Cadaverous
July
The heat is deadly. Droplets of sweat are layered on me making it feel as if my skin were to be sliding off revealing magnificent, hollow bones beneath. The running of an air conditioner forbids this, and so doesn't my mother who has started dieting again.
It's more like a diet-from-depression, though. More trouble in paradise with a man who is afraid of commitment. I can only fathom what's running through her mind at this moment, but exhaustion hits me like a train wreck. Multiple hydrocodone's have been gushing into my system for the past few days and I can barely stay awake. More like I can barely think straight.
When I was told I'd have to have surgery all I could think of was the medications. Nine of them. Most was for nausea, which is a common aftermath in young women who have surgery and are put under. It was my first time under anesthesia. A needle in my hand, and then another in the curve of my arm. All I could do was giggle in my panic rather than struggle violently against the three doctors placed in the white room with me. Before I knew it, the placid tile ceiling started to spin and unconsciousness swept me away like a leaf in the wind.
Locked inside, not able to work out or do any physical activity at all. I thought I was going to die. They wanted me to eat, something I loathed. For how long were they going to keep me like this? I was more worried about how fat I was going to end up with just sitting on the couch twenty four seven. For four days straight all I did was sleep, eat nasty pudding that had no taste on my tongue and pinch the cups of fat that were probably building up on my top.
One morning I went in a craze trying to feel for my bones. I thought they were gone entirely. As if they had turned in to the pudding I had consumed. When you have surgery you should probably consume a healthy amount of food a day. I made sure that wasn't true. I didn't believe it anyway. For the longest time my mother has been trying to get me fatter.
“Eat this. Eat that. You're young, it doesn't matter.” Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat! I grew annoyed with her constant jibs. She wanted me to be fat and lonely with her. But I couldn't let her. I can't let her.
She won't win. She didn't win.
I weighed myself in one day. The three numbers that met me made me smile. One. Zero. Five. I was getting closer to my goal, not farther.
I felt invincible.
It's more like a diet-from-depression, though. More trouble in paradise with a man who is afraid of commitment. I can only fathom what's running through her mind at this moment, but exhaustion hits me like a train wreck. Multiple hydrocodone's have been gushing into my system for the past few days and I can barely stay awake. More like I can barely think straight.
When I was told I'd have to have surgery all I could think of was the medications. Nine of them. Most was for nausea, which is a common aftermath in young women who have surgery and are put under. It was my first time under anesthesia. A needle in my hand, and then another in the curve of my arm. All I could do was giggle in my panic rather than struggle violently against the three doctors placed in the white room with me. Before I knew it, the placid tile ceiling started to spin and unconsciousness swept me away like a leaf in the wind.
Locked inside, not able to work out or do any physical activity at all. I thought I was going to die. They wanted me to eat, something I loathed. For how long were they going to keep me like this? I was more worried about how fat I was going to end up with just sitting on the couch twenty four seven. For four days straight all I did was sleep, eat nasty pudding that had no taste on my tongue and pinch the cups of fat that were probably building up on my top.
One morning I went in a craze trying to feel for my bones. I thought they were gone entirely. As if they had turned in to the pudding I had consumed. When you have surgery you should probably consume a healthy amount of food a day. I made sure that wasn't true. I didn't believe it anyway. For the longest time my mother has been trying to get me fatter.
“Eat this. Eat that. You're young, it doesn't matter.” Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat! I grew annoyed with her constant jibs. She wanted me to be fat and lonely with her. But I couldn't let her. I can't let her.
She won't win. She didn't win.
I weighed myself in one day. The three numbers that met me made me smile. One. Zero. Five. I was getting closer to my goal, not farther.
I felt invincible.