Designated Fat Girl (3 page)

The parking lot is still pretty empty. I down the ten chicken nuggets in about two minutes flat. I gulp the rest of the Coke. I pull out of the parking lot. Despite the rain, I roll down all the windows on the car, letting the air circulate, hoping to rid the car of the greasy smell of my transgressions. Making sure there are no witnesses, I throw the chicken nuggets box and
the soda cup out the window before turning back onto the highway.

I feel nothing. I’m full, at least for the moment, so there’s no need to belittle myself or try to make myself feel better. Despite the large volume of food I ate in such a small amount of time, I don’t feel sick. That is a blessing. It allows me, if only briefly, to feel satisfied. These short periods don’t come often, and I allow myself to listen to the wind cleansing the inside of my car and my mind. My thoughts are turned down, and I am somewhat at peace.

In no time I am back in front of our bungalow. No sign that Michael is looking for me. I wonder if he even really noticed I left. I should feel relieved, but I’m not. The tiniest amount of regret starts to seep in, but I push it down by lashing out at my husband.
How could he let me down this way? How will I ever get better if he can’t be bothered to pay attention?
I feel the rush of emotions start to rise up, but then I remember the candy and the ice cream. The anger and resentment, the guilt and the remorse, fade away quickly. I spray the inside of the car with the air freshener before rolling the windows back up. Once out of the car, I spray my clothes ever so slightly, hoping to disguise where I’ve been and what I’ve been up to. I put the can deep inside my trunk. I take the candy bars out of the bag and put them inside my purse. I head inside with the grocery bag and the newspaper.

Michael and Eddie are still playing the game, but this time Michael looks up at me as I walk in. “Hey, I was worried about you,” he says, coming over to me. I hope he can’t smell anything.

I can see the worry in his eyes, and I feel that familiar pang. At this point I’ve felt it so much, it’s as familiar to me as any
other emotion. “Sorry, I got a little lost.” I lie, knowing he will believe it, and feel all the more guilty.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks.

“Oh, I got us some ice cream,” I say, perhaps a little too brightly.

“Did someone say ice cream?” Eddie’s wife, Molly, comes in from the other room, holding the baby. He’s asleep on her shoulder.

Molly. Thank goodness she’s so nice, or I swear I’d have to kill her. She’s a size 4, soaking wet, and she’s given her husband two children. For those keeping score, that’s one thing I’ll never be (a size 4), and one thing I’m starting to think I’ll never be able to do (give my husband children).

I hand the bag to Molly, and she takes it into the kitchen. I put down my purse and keys on the entry table. I’m still holding the newspaper. I meet Michael’s eyes.

“Ice cream?” he asks softly. It’s not an accusation, and I don’t take it as one. I feel too guilty to be defensive.

“Yeah,” I say casually. “I’ve been good all day, and I figured a little bit won’t hurt. We
are
on vacation, you know,” I say with a little smile.

He smiles back. “You have been good today.” He pulls me close to him and hugs me firmly, protectively. I feel as though I will jump out of my skin. I love him so very much, but I can’t stand to be touched. It makes my skin crawl. All I can think of is how my body must feel under his arms, and I am repulsed for him. I force myself to hug him back, and I feel the sting of salt again, but this time it’s not on my lips, but in my eyes.

We join Eddie and Molly in the kitchen, where I have a very conservative bowl of ice cream. There’s talk of asking Michael’s parents and the other family members to join us, but there’s no answer when Eddie tries to call their cottage. Thank God. I know what’s going to happen to me emotionally once I am alone again, and I don’t need a whopping dose of in-law inadequacy on top of it. I don’t think I could take it.

Michael and Eddie return to their video game, and Molly goes to put the baby down. I excuse myself to the restroom. My stomach is now starting to pay the price of the sins of the past hour, and I’m in the bathroom for a while. This is where the guilt really starts. I lied to Michael’s face, although that really was nothing new. He was concerned about me, and I’d spent much of the evening blaming him for something I knew good and well was all my fault. I’d taken the last two days of eating reasonably well and thrown them away as if they meant nothing.
But I’m going to start fresh tomorrow,
the little voice inside says, rather weakly. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

After I clean up, I look at the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. I wish I could say the reflection of my almost three-hundred-pound frame is a shock, but it isn’t. I am long used to the grotesque figure I’ve become. My face is so swollen, it’s hard to recognize the person I was just a few short years ago. My skin is dry and scaly, my hair is lifeless and limp. And my stomach … I can’t look at it for more than a few seconds without forcing myself to look away, like a bright light that burns your eyes and leaves you seeing spots for hours. I look in the mirror and I see a monster—a hideous beast that has taken over my body and my life. I am too weak to fight him off. He has
control, and I am powerless to do anything about it. Eventually, I am sure, the beast will kill me.

I go back to our room and quietly shut the door. I should go out and say goodnight to everyone, but I am too ashamed. I just want to go to sleep, to not hurt, if just for a few hours. I am never overweight in my dreams; I am thin and young and pretty. Self-hatred is nowhere to be found, and I retreat to that place whenever I can. It is my one escape, my chance to get out from under the death grip I feel most of the time.

I change quickly, although it occurs to me the ritual is pretty silly. I take off my drab T-shirt and pants and put on a drabber T-shirt and shorts. No pretty lingerie, no cute cotton pajamas for me. As it is I’d die if anyone saw my bare legs in the shorts I wear to bed; I haven’t worn shorts or skirts in public for years.

I turn out the lights and lie in bed, begging for sleep to come, but it eludes me. As silent tears slide down my face, I feel as though the grief will overtake me.
Please God,
I pray to myself.
Please help me. I don’t know how to stop this. I can’t do it alone. I need help. I feel like I’m going to die.

My cries no longer want to be muted, and I roll over so that I can sob into my pillow. I think of how much time has been lost, how much of our lives have been ruined by this hideous disease. I think about the future, and I cry even harder. What could the coming years possibly hold for us? Children are out of the question; my doctor doubted I could even get pregnant. I’m too heavy. And even if I could conceive, the pregnancy would be too dangerous for me and for the baby. Wouldn’t my in-laws just love that? No, there are no kids in our future, not if I can’t get this problem under control. And I see no sign of my
getting a grip, despite the promises I made myself earlier. For the first time all night, I am being honest with myself. I am in a very sick place, and I know it. But I don’t know how to fix it. Really fix it, I mean. Not with deal making or grandiose, unrealistic plans. How can I finally fix
me?

The tears let up. I get up to grab some tissue, maneuvering in the dark room over to the dresser. My purse on the floor catches my eye. Michael must have put it in here while I was in the bathroom. I wipe my face and blow my nose, suddenly remembering what’s inside my pocketbook. My pulse quickens a little. I grab my purse and climb back into bed.
I can get up early in the morning, before anyone else. I can walk on the beach, down to the pier and back. That’s got to be a couple of miles, right? Yes. Yes, I can do that in the morning, and then maybe I can do it in the evening, too. You know, really make a strong effort. Michael’s parents are bound to notice that. And Michael, too … he will be so proud of me.
I sniff away the tears as I open my purse and dig out the chocolate.
And because I’m walking first thing in the morning, I will set the tone for the rest of the day. I will eat well because I won’t want to mess up what I’ve done.
I rip open the Hershey’s bar.
But maybe you should start now. You don’t need that candy. Throw it away. Prove to yourself that you know you are worth it.
The little voice is annoying me now, and I push it deep inside my subconscious.
No, I have to eat this now,
I tell myself.
If I don’t, I’ll feel deprived all day tomorrow, and that will mess me up. Go ahead and get it over with and then make a fresh start.

I lie in bed and eat the Hershey’s bar, and then the Reese’s cups. I stuff the wrappers between the two mattresses, vowing
to get rid of them the next morning. My tears are long gone. I’m back to feeling nothing. The back-and-forth has stopped, at least for now, and I’m ready to let sleep come and get me. Take me away. Take me to thin, pretty, happy Jennifer. I miss her. So much.

I fall asleep.

The beast smiles.

My binge eating was born in 1990. I was a senior in high school,
and I had just gone through yet another breakup with my abusive boyfriend. I decided the answer to all my problems would be to finally rid myself of the extra thirty pounds I’d carried for as long as I could remember. I wish I could say I wanted to lose the weight to attract a better boyfriend, but in truth, I hoped to make the abusive one insanely jealous so he would fall head over heels for me and never cheat again. Twisted, I know, but that’s where my head was that New Year’s Eve. I decided to stay home and eat all my favorite foods, to get them out of my system. Then the next day I would start my new diet in earnest. I got a double cheeseburger and fries from Wendy’s, plus a big bag of Funyuns and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. I stayed home and watched Dick Clark and ate until I thought I would puke. This was new; it had never occurred to me before to binge like this. Looking back, I have no clue what gave me the idea.

At midnight the Wendy’s meal was long gone. I threw away what was left of the Funyuns, and I poured the remaining Mountain Dew down the sink. I was so satisfied with myself.

Believe it or not, it worked. I lost twenty-five pounds in about three months. I taught myself to drink diet soft drinks, something I never thought I would do.

I avoided fast food and Funyuns, and I even started to exercise a little. I received compliments everywhere I went. The more attention I got, the more motivated I became to keep up the good work.

The abusive boyfriend was jealous, and he wanted me back. Of course I went. And I did keep the weight off for quite some time, so I became convinced that bingeing was the way to go. Get it out of your system; then get down to work.

Little did I know that this dangerous bingeing habit would one day threaten my life.

I can’t remember a time when eating wasn’t a central part of my being. I wasn’t an obese child, but in some ways I think I had it even worse: I was always about twenty-five pounds overweight, just fat enough to get picked on. Where did the extra weight come from? Genetics, I’m sure played a part, although neither of my parents was overweight. Smoking was their vice of choice, with the added inclination of drinking for my dad. I have two brothers, one of whom was skinny as a rail and short most of his life. The other, like me, has always fought extra pounds, despite his being a highly decorated athlete while growing up. No, my extra weight was born more out of poor habits, caring way too much way too early about the wrong kinds of food. Fast food wasn’t the problem then; a trip to McDonald’s was a rare treat when I was a little girl. But soda—or “drinks” as we used to call them in North Carolina—that was my problem almost from the very beginning.

My love affair with Mountain Dew goes back as far as I can remember. My dad would get home from his job at the carton factory in the early afternoon, right after we got home from
school. He would send one of us down to the corner store to buy our daily snack. We each got to choose something to eat and something to drink. We also had to get something for Dad. My brothers and my father always varied their choices. Sometimes my dad would get these pink cupcakes called “snowballs”; other times, he’d want a long package of peanuts and a Pepsi. My brothers liked all kinds of chips and cakes and cookies. But my choice was always the same: a bag of Funyuns and a Mountain Dew. There was nothing better than that salty-sweet mix, and it was part of my afternoon routine for years and years.

I can remember my mom going to the grocery store every Saturday and coming home with a large bag of potato chips, a box of Ho Hos, and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi. Those snacks would be gone by the afternoon, my brothers and I hurrying to eat them before they disappeared. There was always a definite competition in my house for food.

I smile now when I think about how much I complain about my kids being picky eaters, because really, they are nothing compared to my brothers and me. I would eat no fruit whatsoever. I couldn’t stand the texture of it, and to this day I don’t eat any. I would eat very few vegetables, either. Sometimes my mom could get us to eat green beans with fatback or corn on the cob smothered in butter. I never wanted to try new things; I always hated going over to other people’s houses to eat. I can remember having lunch at my friend Michelle’s house. I was probably five years old. Her mother put the plate in front of me, and I stared at the brown bread. Brown bread? I’d never seen such a thing. And I wasn’t about to put it in my mouth. I was too ashamed to come out and say it, so I did what any
five-year-old would do. I waited until Michelle’s mother wasn’t looking and I threw the bread on the floor, under the table. Problem solved.

Michelle’s parents were professors at Duke University and were obviously a little more enlightened when it came to healthy eating. I remember bringing over a bag of Funyuns to share with Michelle, and her father asked to see the bag. He turned it over and began reading the ingredients. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing, and I don’t remember his ultimate verdict.

No, my parents were not college professors. We were a distinctly blue-collar family with enough money to get by but not a whole lot left over. Food was a cheap way to show love and bring pleasure. Not only did my dad buy us afternoon snacks, but he also would make mammoth “Daddy Burgers” on the grill, each thick patty smothered with mounds of cheese. My mom would cook her own french fries in our FryDaddy. And sweet tea flowed freely. Whenever we had a hankerin’ for dessert, my brothers and I knew to look in Dad’s top dresser drawer—he always had cookies or candy bars stashed there. When we were out of school for the summer, Mom would leave us a dollar each to go to the store and buy whatever we wanted to eat. My brothers and I fought like cats and dogs, but I can distinctly remember my brother Jimmy and I pooling our money once and buying a Chef Boyardee Pizza Kit. Making that pizza with Jimmy is something I remember fondly.

Every memory, every special occasion, was tied up with food—and still is. My first thought when I wake up in the morning is,
What will I eat today?
My last thought when I go to
sleep is,
What will I eat tomorrow?
If I know a special occasion is coming up, I ponder all the food possibilities. It occupies my every waking thought.

College brought a whole new level of food independence. I was still twenty-five pounds lighter, and I managed to keep most of it off freshman year. But it occurred to me that I could have anything I wanted to eat, anytime I wanted. No longer was I limited to the one soft drink a day Dad bought for an afternoon snack; the campus cafeteria had all the soda I could want, on tap. I brought a refrigerator to school, and my roommate provided a microwave. This brought all new possibilities: I could eat sugarcoated cereal for breakfast every morning, and microwave pizza in our room. Probably the most damaging part of my newfound food freedom was burger baskets. I was stuck on campus without a car, and back then there were no fast-food places in our little college town. But we had an on-campus burger joint, and I made a regular practice of ordering a hamburger-and-fries basket. I remember being in awe of the fact that I could do this at 9:00 and 10:00 p.m., long after I’d eaten dinner.
I can do this to get through my studying,
I told myself.
I just need a pick-me-up.
How I didn’t gain all my weight back and more that freshman year, I’ll never know. But it would happen soon enough.

By my sophomore year I was living off campus with a roommate. I was also commuting an hour and a half each way to work as a reporter at a television station in South Carolina. I worked horrible hours and had to drive miles and miles on the interstate. This was where my fast-food addiction really heated up. I was working late. I was tired. I was stressed from the job,
the commute, the full load of courses I was taking and, oh yeah, I was planning a wedding. It was almost too easy to give in to the temptation of the many fast-food places up and down I-95, most of which were open twenty-four hours. I found myself stopping for burgers and fries at midnight three and four times a week, always telling myself that this was the last time, I just needed it to get through the commute. Famous last words.

I definitely was eating more fast food, but I wasn’t at the bingeing point yet. That would come just a little later, when the weight started to pile on from the extra burgers and fries and endless soda. The stress from gaining weight and all the other things in my life started to get to me, and in a desperate attempt to stop the madness, I would employ what worked so well for me on that New Year’s Eve back in 1990. I would load up on fast food, promising myself that this was the last time, all I needed was to get it out of my system. But more and more I found that what I thought was a foolproof method no longer worked. My resolve would erode quickly, and I would eat more. The weight began to pile on even more, and for the first time in my life, I entered a weight class I never thought I would achieve. The more I tried to fix it, the worse it became. I felt as though I was sinking in quicksand.

Over the years, I brought bingeing to an art form. It usually centered around fast food, but not always. Sometimes I couldn’t leave the house, afraid Michael would know what I was up to. I would take a loaf of bread, a jar of pasta sauce, and a tub of butter, and over the course of an afternoon, I would eat all of it. I would tell Michael I was “working” in our second bedroom that I used as an office. And I would just eat and eat
and eat. I eventually would get sick and have to go to the bathroom, but if I waited just a little while, I was ready to eat again. And again and again.

Fast food was always my drug of choice, though. In early 2000 I started a new job that had me commuting an hour each way, again along the interstate. I would call Pizza Hut before I left work for the day. Imagine how mortified I was when they knew me by my order, “Ms. Joyner? Oh yes, a medium pepperoni and sausage pizza and a twenty-ounce Mountain Dew?” I sheepishly said, “Yes,” and left to pick up my food. I was embarrassed to be remembered for my standing order, especially when the purchase of a single drink must have clued the folks into the fact that this was indeed a meal for one. But not too embarrassed to keep going.

I could down the whole pizza in the first twenty minutes or so of my hour-long drive home. Then, when I was halfway there, I would stop off the interstate and hit McDonald’s for a double cheeseburger meal. By the time I finished that, I was home and felt pretty sick. But I’d go to the bathroom and wait a few minutes, and then I was ready to go again. Sometimes I would have a full dinner with Michael.

Other times I’d go to the grocery store and get a pint of Häagen-Dazs and eat it in my office, telling Michael again that I was working. Sometimes I would forget to throw the trash away from my binge eating, and I would see that Michael had found it in my car and thrown it away himself.

I was so ashamed, but I felt powerless to stop it. Michael would complain that my car smelled like ketchup. If we rode together on the weekends, he would sigh heavily and roll the
windows down, unable to take the smell. I said nothing. What could I say? Promise not to do it again? Even I, in my advanced stage of denial, knew those promises were empty.

After a day of binge eating, I would have what I call a “binge hangover” the next morning. I would feel so gassy, so bloated. My stomach would ache, and I would have to go to the bathroom several times. I would have no energy, and worse, I had incredible guilt and remorse.

I suppose that’s why I would hardly ever binge in the mornings; that was a time for regret and repurpose. I would set out each day to right the wrongs of the day before. If I was lucky, I could make it for a couple of days without bingeing again. At my worst my resolve was gone by lunchtime.

There was such shame surrounding what I was doing to myself and to my body that I kept it hidden as much as I could. Still, someone who is addicted to food isn’t allowed the luxury of anonymity; we wear our failures on our bodies for the world to see. I used to be envious of people with drug or alcohol problems. At least they could hide their addictions, if even for a little while, from the rest of the population. A fat person might as well wear a sign with flashing neon lights:
I CAN’T CONTROL MYSELF
!

Indeed eating in public is a no-win situation for the obese. If we eat a lot, people stare and confirm for themselves what they’d already been thinking. If we eat a little, people smirk, knowing full well there’s more to the story. Thus I did whatever I had to do to avoid eating in public. At work I would eat lunch in my car, away from prying eyes. At family gatherings I would put the bare minimum on my plate. I suppose this is the behavior that prompted my father-in-law to once ask me
if I hid food. It was pretty early in our marriage, and I’m sure Michael’s parents were struggling for answers as they saw me spiral out of control. When I tearfully confessed to them that I was trying to get my weight under control, Mr. Joyner said he knew a man who would find candy wrappers stuffed into desk drawers at his home, knowing that they belonged to his wife. Was that what I was doing? I told him yes, although I really, at that point, didn’t hide food at home. Perhaps that’s where I got the idea to do so, because I did actually do that many years later. You would think the humiliation I endured as the result of my father-in-law’s questions would shame me into finally doing something about my eating. You would think.

The bingeing and the hiding of food made me feel even lonelier. Being a fat woman is one of the loneliest things you can be. Family and friends want to help you, but they don’t know how, and they’re afraid to say the wrong thing, so they usually don’t say anything. I’ve found that when I have tried to bring it up, even with Michael, it makes others very uncomfortable, and I usually just drop the subject. Fat women don’t even acknowledge other fat women, because doing so means you are one of them, and most of us want to deny that as long as possible. You can’t even commiserate with those who understand best. So you keep everything inside, struggling and hurting all alone.