The chairs are a creamy white, lush fabric covers the firm cushions in their designer shape. Rectangular and square rust red and lime green pillows pop off the whimsical-colored furniture. I want a room in my house like this. A traditional fireplace is the center of the room.
No wait, I'm the center of the room.
It wasn't this way 20 minutes ago.
20 minutes ago this was a room full of easy conversation. Words and expressions filled with hope, pride, joy
and eyes letting go of happy tears.
Now the temperature is rising. My leggings dig into
me and my arms wrap around my middle alternate hands reaching for alternate
sides of my hips. My fingers find the extra flesh that wasn't there two months
ago…my fears are confirmed.
I've gained weight.
I don't know what is being said to me or about me or around
me. I've stopped listening—involuntarily. I'm starting to sweat as my body
tenses. I'm so uncomfortable. Just get me out of here. Why can't I calm down?
Where is this coming from?
My fingers pinch my sides again. I shift my weight and slide
further into the luxurious arm chair. Sadly, I am still very visible in the room.
I hear my mom's voice, "you just look so much
healthier. Your eyes are brighter, your hair is shiny, your face…"
She doesn't finish what she thinks my face looks like. She knows better.
Ed hears "you're a plump pig now. She can't finish what
she thinks of your face because she was going to say it's more round. Round
like a fatty's face. See what you've done? I was right, you have gained weight.
How I despise that word healthy. I want people to see your sickness, envy it
and long for it. You've lost your identity. Now you're just … healthy," he spats at me.
I get more fidgety as the conversation turns to some of my
old outbursts. Times I'd rather not remember.
I get tunnel vision. The room goes dark even though
I can feel my eyes moving from my mom's face then following my dad's hands gesturing towards me, I see his eyes crinkle in a smile. He must have said something nice
or empathetic.
My therapist addresses me. "Kris, what's going on for you, I see you've checked out."
That's a good question, what is going on for me?
Oh no.
Everyone is looking at me.
I can't control my heart beat. I can't stop
sweating. My hands are shaking grabbing at my chest and thighs trying to scrape
off my flesh…to release me from this body that is causing me so much
discomfort. I want to disconnect form the shame, anger, guilt I feel. But I can't go
anywhere I can't escape myself.
I ask for help. I ask to leave. She wants me to sit with my
feelings. I have a hard time doing so. The room is getting smaller I'm getting
larger and angier.
"Please just let me get out of here!" I cry.
I feel them watching me in horror or is it concern? Either way they are baffled—is
this girl, who's scratching at herself and crying out in hysterics really their
daughter?
What to do, what to do with her.
They are excused as I reach full panic mode.
They say they love me and I say I'm sorry.
I'm sobbing, screaming and trying to release something that's inside of me, that scares me—that is me.
I'm shaking, I'm ashamed but I can't stop.
"Be calm. Find a calming yoga position," my therapist says.
Calm. What is calm? I
can't go back now I've hit something in me and I don't know what to do or
what's happening. I'm not me and yet this emotion is taking up all of me.
The anger, fear, distress whatever this emotion is uses my body fully. My hands shake, my body aches, I
can't breathe.
She talks me down and the first words I can find are used to insult myself.
Letting her know I know I deserve to be embarrassed and punished and ashamed. I
know I'm a wreck and I know I'm a bad person.
Then she says what I've been needing to hear, "you're alright. This is just where you're at right now. And that's ok."
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