In Body I Trust Page 8

  Amelia looked down at her glass of wine.

  I can’t even stay sober long enough to handle looking at a damn picture.

  She grabbed the glass and downed the rest, skipping right past Happy Drunk Avenue and headed straight towards Masochism Cul-de-Sac. Noises from the downstairs neighbors grew incessantly louder as the sun set. People laughing and yelling on a Wednesday evening, hanging out with their friends. Amelia wanted to be out there with them, having a beer and making jokes about something only they would know, feeling like she belonged to something, not drinking alone on her birthday.

  Her social anxiety coincided with her eating which coincided with her depression which coincided with her isolation.

  Dominic and Amelia’s relationship wasn’t healthy or beneficial for either of them, but despite the toxicity, there was still so much good she didn’t want to forget.

  Just one happy thought. You can find one good thought amongst the rest of the bullshit.

  Thoughts of him had been tainted and only the pain stuck out towards the forefront of her mind. She sifted through the filing cabinet of her memories in search of something positive, something beautiful.

  There it was, all the way in the back of the metal, mental drawer. A memory of one of their first real dates together before they left for their backpacking trip.

  They sat on an abandoned stoop, drinking wine out of a can, eating ice cream, and laughing over the absolute perfection of the coffee and chocolate turtle combination they could make by sharing their different scoops. They had deep and intimate conversations over religion, expectations, raising kids. His touch was gentlemanly as he reached over to caress her face. It was soft enough to exude the respect one human should have for another, yet firm enough to reassure her that he’d be there to catch her if she fell.

  These types of details—the exact flavor of ice cream or the way his hands felt against her skin—were facts she wouldn’t typically remember. Her memory had been stunted due to the lack of nutrition; she was often unable to focus in the moment because she was too obsessed with food. But that delicious, memorable date was different. She didn’t think of the ice cream as a caloric enemy. It was a prop in their story to accentuate the perfection of that particular evening. It added to his smile right before his lips touched hers. He leaned closer towards her ear and softly whispered the song he’d always sing to her.

  “Have I told you lately that I love you?

  Have I told you there’s no one else above you?

  Fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness,

  Ease my troubles, that’s what you do.”

  The way he guided her around and guarded her from the hanging trees and overgrown bushes while strangers passed them by, the eloquence in his voice, the sincerity in his eyes, the confidence in each step. In that moment, he was pure. He was everything that Amelia loved about existing in the world. A chance to feel true, genuine, love like the couple at the park.

  She’d like to think that when a memory of Amelia crossed Dominic’s mind that he’d think highly of her. That even if only for a brief, fleeting moment Dom could remember the way he felt when he looked back at her that night getting into his car. Not in a smitten, lustful way, but to see her as a healthy human being. Someone who wasn’t at the beck and call of her disorder. Maybe knowing that Dominic’s memories of her weren’t tainted by the wrecking ball that was their relationship would be enough for Amelia to finally move on.

  Meeting Dom was one of those things that just happened. She blinked and there they were in the middle of the Amazon trying to figure out what country to travel to next. Regardless of how many times Sara warned her it was a bad idea, Amelia put her “I’m not listening to you” headphones on and followed through with the relationship.

  Taking a journey around the world with someone she loved sounded like a romantic comedy. She’d scrolled through social media looking at photos of couples traveling the globe together—a woman with her arms towards the sky standing against the background of the Bolivian Salt Flats, a man sitting on the edge of a cliff along the coast of Santorini, a couple madly, deeply in love and kissing each other in front of a waterfall in the middle of Southeast Asia. But no matter how many blogs she read, people she asked, or books she referenced, Amelia never stood a chance against what would happen behind the scenes when the camera wasn’t clicking away.

  I don’t think this is what Emmett meant by thriving…

  Screw it.

  Her drunken inner dialogue continued down the road of self-destruction. She searched for her phone and started a text to send to Dominic.

  AMELIA: I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing, but I hope that you’re safe…you ducking asshole.

  “Damn it, autocorrect!” Amelia shouted, deleting the last three words with her thumbs. She wanted to sound eloquent and mature, not drunk and petty.

  Amelia stared at the text message. She took a deep breath and without thinking again, hit send.

  She could’ve said more. She could’ve sent another text to tell him how great life was living in the city. That Luna was happy in their new home. She could reiterate to Dominic that leaving was the best thing he could’ve done for Amelia, but she didn’t.

  Six months had passed since she’d heard his voice.

  “Were you ever planning on coming back from Guatemala?” Amelia had asked him during what would be their final phone conversation, her entire body shaking with every syllable. He was silent for a few seconds which should’ve said enough, but Dom solidified what her intuition already told her.

  “No, I don’t think I ever was.”

  She didn’t know if he was going to respond to her text, reopening a dialogue that seemed unnecessary. A part of her didn’t want him to, but she couldn’t help that a piece of her still did. Amelia grabbed her wine and walked into her bedroom to find shelter under her covers. Regret was sinking in.

  I shouldn’t have done that. That was so stupid. You’re weak. You’re a coward. You can’t handle anything on your own. All of that therapy you pay for is for nothing because you can’t even listen to a single damn word of advice anyone gives you.

  Miranda taught Amelia the importance of having positive conversations with herself.

  “Think about someone you love,” Miranda said in their last therapy session. Amelia’s mind immediately went to Sara, her confidant, her soulmate. “How would you talk to them if the roles were reversed?”

  “I don’t know.” Amelia knew. “I guess I’d say, ‘Don’t talk to my best friend like that.’ It’s what Sara always says to me.” Amelia rarely spoke about her relationship with Sara in her therapy sessions. Not because she didn’t love her, but because it hurt too much to think that she had lost her for so long because of Dominic.

  Sara wouldn’t judge her. Sure, at first she’d wonder why on Earth Amelia had reached out to Dominic in the first place, but the words that followed would be kind, gentle, and empathetic. Sara understood what it meant to be lost in a toxic, manipulative relationship—what it was like to be devalued as a human being. The only difference was that Sara had been engaged and her fiancé’s choice of drug was alcohol. But no matter how empathetic hypothetical Sara would be, Amelia was still overcome by a pit of disgust in her stomach for sending that text.

  Amelia stumbled over her feet and flopped on top of her bed. The pitter-patter of Luna’s paws sped lightly along the wood floors. Luna jumped up, taking up more than her fair share of the bed, but Amelia didn’t care. She could have the entire bed. She could have whatever she wanted. Luna was the only one in her life with zero expectations of Amelia, and for that she was always rewarded with anything she desired.

  Amelia’s stomach turned on itself from five days without sustenance, aside from a bottle of wine. Her sister’s voice rang in her ears: “If you don’t eat and get enough protein, your heart will stop, and you will die.” Amelia needed to prevent the paranoia from sinking in any further. Every time she went to bed without e
ating, she’d spend the entire night tossing and turning from the delusion that she’d never wake up. The world’s slowest form of suicide. Isn’t that what she wanted?

  I’m not doing this today.

  Amelia got up to pack herself a bowl and headed for the balcony. There was enough alcohol in her system that she knew this was a terrible idea, but she wanted to spin out. She turned to the only thing that brought her comfort: food.

  A few hits of her bowl and she was back on the ground, crawling on all fours back towards the refrigerator, her eyes barely open.

  “Do you see me now, God?” She laughed hysterically and rolled onto her back across the kitchen floor. She rolled back over, got on her knees, and opened the stainless steel doors. There were two frozen breakfast sandwiches she’d forgotten about. Amelia grabbed them both and stuck them in the microwave for three minutes. As she attempted to focus her disoriented eyes on the slow rotating sandwiches, she remembered her secret stash of binge snacks for moments like these.

  “God, you really do see me!” she yelled towards the ceiling. She opened the cabinet next to the stove and pulled out a box of Oreos she’d hidden behind various pots and pans. She removed the foil from the banana bread and took a giant whiff.

  Once the timer on the microwave went off, she grabbed her box of Oreos, two breakfast sandwiches, the entire pan of banana bread, and a glass of milk and went straight back into bed. Luna was still Swiss Rolled on top of the sheets, too tired to move and well aware that Amelia would be back.

  It was as if she blacked out, unable to control her hands as she brought a bite towards her watering mouth. Then another, and then another. Nauseous, Amelia discovered a mound of biscuit and chocolate crumbs pouring down the front of her shirt. Only one row of the box of cookies remained and the breakfast sandwiches seemed to have disappeared. The pan of banana bread sat half demolished on her nightstand. Amelia’s stomach flipped upside down, scorning her for what she’d done. A sharp pain hit her abdomen. Amelia grabbed her lower belly tightly and ran to the bathroom.

  She hovered over the porcelain toilet bowl. Throwing up was never her usual eating disorder behavior. Laxatives on occasion, but never purging. She looked down at her stomach, rubbing it with the palms of her hands and wishing the tornado inside of her to stop.

  She stared at the water and without thinking any further, shoved a finger down her throat. She struggled, pushing her index finger farther and farther back. She gagged, but nothing came out. Her eyes watered as she proceeded to poke at her uvula with two fingers, barely giving herself a second to catch her breath. She didn’t want to give herself time to think about what she was doing. More gagging followed until she finally gave up. Her stomach wasn’t going to give up the sustenance she’d just crammed down her throat. She rolled onto her back on the cold tiled floor, feeling once again like a failure.

  I’m not even good at having an eating disorder.

  Filled with a rage she barely had the energy for, she opened her clenched hands and slapped herself across the face, over and over again until she couldn’t breathe. The same palms that tried to comfort her aching stomach were now a weapon against her.

  Amelia’s emaciated body folded into itself while her head dangled over her shoulder. The fight was over. She’d exhausted herself of every last ounce of energy she had left. She released her body, letting it collapse on the floor.

  Chapter 8

  Her frontal lobes were on fire, shooting an unbearable pain towards the back of her skull. Amelia was more hungover than she’d anticipated. Just like the boy in the ocean of Mar del Plata, never considering the repercussions of her actions until it was too late.

  Amelia’s body needed food—not only to survive, but to process the remains of the alcohol in her system. The thought of eating something made her sick. She could smell the wine oozing from her sweaty, salty skin.

  Her throat swelled and pinched, unable to expel a sound from the hoarseness in her esophagus. The fog in her vision blurred everything her eyes attempted to focus on. She was falling apart; guilt was the only feeling that remained.

  “Remember that it’s not about the contents of what you eat,” Miranda told her once, “but rather the emotion associated with it. You ate something, regardless of the ingredients. It’s the feelings you have during a bingeing episode you need to work through.”

  Amelia rolled over on her side, almost hitting her head on the base of the toilet. She curled into the fetal position, holding her stomach, wishing she could’ve gotten herself to purge the night before.

  I’m such a disgusting piece of garbage.

  She was disoriented from falling asleep with her contacts in, like a layer of cement holding her eyelids captive. She grabbed onto the edge of the sink to pull herself up using the last of what little energy she had. She took out her contacts, put on her glasses, and walked over to the calendar hanging on the wall right next to the bedroom door to cross off Wednesday’s date. Her birthday had come and gone. Just like that, it was another Thursday.

  She looked at the big blue letters written on Friday’s date. MOM’S BIOPSY RESULTS. Between her eating disorder brain and self-medicating with cheap wine, she’d forgotten about her mom. All the while Gwen was going about her days gardening, buying unnecessary household items, and pretending like nothing had changed.

  But that’s how she had been since she dug herself out of her own hole of depression. Gwen picked Amelia’s dad up on the side of the road, hitchhiking after a long day at the beach. Simon’s car broke down and he stood in the emergency lane holding a cardboard sign with the single word please written across it. Gwen was sixteen and Simon nineteen, just about to drop out of college in search for something more profound.

  Simon went on to protest in the 1968 Resurrection City March on D.C. and the Lincoln Memorial. He helped load and unload the buses that took people back and forth from the protest sites to their camps to shower and sleep. He volunteered to set up about three thousand plywood tents next to the Reflection Pool. It had rained for days and still thousands of people showed up, trampling through ankle deep mud—SCLC Reverend Ralph Abernathy, Jesse Jackson, all of the big names of that time were there.

  Gwen on the other hand went to an all-girls Catholic school and lived a very orthodox lifestyle, but still saw potential in the man with “fairy boots” who stood on the side of the road that day after the beach. She came to the United States in 1956 in the steerage of a ship called the Roma. They departed out of Naples, Italy and landed in New York City, eventually making it to the north end of Boston where she’d spend the next two decades. Gwen’s life consisted of family, school, and then building a future with Simon.

  After their divorce, Amelia’s two sisters and brother moved out to start the next chapter of their lives. Meanwhile, Amelia and her mom were starting a brand new book together by moving to Florida for a fresh start they both desperately needed. It was just the two of them conquering the world together. No one else. None of her other siblings or her dad. Just Amelia and Gwen. A relationship stronger than any diamond the Earth could create. But with that also came a lot of pressure.

  Only twelve-years-old, Amelia held her mother in her arms while she cried on more than one occasion. It took years before she was able to find her way out of the dark. Amelia’s love for her mother was unconditional and took every word she said to heart. It could’ve been the reason why Amelia was so broken by a seemingly insignificant comment her mom made over fifteen years ago.

  Regardless of where they lived, Gwen’s bathroom was always her sanctuary. If any of Amelia’s girlfriends came over, they’d always find a way to sneak into her bathroom to try out the array of makeup displayed in front of the eight-foot-tall mirrors. The steaming, high pressure shower washed away Amelia’s daily sins, followed by a very specific head to toe lotion regimen. There were serums galore for Amelia’s hair, which otherwise felt like a horse’s tail. She could paint her nails a different color every day for the rest of her life with th
e amount of polish readily available in her drawers.

  At an impressionable thirteen-years-old, Amelia walked into her mom’s bathroom while she was getting ready for work. Every morning, she’d twine curlers through her short, black locks to keep that perfect mom-cut bounce. Amelia stood quietly next to her as she studied her mom, watching her sort through different colored powders until she found the right one to gently brush onto her beautifully aged eyelids. Mascara seemed the least intimidating of all the paints and sprays and combs, so Amelia grabbed one of her five options and began applying. Gwen looked over at Amelia with a sweet smile, watching her little girl grow up in front of her eyes.

  “How are you doing, sweetie?” Gwen asked.

  “I’m fine.” And she was, but there was something else on her mind she had to admit. “It’s just…well, I weighed myself and I don’t feel really great about it. It said I’m 152 pounds.”

  Gwen’s eyes shot open and stopped applying her eyeshadow.

  “You’re on your way to 160, Amelia. Don’t let it get that far.”

  She didn’t expect that to be her mom’s response. Even at thirteen, she thought her mom would’ve said something more encouraging like, “It’s just a number on a scale. You’re beautiful just the way you are,” or “God made you this way. He loves you, and I love you no matter what that number says.” Instead, her choice of uplifting phrases was: “Don’t let it get that far.”

  Amelia continued her morning routine of coffee and cigarettes. Reminiscing about such a pivotal moment was hard, but she knew for a fact that her mother didn’t mean anything hurtful by it. She’d said so herself.

  About a year ago, Amelia brought this memory up during their conversation about Amelia’s initial diagnosis. Her mom couldn’t remember a single detail of that event ever happening.

  “I’m so sorry I ever said anything like that,” Gwen had told her with sincerity. “Mothers aren’t perfect you know. We make mistakes, too—just like everyone else on this planet.”