Monster

When my sister and I were plucked from our happiness in Naperville, IL we were forced to settle into the Wide Open West. We were horrified that we were forced to move once again to a dreadful state called Colorado. Dreadful. All I could imagine was high school kids shooting eachother and buffalo roaming everywhere and snow- oh how I hate the cold (it’s the Texas girl in me). Our Daddy had promised us that if we were ever to move again we would go back to Texas and flourish as southern belles in our big beautiful brick plantation home. Being the incredible lawyer he is, as usual, he lied.

When we arrived in Colorado, it was June and it was hotter than my dreams of Chase Utley with his hair done. Of course my parents decided to torture us by forcing us to move before the school year so we had NO friends. None. Zero. Luckily, my sister and I are just so fascinating we don’t need friends because no one can ever love eachother or be as wonderful as we are together. Our rooms connected by a long private hallway and bathroom. We spent our time locked in our private area of the house watching daytime soaps and eating and drinking lots of refined sugar and saturated fats.

I was 14. At 5’7” and weighing a whopping 98 lbs., I never gained weight and I always ate and drank crap. After 3 weeks of our daily food routine of a 24 pack of soda, 3 boxes of cookies, 1 gallon of ice cream, and 2 cheese burgers- it started to show. I weighed 125 lbs. My mother fainted when she saw the scale. Instead of 2 daughters she now had 2 pet manatees.

When my mother came to, she sat us down and gave us a very serious talk. She said we needed to stop eating like we were farm animals. She said we would never be taken seriously or truly loved if we looked like little orcas. We would never be accepted in the real world because fat people are never taken seriously. Fatties don’t have lots of beautiful friends, glamorous jobs, sexy boyfriends, or a spot on the cheerleading squad. We were smacked in the face with the truth and we knew we did not want that life. All those delectable delights we fantasized over- Popsicles, cotton candy, ice cream cones, french fries, soda pop – were never to be consumed again. We were living like the children of the carnies, not of southern bourgeoisie.

My sister and I quit the saturated fats in sugar rehab that summer aka we lived in bikinis. We decided being anorexic by the pool was much nicer than plump ‘Days Of Our Lives’ sausages. Soon enough our spirits were lifted because we were making friends and boys wouldn’t stop flirting with our fresh slim figures. Every now and then we would walk down to the grocers and sneak home bags of cookies and candy bars to gorge upon without our mother knowing, but we knew we could never act like we did that summer again.

I still find myself falling down into that dark hole. When I become depressed I morph into a monster. Cookie monster. I eat everything I can get my hands on and I can’t stop. Today, I consumed an entire box of Klondike chipwiches. The ten minutes it took me to eat them, eased my pain and dulled my heartache. The tiny chocolate chips along the edges looked like something Monet would paint when he was feeling like I was – dark, blurred, and muddled – little pieces of heartbreak. Bruiser curled up at my feet. Sometimes I think he's the only one that can feel my pain. I swear I can almost feel the cottage cheese beginning to form under the skin of my thighs, but it doesn't matter. I am alone.