Turmoil Tales: Insatiably Laura

I have been squeezed and pinched all day, like straw rope singeing the fatty tissue of my stomach.

I vividly remember the day we learned about Twinkies in seventh grade Home Economics class. Projected on a blurry screen was a tower of spongy-yellow deliciousness beside a glass tub of yellow lard. That is what fat looks like—slimy, voluptuous, revolting. And if that is truly the way fat manifests itself on the inside, then my inner beauty is just as heinous as my outer appearance suggests. In haste, I reach for my jean button and yank it open to give my lungs a chance to catch up on oxygen. Pink lines on my pelvis illustrate where the jeans once were, so distinctly that I could pass for wearing nude-colored pants if I wanted to. Such is the life a girl who can’t even fit into a damn pair of Levi’s. 

My oven clock reads 1:30 pm. I still have 4 hours until I can sit down to a proper meal and my fitness tracker tells me I have 400 calories left to my day. That should cover a light dinner and a bedtime snack. Unfortunately, that leaves little room for an afternoon delight. I scan my fridge anyway, hoping that seeing food might be enough to satisfy the echoing rumbles in my stomach. All that’s in there is a half-eaten cucumber, a box of spinach, some pomegranate seeds and sparkling water. The less temptation, the better. You can’t indulge on that which you do not have. 

Hunger is a palpable thing.

Cut me open and touch it like an organ. Inescapable. Throbbing. It consumes me while I sit with shaky hands, avoiding consuming anything at all.  I am stronger than hunger. I am the one in control, not some greasy thing with a button-down shirt bursting at the seams. That’s how I’ve always imagined hunger to look like—you know, if it was a human. 

Minutes feel like hours when I am hungry, but time feels altogether agonizing when I indulge impulsively. There’s a click and a hiss from my sparkling water can and the bubbles chafe the pathway from my tongue to my throat, numbing the pings of hunger that claw at me like a cat to a ball of yarn. As I sit in my couch, the leather cushion swallowing my ass whole, I consider the life events that have led me here. Right here to this starving, empty point in my life. Feelings of inadequacy plow into my gut, eyes stinging with tears that want to be shed but won’t. I used to cry. I used to cry a lot, actually, but now I don’t do that anymore.  

When I was 13 I cried for 4 and a half hours straight one day after school.

Snot colliding with salty eye water and jumbling up in my thick, pasty saliva. My melancholy cocktail. I felt animalistic. Pathetic. Like a dirty swine. So I vowed to myself that I would never let a tear escape my dirt brown eyes again. And I kept that promise. You would think with all of that extra water weight I’ve refused to release over the past 11 years, I’d at least feelslightly less insatiable all the time. There couldn’t possibly be more room in my body to store food, what with all the tears hogging the space. Yet somehow, like fucking sorcery, there is. 

The trick to feeling full from a can of sparkling water is to be mindful of each sip. Acknowledge the tart cherry flavor as it swirls over your tongue, hold it in the front of your mouth and swish it around so that every crevice has a chance to stroke it too. And as you release it, keep your throat wide. A tidal wave of crisp, bubbly liquid journeys down, down, down until it mates with the bile in your stomach. You can get about 10 good gulps out of this method. Then, chew on a cucumber slice to activate your digestive enzymes. Viola. Hunger murdered. 

This holds me over until 4. I’ve ordered a veggie pizza from the place on the corner. I can hear the delivery man’s muffled grunts a few doors down, frustrated as he waits on Lana to collect her shit for just enough time to answer the fucking door and exchange a few bills for a pizza. Even the simplest of tasks are arduous for her. Must be hard to function when your blood-type is Titos. And yet, in light of her habitual partying and late-night eating, she’s a twig.Go-fucking-figure. 

A disgruntled, greasy man hands me my box and pivots for the exit. Tangy marinara scents slip into my nose so pungently I can taste it. Is this what they mean by sensual seduction?Saliva pools at the edges of my mouth like a Pavlovian dog. I grab my phone and open Instagram. I tap the button in the top left corner to add to my stories and start my mini Ted Talk, angling the camera down at my pizza.

“You guys,” I beam, my unoriginal introduction. “Like, this is everything I need in life. Self-Care Sunday is looking cheesy AF over here.” I zoom in on the greasy, oozing cheese dissolving into the crispy dough and forming a uniform piece of downright porn. “Brb while I devour this. I deserve this,” I lie. “I’ll leave a question box here, let me know how you guys practice Self-Care Sunday!”

Once the theater act is over and I can put down the mask, I grab my keys and head for him.

Every Sunday at 4:15 I give him what he wants. Some would say it’s an unhealthy relationship, and some would be right. He is, by all intents and purposes, a parasite. He takes things from me. He grows stronger and satiated as I continue to shrivel. But what he is taking is bad things. Ungodly things. And so for that, I am grateful. In that light, it’s a beautifully mutualistic relationship. 

The air is overly abundant, so much so that it suffocates me. Beads of sweat take fort in the folds of my thighs and reinforce what I am about to do. As I pass the corner before his, my phone vibrates against leg. A Story reply from “dianaX143” reads: “Needed to hear this today. Pouring myself a glass of wine for a little self-care. Thanks for the inspo gf.” 

The irony is not lost on me. 

 He’s there, waiting for me like he does every Sunday, looking up at me as though I am the hero who wears no cape. In his story, I amthe hero. In my story, I’m the self-sabotaging victim. 

“What’s up, Ray?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

His voice is croaky. “Just holdin’ down the fort here.”

I look around as his prideful hands rise like he is presenting to me his palace. Palatial is not exactly how I would describe a homeless man’s tent. But to each their own. I hand him the box of pizza and watch him take the first bite. I always watch the first bite. Jealousy ripples through my veins over a person who lives so carefree—a person who does not think twice about how the only pair of pants he owns to his name might be too tight from that slice. 

And then I walk away; I’ve got a half-eaten cucumber to finish.