Desperate Chances
Page 38
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I was almost expecting her to pick up a spoonful and use the airplane method to get me to eat.
I gripped the napkin in my hands and willed myself not to flip the table.
“Please stop touching my food, Mom,” I said sharply. I moved my plate away from her and cast a quick look around the crowded café, hoping no one was paying attention to the crazy woman attempting to force feed her adult daughter.
My mother scowled her pretty scowl and returned the fork to her own plate. “I want you to weigh yourself when you get home. If you’ve lost weight, I want you to call and tell me and I’ll make you a doctor’s appointment. Maybe you need to increase your therapy again.”
Every conversation was the same. Food. Eating. Booze. Sobriety. Over and over again.
Was it any wonder I had issues?
My mother had spent my entire life telling me I was either eating too much or not enough. Food had become the focus of my entire world. Counting calories, standing on a scale. Pulling at the skin around my hips, sucking in my stomach so I could fit into that tiny skirt. I was never happy because my mother was never happy. But at least I could look pretty while I was miserable.
When I was a child, my image conscious mother entered me in every beauty pageant available. I was the reigning Little Miss Augusta County from 1998 until 2002. I had never been allowed to eat sweets and cake at my friends’ birthday parties. I wasn’t permitted soda or chips on playdates. It was ingrained in me to watch my weight. To make sure that I didn’t get fat.
Having my slender mother as a role model was enough to make anyone develop an eating disorder. I was never able to live up to her unrealistic standards.
So, of course I became obsessed with food. With eating it and not eating it. I would starve myself for days at a time, eating only enough to keep me going. But damn, I could fit into those cute J Brand jeans. So by the time I was diagnosed with Anorexia at the age of twenty-one, I weighed a whopping ninety-eight pounds soaking wet.
Since my diagnosis and subsequent hospitalization, my mother’s mantra had changed. Now instead of telling me I could get fat, my mother was accusing me of being too skinny.
The truth was she was never happy with my appearance. Not when she looked in the mirror and saw perfection.
“My counselor seems to think once a week is more than enough for me at this point. I’m doing really well, Mom,” I assured her, taking a bite of my sandwich to appease her.
“Your father and I simply worry about you. We want you happy and healthy. You can’t fault us for that.” Mom dabbed at her eyes. Cue the waterworks and emotional manipulation. “It would make us feel so much better if you’d move home so we could make sure you were okay. So all of us could heal. Together.”
I took my time chewing my food. It was either that or I’d tell her to go to hell in a very uncomfortable hand basket.
“We cleaned out your room the other day. Your dad had some new furniture delivered. We thought that you could pick out a new color for the walls. Something more grown up. Oh, I can take you shopping for a new wardrobe. That sounds fun, right?”
I looked down at my very sensible grey skirt and blue blouse. “Is there something wrong with my current wardrobe?” I asked, picking up on my mom’s unique form of passive aggression.
My mother smoothed out the skirt of her own dress, a pretty pink number with three quarter sleeves and a stylish wide belt. “It just doesn’t suit your frame. You need something that gives you the illusion of curves. Otherwise you look like a stick.”
“I like what I’m wearing, Mom,” I told her. I was learning not to cower under her intense scrutiny. It was tough growing a backbone, but I was trying.
My mom pursed her lips but didn’t push the issue. “Where were you this weekend? Your father had hoped to see you on Sunday for dinner.”
“I went to see my friends’ band with Maysie, Vivian, and Riley. I told you about it.”
“Is this that rock and roll band? I don’t think that’s a very good scene for a recovering alcoholic,” Mom announced loudly. A woman sitting at the next table looked in our direction.
“Jeesh, Mom, why don’t you tell the world about my personal business,” I muttered under my breath.
My mom didn’t acknowledge my comment. “I was talking to Jolene yesterday and she mentioned there’s an AA group that meets at her church on Wednesdays. It’s that group for alcoholics where they get up and talk.”
“I know what AA is, Mom,” I said quietly.
“Oh, well you should go. It’d be good for you.” My mother pulled out a tube of lipstick and a compact. “Vivian’s keeping alcohol out of the apartment isn’t she? She doesn’t seem like a very responsible girl. This is why it would be better for you to live at home.”
I squeezed my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palms. “Vivian is very responsible. She’s an events coordinator at The Claremont Center,” I reminded her.
“Oh, that’s right. Your father just bought me season tickets to the ballet there.” She discreetly wiped excess lipstick from her mouth and tucked it back into her purse. “Eat your lunch, Gracie.”
I picked up my sandwich and finished it off. It felt like lead in the pit of my stomach.
My father was a successful businessman. My mother had built her world around being the perfect wife. The perfect mother. The perfect woman.
In their eyes I was neither successful nor perfect. But I had tried. I had really tried. But I was learning that my version of success was just as important. And being perfect didn’t mean being happy.
I gripped the napkin in my hands and willed myself not to flip the table.
“Please stop touching my food, Mom,” I said sharply. I moved my plate away from her and cast a quick look around the crowded café, hoping no one was paying attention to the crazy woman attempting to force feed her adult daughter.
My mother scowled her pretty scowl and returned the fork to her own plate. “I want you to weigh yourself when you get home. If you’ve lost weight, I want you to call and tell me and I’ll make you a doctor’s appointment. Maybe you need to increase your therapy again.”
Every conversation was the same. Food. Eating. Booze. Sobriety. Over and over again.
Was it any wonder I had issues?
My mother had spent my entire life telling me I was either eating too much or not enough. Food had become the focus of my entire world. Counting calories, standing on a scale. Pulling at the skin around my hips, sucking in my stomach so I could fit into that tiny skirt. I was never happy because my mother was never happy. But at least I could look pretty while I was miserable.
When I was a child, my image conscious mother entered me in every beauty pageant available. I was the reigning Little Miss Augusta County from 1998 until 2002. I had never been allowed to eat sweets and cake at my friends’ birthday parties. I wasn’t permitted soda or chips on playdates. It was ingrained in me to watch my weight. To make sure that I didn’t get fat.
Having my slender mother as a role model was enough to make anyone develop an eating disorder. I was never able to live up to her unrealistic standards.
So, of course I became obsessed with food. With eating it and not eating it. I would starve myself for days at a time, eating only enough to keep me going. But damn, I could fit into those cute J Brand jeans. So by the time I was diagnosed with Anorexia at the age of twenty-one, I weighed a whopping ninety-eight pounds soaking wet.
Since my diagnosis and subsequent hospitalization, my mother’s mantra had changed. Now instead of telling me I could get fat, my mother was accusing me of being too skinny.
The truth was she was never happy with my appearance. Not when she looked in the mirror and saw perfection.
“My counselor seems to think once a week is more than enough for me at this point. I’m doing really well, Mom,” I assured her, taking a bite of my sandwich to appease her.
“Your father and I simply worry about you. We want you happy and healthy. You can’t fault us for that.” Mom dabbed at her eyes. Cue the waterworks and emotional manipulation. “It would make us feel so much better if you’d move home so we could make sure you were okay. So all of us could heal. Together.”
I took my time chewing my food. It was either that or I’d tell her to go to hell in a very uncomfortable hand basket.
“We cleaned out your room the other day. Your dad had some new furniture delivered. We thought that you could pick out a new color for the walls. Something more grown up. Oh, I can take you shopping for a new wardrobe. That sounds fun, right?”
I looked down at my very sensible grey skirt and blue blouse. “Is there something wrong with my current wardrobe?” I asked, picking up on my mom’s unique form of passive aggression.
My mother smoothed out the skirt of her own dress, a pretty pink number with three quarter sleeves and a stylish wide belt. “It just doesn’t suit your frame. You need something that gives you the illusion of curves. Otherwise you look like a stick.”
“I like what I’m wearing, Mom,” I told her. I was learning not to cower under her intense scrutiny. It was tough growing a backbone, but I was trying.
My mom pursed her lips but didn’t push the issue. “Where were you this weekend? Your father had hoped to see you on Sunday for dinner.”
“I went to see my friends’ band with Maysie, Vivian, and Riley. I told you about it.”
“Is this that rock and roll band? I don’t think that’s a very good scene for a recovering alcoholic,” Mom announced loudly. A woman sitting at the next table looked in our direction.
“Jeesh, Mom, why don’t you tell the world about my personal business,” I muttered under my breath.
My mom didn’t acknowledge my comment. “I was talking to Jolene yesterday and she mentioned there’s an AA group that meets at her church on Wednesdays. It’s that group for alcoholics where they get up and talk.”
“I know what AA is, Mom,” I said quietly.
“Oh, well you should go. It’d be good for you.” My mother pulled out a tube of lipstick and a compact. “Vivian’s keeping alcohol out of the apartment isn’t she? She doesn’t seem like a very responsible girl. This is why it would be better for you to live at home.”
I squeezed my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palms. “Vivian is very responsible. She’s an events coordinator at The Claremont Center,” I reminded her.
“Oh, that’s right. Your father just bought me season tickets to the ballet there.” She discreetly wiped excess lipstick from her mouth and tucked it back into her purse. “Eat your lunch, Gracie.”
I picked up my sandwich and finished it off. It felt like lead in the pit of my stomach.
My father was a successful businessman. My mother had built her world around being the perfect wife. The perfect mother. The perfect woman.
In their eyes I was neither successful nor perfect. But I had tried. I had really tried. But I was learning that my version of success was just as important. And being perfect didn’t mean being happy.
