Week 4, Title: Insurmountable
The measuring tape is well worn, many numbers faded, but he can still read it, knows every crinkle and tear and smudge. He slides it around his waist, around his arms, around his thighs (and ankles and wrists and neck). He writes the numbers down.
He stares in the mirror, pinches his flesh between his fingers. It’s still crazy to him that the image he sees isn’t the truth; the concept sometimes feels like something out of a sci-fi novel. But he’s accepted the fun-house mirror nature of things.
He can’t take the thought of eating anything.
He’s tired. He’s supposed to be better now; he’s supposed to be beyond this. He worked so, so hard, for years: endless therapy sessions and months of forcing food down, even when it felt like torture, again and again and again. He made himself better. He can’t go back, he can’t do this again.
It’s crazy. How can one comment leave him reeling, trembling; sitting back at square one?
He needs to be better now. He is. He is better. He doesn’t have the strength to do the insurmountable twice.
And he doesn’t know what to do. He wishes it was his turn to cook; he could beg off; claim exhaustion; go to bed. But it’s not his turn and he knows his girlfriend is already getting their meal prepared.
*
He takes a bite. It’s large in his mouth; the morsel sits too big in his stomach, bloating, an expanding fatty lump, he feels sick and gross. It’s too much. He moves the food around his plate and doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see his girlfriend trying to not look disappointed.
It’s crazy that she stuck with him through all this before. She’s way too good for him.
Fuck, he can’t put her through this again.
*
He will simply refuse. He is not doing this again.
He tries growling at his food, holding on with sheer will, he puts the fork in his mouth. He doesn’t swallow.
His voice is small, garbled, “No.”
She takes his hand, it’s crazy that she doesn’t look disappointed, “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ve walked this road before, we know its turns, and we know we can come out the other side.”
It’s a crazy idea. But then again, what isn’t?
He stares in the mirror, pinches his flesh between his fingers. It’s still crazy to him that the image he sees isn’t the truth; the concept sometimes feels like something out of a sci-fi novel. But he’s accepted the fun-house mirror nature of things.
He can’t take the thought of eating anything.
He’s tired. He’s supposed to be better now; he’s supposed to be beyond this. He worked so, so hard, for years: endless therapy sessions and months of forcing food down, even when it felt like torture, again and again and again. He made himself better. He can’t go back, he can’t do this again.
It’s crazy. How can one comment leave him reeling, trembling; sitting back at square one?
He needs to be better now. He is. He is better. He doesn’t have the strength to do the insurmountable twice.
And he doesn’t know what to do. He wishes it was his turn to cook; he could beg off; claim exhaustion; go to bed. But it’s not his turn and he knows his girlfriend is already getting their meal prepared.
*
He takes a bite. It’s large in his mouth; the morsel sits too big in his stomach, bloating, an expanding fatty lump, he feels sick and gross. It’s too much. He moves the food around his plate and doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see his girlfriend trying to not look disappointed.
It’s crazy that she stuck with him through all this before. She’s way too good for him.
Fuck, he can’t put her through this again.
*
He will simply refuse. He is not doing this again.
He tries growling at his food, holding on with sheer will, he puts the fork in his mouth. He doesn’t swallow.
His voice is small, garbled, “No.”
She takes his hand, it’s crazy that she doesn’t look disappointed, “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ve walked this road before, we know its turns, and we know we can come out the other side.”
It’s a crazy idea. But then again, what isn’t?