked me.

            As if I hadn’t chosen, I pretended to scan the menu so I didn’t appear too eager. “I think I’ll get a Diet Coke and the House Salad,” I responded quickly, not wanting to draw attention to the words diet or salad. People usually hear those words and say, “Oh you’re so healthy,” but I don’t like to draw attention to what I eat. 

            “You know, I read an article last week that diet soda isn’t actually better for you,” she said. Listen up. It shouldn’t have mattered. It matters.

            “Really,” I said, trying to hide my desire for her to explain what she meant by better for you. I’d seen the write-ups before too, but hearing it out loud made it sound more real. Was she referring to its effects on weight, or brain cells, or mood? I sat for a moment, giving her a chance to expand even though I didn’t need her too. It’s weight, you dumb-ass.

            “Yeah, I guess doctors are saying it doesn’t actually help you lose weight.” The words settled. “Like they say its zero-calorie, but apparently there’s something else in it that makes it harder for your body to process and burn,” she said. See?

            The waitress came to take our order. She had incredibly long and thin legs, but not really the stereotypically attractive kind that models have, more like Big Bird’s legs on Sesame Street. I wondered if she worked out or if it was just genetic. I knew no one else was wondering, and it shouldn’t have mattered to me. Be better.

            My friends ordered first.

            “I’ll have the Tavern Burger, medium-rare, and a side of the sweet-potato fries,” one said. “Oh, wait. Can you make those thick-cut?” she asked. Wrong choice. That change would have been too bold for me. 

            She turned to the next person. “Can I get the Pesto Tortellini?” Too many carbs. “Also, it’s my friend Emily’s birthday tonight. Is there any chance that after this we can get some dessert on the house?”

            I love dessert. I really do. The waitress hadn’t even responded yet, but the voice in my head, whom I didn’t even invite, already told me I couldn’t have any. You don’t like cake, or ice cream, or sweets, it reminded me.

            She got to me, her eyes stopping on my protruding collarbones. My hand covered them nervously. “What’ll you have tonight?,” she asked. 

            I looked down at the menu one more time. “The House Salad and a water, please.”

            “What dressing?”

            “None, thanks,” I said. “Just the salad.”

            “Would you like a lemon wedge on your water?” she asked.

            “No, thank you.”

            Dressing had always been scary. My taste preference for having a soda hadn’t changed, but in that moment, Diet Coke was just too damn scary.

* * * * *

            Really, we’re all so wrapped up in our own selves that it’s unexpectedly difficult to notice someone’s internal problems unless they have an extreme way of manifesting themselves externally. And yes, I’ve lost weight over the years, but the thinning is spread out enough that it is not noticeable in the day to day. It’s people like my father, who see me once every few months, that can see my jawline becoming more and more defined. That can see my waist shrinking, tighter and tighter. That notice my hands becoming frail.

* * * * *

            I can’t speak much about landscaping or plants in general, but I do remember being five and having a conversation with my father about rose bushes. And back then I didn’t give much thought to it, but now I think about what he said quite a lot.

            “You’ve got to get rid of all this junk,” he said, pointing at the petals and leaves that had grown brown and dry over the colder months. If not told otherwise, one wouldn’t ever guess the bush could bear a blossom.  

            “But won’t that kill it?”

            “No, it’s just to thin it out,” he said. “It’ll actually make it stronger, you’ll see.” He continued to stuff his gloved hands into the heart of the bush, pulling apart the thorny branches and throwing them to the side in bunches. As he worked, soft pink petals and fresh green buds began to reveal themselves within the mess. The bush lost much of its density, but he was right. It was thinner, but somehow it looked more full.

            That was a long time ago.

            Back then, it didn’t mean the same thing to me.

* * * * *

            As my father’s hand rested on my own, he asked, “What’s it like?” Maybe he was asking how I felt, or maybe he was asking about the anorexia.

            A car was parked in the drive across the street. I could see two people in the car yelling at each other. But to me, an outsider, they were noiseless. 

            “Remember what you told me about pruning rose bushes when I was young?,” I asked, not expecting him to remember.

            “Yes, I do,” he said. He remembered. I forgot who I was working with. He always remembered.

            “That’s kind of how I feel, I guess.” My eyebrows dodged inward, like the thought was a pin poking into the center of my forehead. “I feel pretty thinned out, if that makes any sense.”

            Around my fingers, his grip squeezed a little bit tighter. I’ve never been great at reading signals, but I think that meant he understood. He wouldn’t. He did.

            That’s how I reason through the feelings, or really the disorder as a whole. I always think, maybe thinning could work the same for people. Maybe thinning does make me more full in some strange way. Upon hearing that assertion, most people would send me to a shrink, but he just listened and let me feel how I felt. It’s more of a personal feeling. Starving doesn’t truly make me fuller, but it numbs some of the emptiness in life. So in that sense, I guess I could say I felt more full.

            “And do you remember what else I said about thinning out the plants?,” he asked.

            I sat for a moment, trying to remember. You don’t. I remembered.

            “About what happens if you over-thin a plant?” he said, but my mind didn’t need to be triggered. I remembered perfectly. No, you don’t. I thought about the neighbors next door and about their scrawny-looking rose bushes. I remember always seeing the woman out, cutting away until there was almost nothing left.

            “I don’t remember,” I said.

            That’s right. You don’t.

            “Well if you over thin a bush,” he continued, “It won’t thrive.” He avoided using any words related too the plant dying. He was always sensitive in his word choice.

            Silence lingered.

            “Everything has it’s limits, Jess.”

            “I know.”

            Not everything.  

            Everything.

* * * * *

            “And what’s the worst that would happen if you give it up?” he asked, referring to the disorder, making it sound like it was some sort of addiction, but not in the bad way that people usually make it sound. He was soft with his words.

            I paused for a moment, knowing just how ridiculous my next remark would sound.

            “I’ll gain weight.”

            I knew it wasn’t true. I was too much of a hard-ass, regimented person to ever truly let myself gain more than an ounce of fat, but I choose to walk on the safe side and not risk it. Truly, I give the disorder too much credit, letting myself and it believe that it’s the one keeping me thin. But the reality of it is, a conscious-eater who works out everyday isn’t ever going to get fat. Sure, maybe I’d gain a few here and there if I let myself indulge, but once again, who would really notice.

            “That’s the worst possible thing?,” he asked.

            Yes. I didn’t even have the courage to say it. I played in my mind just how that would sound. Too ridiculous to hear out loud. Weight. Fat. Horrible, I know.

            He continued, “And what’s the best thing that could happen?”

            I hadn’t really ever thought about it.

            The voice stood silent.

            He let himself sit in the sticky silence, giving me time. He’d give me as much time as I needed.

            “I’d be free.” The words floated out my mouth without any consideration. They rose up, like sheets do when you shake them in the air before putting fresh linens on a bed. For the first time in a while, I felt weightless.

Febraury 2016