I Measure My Self-Worth by the Numbers on the Scales
Prologue-Part one
The sound of a mother’s pleas and gentle sobs were the only thing that could be heard when you entered the quiet suburban household on the outskirts of Belleville, New Jersey. Enter the house and you would find the mother sitting opposite her thin son at the kitchen table with a plate of untouched food in front of him.
On the plate was a dainty slice of wholemeal bread with a slither of margarine spread across it, a small apple that had been cut into bite size slices, a handful of grapes and a minute slice of cheese. The malnourished boy had pushed the plate away from himself primly, watching his mother eat her spaghetti. He’d watched her as if she were eating a baby rabbit alive.
“Please, Frank,” She sobbed “It’s all good wholesome food! Hardly any calories in it at all.”
“No thank you.” He repeated politely.
“You have to eat something,” She begged “I’m at the end of my tether here. Please just eat it.”
“No thank you,” He replied “It’s nice of you to think of me but I’m not hungry thank you.”
“Yes you are,” She argued “You just won’t eat it.”
Frank Iero’s mother’s words drifted over his head without so much as a ripple. To him it was just an annoying little fly buzzing in his ear. He didn’t want to listen to her telling him to ‘eat or he’d collapse’ again. She couldn’t understand. What did she know? He knew he was in control. With each meal he refused, he was getting a step closer to being how he wanted to be. He brushed off his mother’s pleas with a fake yawn, stretching his thin but toned arms.
“Can I leave the table please?”
“But-“
“I have homework to do.” He lied, getting up and walking from the room before she could protest.
Linda covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them, exhausted from her efforts. Night after night she’d beg her only son to eat something. And night after night he’d refuse or claim he didn’t have time for meals because of all his homework. If she really pushed him, he’d tell her he’d eat it up in his room and bring her the plate back.
It had been little under two years. At first she hardly noticed that Frank had started to eat less and less. He blamed his schoolwork and said he was never really hungry anyway. She’d merely shrugged it off, believing it was because he was going through puberty and everyone knows that puberty is an awkward time that causes changes. However, she began to worry that Frank wasn’t eating enough and began taking his meals up into his room on a tray for him. He thanked her politely and would eat as little as he could without arousing her suspicion.
Then one day she thought she’d clean his room out for him to try and help. She went to empty the little trash can he had in there and discovered her lovingly cooked meals hidden under sheets of newspaper and old school notes that weren’t needed anymore. When confronted, Frank merely shrugged his shoulders and said ‘I ate what I could and tipped the rest away’. So she left it, asking him not to do it again. And, for a while, she believed it had stopped. But then she found food hidden in Frank’s drawers when she was searching through them to see if her son had any spare change rattling around in his desk that she could borrow. So she tackled him again and he claimed that he’d forgotten about it but protested his innocence by claiming he’d eaten a big lunch.
Eventually it got to the point where he was surviving on one apple a day, water and vitamins. At breakfast, rather than eating the satisfying devotedly prepared oatmeal made by his mother, Frank would line his vitamins all in an exact line in order of size. Then he’d swallow each of them, one at a time. His mother would repeatedly tell him he couldn’t survive on vitamins and a piece of fruit. But he’d ignore her. She didn’t know anything. She didn’t understand. No one did.
All of his free time at school was spent in the school gym, obsessively over-exercising until he was dizzy. That happened a lot. He’d have dizzy spells and people would over-react. He was asked by a teacher if he was ok after he almost fainted during class. He simply nodded and smiled unconvincingly, moving slowly down the hall to save his little energy.
And then a few months ago, Linda was pushed over the edge as her son began to refuse to sit down. He’d read somewhere that food isn’t burned up if you’re static. And when he did sit down; he’d shake his legs obsessively. Talks with him weren’t getting through and she couldn’t help but feel it was all her fault for allowing her son to do this to himself.
Finally coming to her decision, Linda stood up and took the number scribbled on the white paper by the doctor that was taped to the fridge. She picked the phone up and dialled the number written down. The phone rang for a minute or so and then someone picked up.
“Hello, Valley View home, how can I help?”
“Um…I need to talk to someone about my son,” Linda began “I don’t think he’s well.”…
…As soon as he’d closed his bedroom door, Frank turned his TV on and began searching for the remote. His fragile bones jutted out alarmingly as he bent over to find it. When he’d retrieved the remote from under a pile of well hidden women’s magazines with tips on how to lose weight, he flicked the TV over to the food channel and watched intently as the chef prepared a Mississippi mud-pie. That was one of the odd things about Frank. He wouldn’t eat food yet he was completely obsessed with it. Linda would often find him watching various cooking shows and reading her cookbooks. He even had a collage of his old favourites taped to the wall along with all the toned and muscular men. The ‘attractive’ men would sneer down at him from their glossy prisons as he desperately did push-ups and sit-ups. They’d pout vainly as he stood naked in front of his mirror and sucked his stomach in hopefully. They’d jeer and mock as he pulled his loose clothes flat against his body to try and see how fat they made him look.
He couldn’t understand why his clothes were so baggy these days when he knew he weighed a tonne. It was probably just a trick of the light. His hair, usually so shiny and full of life, now hung lank against his head. The shape of his skull could be seen through his skin if he stood in the right light. His eyes were sunken into their eye sockets. His skin was papery pale and his veins and arteries could be seen with ease. There was a gap between his legs that made him look bow-legged. His arms looked as if they could be snapped in two easily.
But still the mirror told him he was fat. He could see it clinging to him. And he was determined to diet his way to happiness-even if it killed him.
On the plate was a dainty slice of wholemeal bread with a slither of margarine spread across it, a small apple that had been cut into bite size slices, a handful of grapes and a minute slice of cheese. The malnourished boy had pushed the plate away from himself primly, watching his mother eat her spaghetti. He’d watched her as if she were eating a baby rabbit alive.
“Please, Frank,” She sobbed “It’s all good wholesome food! Hardly any calories in it at all.”
“No thank you.” He repeated politely.
“You have to eat something,” She begged “I’m at the end of my tether here. Please just eat it.”
“No thank you,” He replied “It’s nice of you to think of me but I’m not hungry thank you.”
“Yes you are,” She argued “You just won’t eat it.”
Frank Iero’s mother’s words drifted over his head without so much as a ripple. To him it was just an annoying little fly buzzing in his ear. He didn’t want to listen to her telling him to ‘eat or he’d collapse’ again. She couldn’t understand. What did she know? He knew he was in control. With each meal he refused, he was getting a step closer to being how he wanted to be. He brushed off his mother’s pleas with a fake yawn, stretching his thin but toned arms.
“Can I leave the table please?”
“But-“
“I have homework to do.” He lied, getting up and walking from the room before she could protest.
Linda covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them, exhausted from her efforts. Night after night she’d beg her only son to eat something. And night after night he’d refuse or claim he didn’t have time for meals because of all his homework. If she really pushed him, he’d tell her he’d eat it up in his room and bring her the plate back.
It had been little under two years. At first she hardly noticed that Frank had started to eat less and less. He blamed his schoolwork and said he was never really hungry anyway. She’d merely shrugged it off, believing it was because he was going through puberty and everyone knows that puberty is an awkward time that causes changes. However, she began to worry that Frank wasn’t eating enough and began taking his meals up into his room on a tray for him. He thanked her politely and would eat as little as he could without arousing her suspicion.
Then one day she thought she’d clean his room out for him to try and help. She went to empty the little trash can he had in there and discovered her lovingly cooked meals hidden under sheets of newspaper and old school notes that weren’t needed anymore. When confronted, Frank merely shrugged his shoulders and said ‘I ate what I could and tipped the rest away’. So she left it, asking him not to do it again. And, for a while, she believed it had stopped. But then she found food hidden in Frank’s drawers when she was searching through them to see if her son had any spare change rattling around in his desk that she could borrow. So she tackled him again and he claimed that he’d forgotten about it but protested his innocence by claiming he’d eaten a big lunch.
Eventually it got to the point where he was surviving on one apple a day, water and vitamins. At breakfast, rather than eating the satisfying devotedly prepared oatmeal made by his mother, Frank would line his vitamins all in an exact line in order of size. Then he’d swallow each of them, one at a time. His mother would repeatedly tell him he couldn’t survive on vitamins and a piece of fruit. But he’d ignore her. She didn’t know anything. She didn’t understand. No one did.
All of his free time at school was spent in the school gym, obsessively over-exercising until he was dizzy. That happened a lot. He’d have dizzy spells and people would over-react. He was asked by a teacher if he was ok after he almost fainted during class. He simply nodded and smiled unconvincingly, moving slowly down the hall to save his little energy.
And then a few months ago, Linda was pushed over the edge as her son began to refuse to sit down. He’d read somewhere that food isn’t burned up if you’re static. And when he did sit down; he’d shake his legs obsessively. Talks with him weren’t getting through and she couldn’t help but feel it was all her fault for allowing her son to do this to himself.
Finally coming to her decision, Linda stood up and took the number scribbled on the white paper by the doctor that was taped to the fridge. She picked the phone up and dialled the number written down. The phone rang for a minute or so and then someone picked up.
“Hello, Valley View home, how can I help?”
“Um…I need to talk to someone about my son,” Linda began “I don’t think he’s well.”…
…As soon as he’d closed his bedroom door, Frank turned his TV on and began searching for the remote. His fragile bones jutted out alarmingly as he bent over to find it. When he’d retrieved the remote from under a pile of well hidden women’s magazines with tips on how to lose weight, he flicked the TV over to the food channel and watched intently as the chef prepared a Mississippi mud-pie. That was one of the odd things about Frank. He wouldn’t eat food yet he was completely obsessed with it. Linda would often find him watching various cooking shows and reading her cookbooks. He even had a collage of his old favourites taped to the wall along with all the toned and muscular men. The ‘attractive’ men would sneer down at him from their glossy prisons as he desperately did push-ups and sit-ups. They’d pout vainly as he stood naked in front of his mirror and sucked his stomach in hopefully. They’d jeer and mock as he pulled his loose clothes flat against his body to try and see how fat they made him look.
He couldn’t understand why his clothes were so baggy these days when he knew he weighed a tonne. It was probably just a trick of the light. His hair, usually so shiny and full of life, now hung lank against his head. The shape of his skull could be seen through his skin if he stood in the right light. His eyes were sunken into their eye sockets. His skin was papery pale and his veins and arteries could be seen with ease. There was a gap between his legs that made him look bow-legged. His arms looked as if they could be snapped in two easily.
But still the mirror told him he was fat. He could see it clinging to him. And he was determined to diet his way to happiness-even if it killed him.