Wrists

I actually dared myself to step on my mother’s scale when they all left for work and school the next day. I never really weighed myself ever. I never really wanted to know how many pounds I weighed. My weight was something I was always way too afraid to check; the less I weighed, the more worthless and less of a man I felt. My brain worked oddly: while I was destroying myself purposely, knowing I’m losing weight, I didn’t exactly want to weigh less. I never really understood it myself.

And now here it was again. I absentmindedly held my breath while the cold glass of the scale met my bare feet. I closed my eyes tightly as it loaded, and then slowly opened them, daring myself to look down. Look at the number that was ever-dropping.

It revealed a number.

A number I couldn’t match with the reflection in the mirror. A number that was less than the number of my younger sister. A number that sent a sickening wave crashing over my body. I wasn’t even a man anymore; that number was way too little to be an 18 year old boy’s number.

5’10”. 105 pounds.

Was the scale lying? Did my mother secretly mess it up so that it showed a lower number than what it really was supposed to be? Because the mirror didn’t show 5’10” and 105 pounds. It showed 5’10” and 150 pounds.

I couldn’t help my tears of frustration from coming. I couldn’t understand this overwhelming sensation of desperation; I wanted to weigh less, yet I wanted to weigh more, yet I wanted to eat more, yet I wanted to eat less. What was wrong with me? Where was old Graham? Did old Graham even exist?

Where am I?