Believers Never Die Pt. 1
I Think I'm Cracking Up
When I was six, I realized I was fat.
It first came to me while I was in my ballet class. It was just me and a bunch of little girls. I was jealous. I was so jealous. I had an awkward little boy's body. They were so small, so skinny. I had knobby knees, and my head was shaped funny. My hair was dry, and my eyes were too brown. My ears stuck out too far, and my feet were callused. Not to mention, my stomach wasn't flat. That was the worst part. I used to stand in the mirror at home and practice sucking in my stomach. I would suck it in so hard that I stopped breathing, almost to the point of passing out, but it didn't matter. For a few moments, my stomach looked concave, and I loved it.
I quickly developed a fixation with mirrors and other reflective surfaces. I stared at mirrors for hours. Whenever I passed a car, I would check myself. I would make sure everything was in place and that I looked okay. My mother would chuckle. "Maxim, you're so vain," she would say to me, but that wasn't it at all. I wasn't vain. I was the opposite. I hated myself. She didn't seem to understand that, so every time she insulted me, things just got worse.
Our dinner routine didn't help. When Dad was home, he shoveled food into is mouth and could clear his plate in under five minutes My mother, on the other hand, barely at. My father usually begged her to eat more, but she'd always say she was full. It happened all the time. It didn't take long before I began to emulate my parents, even at the dinner table.
My mother was silent. My father was silent. Evan and I sat on opposite sides of the table. Everything was dead silent. Glenn was hiding under the table. My father was trucking food into his mouth. I wasn't even sure that he was chewing. He had a bottle of whiskey next to his plate, half empty. My mother moved her food around with her fork. She was not really eating it. It was more like playing with it. She was cutting it into little pieces with her fork, pushing it around and taking very few bites every once in awhile.
I glanced over to watch her. I started to copy her. I cut my chicken up into tiny little pieces, scattered them around. I pushed my corn around so it looked like I was eating it. Out of no where, my mother pushed her plate away from her. She dropped her fork onto the plate, and a shrill screeching sound erupted as the metal scraped across the surface. My father stopped eating and looked up at my mother. "Dominique, please--"
My mother quickly snapped at him. "I'm full," she told him bitterly.
My father looked at her desperately. I looked to my mother, then to my plate. I dropped my fork and pushed my plate forward. "Me too," I declared. Evander just rolled his eyes and continued eating. Both of my parents turned to me, immediately looked concerned.
"Oh, sweetie," my mother began to say. "Maxim, dear, please eat something."
My father nodded. "Max, please."
Hesitantly, I reached for my fork. I ate one piece of corn and dropped my fork back on my plate.
That same night, around eleven, i wandered out of my room and into the bathroom. I stood in front of the mirror. I stared for about twenty minutes. You're so fat, I thought to myself. Fat little pig. My eyes narrowed at the sight of my reflection. The tears kept flowing. I pinched my left cheek hard enough to keep the tears flowing. You deserve that, I thought. There's no reason to be fat. You're so fat. I kept telling myself that. I pinched my cheek until it was red.
"Max?"
I turned to the doorway. Evan was there. "Max, what are you doing?" he asked me, looking confused.
"Nothing," I said with a shaky breath. "Nothing. Get out." I turned back to the mirror and bit my lip. I saw him from the corner of my eye. "I SAID GET OUT, EVAN." I started sobbing, and I closed the door on him. I locked the door and stood there for a moment.
I realize that I had overreacted, but being melodramatic seemed to be a trait in my family. We were all melodramatic in some way. I wanted to believe that we all loved each other very much. We were just a big, mixed up puzzle that nobody could figure out. We kept trying to force the pieces together in ways they didn't fit. We just couldn't figure out a way to make it work out.
My parents' marriage quickly began to deteriorate. I hated being around them when they were together. We didn't have many happy moments anymore. It all consisted of screaming and yelling. Sometimes, I was taken out of town on impromptu trips with them. Most often than not, both were gone, and I was with my nanny or with Charlie.
When I was seven, shit really started hitting the fan. I think my subconscious must have blocked out all the chaos. I can't remember too much from this year other than hiding up in my room most nights as my parents screaming at each other from down stairs. One night, I smelled a strong smell wafting upstairs from the kitchen. I followed it out of my bedroom and down the stairs until I saw my mother in the kitchen, crying. She was hunched over the sink, emptying every bottle of liquor that my father owned. The rest is practically blank other than the time my brother pushed me on the deck at our birthday party, and I got a splinter in my nose.
I think that all the trouble in my family came from the contradicting personalities in our family. On the outside, our family was a perfect three, a trio, a team. My brother was completely excluded from this portrait. Truth be told, most of the public didn't even know I had a brother. However, if the smallest thing went wrong, we suddenly exploded. We split into two separate sides, and most of the time, both of my parents were vying to have me on their own. My life had turned into a bumper car rink, and more often than not, I found myself retreating to my room, opting for the comfort I suddenly found in silence and consistency.
Due to all the fighting, I became completely neurotic and paranoid. All of a sudden, I was a frantic mess about everything. Almost immediately after arriving back from the tour, I developed an acute, bizarre fear of everything. I was walking anxiety, crying easily, terrified of the dark, other kids, my tutors, the sun, the moon, the stars. Somehow, I had convinced myself that praying would solve all my problems. I started praying constantly, but only when I was sure nobody was watching me. I would drop to my knees, press my nails into the palms of my hands, praying frantically for God to forgive me, muttering manic prayers that would confuse even God himself: Please God, I'm sorry. Don't let me get fat I'm sorry forgive me father for I have sinned bless my mother and my father and the dog and my brother and I'm sorry and thank you for books and forgive me and don't let me get fat I'm sorry i watered my plant with 7up...
Suddenly, I was obsessed with order. Everything had to be extremely precise. The bed had to be made a certain way, the clock watched so that things happened on time. I remember laying on my bed, watched the digital clock. 5:21, 5:22, 5:23. I made sure time didn't stop, that dinner happened when Ingrid said it would happen. "It's been forty five minutes!" I'd yell down the stairs, bursting into tears when dinner wasn't ready yet. Time had failed me. Nothing was in order. I talked to myself all the time, in bed, in the bath, in the park, in the yard. I made lists, make-shift day planners. The days that said nothing sent me into manic turmoil; what would I do?
My change in character was obvious, but my parents couldn't be fucked to help me. My father was oblivious, and my mother didn't care. Nothing mattered to her. She wanted to keep me fucked up, as long as I could still make my music because for her music meant money, and for Dominique Chastain, money was everything.
It first came to me while I was in my ballet class. It was just me and a bunch of little girls. I was jealous. I was so jealous. I had an awkward little boy's body. They were so small, so skinny. I had knobby knees, and my head was shaped funny. My hair was dry, and my eyes were too brown. My ears stuck out too far, and my feet were callused. Not to mention, my stomach wasn't flat. That was the worst part. I used to stand in the mirror at home and practice sucking in my stomach. I would suck it in so hard that I stopped breathing, almost to the point of passing out, but it didn't matter. For a few moments, my stomach looked concave, and I loved it.
I quickly developed a fixation with mirrors and other reflective surfaces. I stared at mirrors for hours. Whenever I passed a car, I would check myself. I would make sure everything was in place and that I looked okay. My mother would chuckle. "Maxim, you're so vain," she would say to me, but that wasn't it at all. I wasn't vain. I was the opposite. I hated myself. She didn't seem to understand that, so every time she insulted me, things just got worse.
Our dinner routine didn't help. When Dad was home, he shoveled food into is mouth and could clear his plate in under five minutes My mother, on the other hand, barely at. My father usually begged her to eat more, but she'd always say she was full. It happened all the time. It didn't take long before I began to emulate my parents, even at the dinner table.
My mother was silent. My father was silent. Evan and I sat on opposite sides of the table. Everything was dead silent. Glenn was hiding under the table. My father was trucking food into his mouth. I wasn't even sure that he was chewing. He had a bottle of whiskey next to his plate, half empty. My mother moved her food around with her fork. She was not really eating it. It was more like playing with it. She was cutting it into little pieces with her fork, pushing it around and taking very few bites every once in awhile.
I glanced over to watch her. I started to copy her. I cut my chicken up into tiny little pieces, scattered them around. I pushed my corn around so it looked like I was eating it. Out of no where, my mother pushed her plate away from her. She dropped her fork onto the plate, and a shrill screeching sound erupted as the metal scraped across the surface. My father stopped eating and looked up at my mother. "Dominique, please--"
My mother quickly snapped at him. "I'm full," she told him bitterly.
My father looked at her desperately. I looked to my mother, then to my plate. I dropped my fork and pushed my plate forward. "Me too," I declared. Evander just rolled his eyes and continued eating. Both of my parents turned to me, immediately looked concerned.
"Oh, sweetie," my mother began to say. "Maxim, dear, please eat something."
My father nodded. "Max, please."
Hesitantly, I reached for my fork. I ate one piece of corn and dropped my fork back on my plate.
That same night, around eleven, i wandered out of my room and into the bathroom. I stood in front of the mirror. I stared for about twenty minutes. You're so fat, I thought to myself. Fat little pig. My eyes narrowed at the sight of my reflection. The tears kept flowing. I pinched my left cheek hard enough to keep the tears flowing. You deserve that, I thought. There's no reason to be fat. You're so fat. I kept telling myself that. I pinched my cheek until it was red.
"Max?"
I turned to the doorway. Evan was there. "Max, what are you doing?" he asked me, looking confused.
"Nothing," I said with a shaky breath. "Nothing. Get out." I turned back to the mirror and bit my lip. I saw him from the corner of my eye. "I SAID GET OUT, EVAN." I started sobbing, and I closed the door on him. I locked the door and stood there for a moment.
I realize that I had overreacted, but being melodramatic seemed to be a trait in my family. We were all melodramatic in some way. I wanted to believe that we all loved each other very much. We were just a big, mixed up puzzle that nobody could figure out. We kept trying to force the pieces together in ways they didn't fit. We just couldn't figure out a way to make it work out.
My parents' marriage quickly began to deteriorate. I hated being around them when they were together. We didn't have many happy moments anymore. It all consisted of screaming and yelling. Sometimes, I was taken out of town on impromptu trips with them. Most often than not, both were gone, and I was with my nanny or with Charlie.
When I was seven, shit really started hitting the fan. I think my subconscious must have blocked out all the chaos. I can't remember too much from this year other than hiding up in my room most nights as my parents screaming at each other from down stairs. One night, I smelled a strong smell wafting upstairs from the kitchen. I followed it out of my bedroom and down the stairs until I saw my mother in the kitchen, crying. She was hunched over the sink, emptying every bottle of liquor that my father owned. The rest is practically blank other than the time my brother pushed me on the deck at our birthday party, and I got a splinter in my nose.
I think that all the trouble in my family came from the contradicting personalities in our family. On the outside, our family was a perfect three, a trio, a team. My brother was completely excluded from this portrait. Truth be told, most of the public didn't even know I had a brother. However, if the smallest thing went wrong, we suddenly exploded. We split into two separate sides, and most of the time, both of my parents were vying to have me on their own. My life had turned into a bumper car rink, and more often than not, I found myself retreating to my room, opting for the comfort I suddenly found in silence and consistency.
Due to all the fighting, I became completely neurotic and paranoid. All of a sudden, I was a frantic mess about everything. Almost immediately after arriving back from the tour, I developed an acute, bizarre fear of everything. I was walking anxiety, crying easily, terrified of the dark, other kids, my tutors, the sun, the moon, the stars. Somehow, I had convinced myself that praying would solve all my problems. I started praying constantly, but only when I was sure nobody was watching me. I would drop to my knees, press my nails into the palms of my hands, praying frantically for God to forgive me, muttering manic prayers that would confuse even God himself: Please God, I'm sorry. Don't let me get fat I'm sorry forgive me father for I have sinned bless my mother and my father and the dog and my brother and I'm sorry and thank you for books and forgive me and don't let me get fat I'm sorry i watered my plant with 7up...
Suddenly, I was obsessed with order. Everything had to be extremely precise. The bed had to be made a certain way, the clock watched so that things happened on time. I remember laying on my bed, watched the digital clock. 5:21, 5:22, 5:23. I made sure time didn't stop, that dinner happened when Ingrid said it would happen. "It's been forty five minutes!" I'd yell down the stairs, bursting into tears when dinner wasn't ready yet. Time had failed me. Nothing was in order. I talked to myself all the time, in bed, in the bath, in the park, in the yard. I made lists, make-shift day planners. The days that said nothing sent me into manic turmoil; what would I do?
My change in character was obvious, but my parents couldn't be fucked to help me. My father was oblivious, and my mother didn't care. Nothing mattered to her. She wanted to keep me fucked up, as long as I could still make my music because for her music meant money, and for Dominique Chastain, money was everything.