Warning-Eating Disorders

I wake up in the morning and immediately realize that Papa is coming today and my house is still a mess. My brain tells me to get up quickly and clean up what I can and I imagine adrenaline pumping through my body, but in reality the adrenaline does not come and I have to force myself up.

I look at the alarm clock on my nightstand, the one I never turn on anymore, knowing I have nothing to get up for, nothing really to live for. It says 10:14. Papa should come in around an hour. He usually likes to eat brunch with me. Eat. No, no, no. He can't see me eat; the pig I have become. I can't let anyone see me eat.

My thoughts start to stifle me, pulling me under where I can't breathe. The world starts to vanish leaving only my thoughts to torment me. No! I push the thoughts into the back of my mind, promising them I'll think about them later, but they continue to try to smother me. The next time I look at the clock it is almost eleven.

I hurry to the shower, not thinking, not thinking, not thinking. I clean up what I can of the kitchen and living room stillnot thinking, not thinking, not thinking. By the time the doorbell rings I have plastered a smile on my face and I am feeling just the tiniest bit more relaxed.

"Mathieu!" Papa greets me, wrapping me in a hug. He didn't hug me last time. It is because you don't look the disgusting pig you are this time, the voice tells me. I agree with the voice that I am a disgusting pig.

"Mathieu? Is something the matter?" I notice I haven't hugged Papa back. Because I was thinking of myself and not him. I hate myself for it.

I want to eat.

"No, Papa." I hug him back. "I didn't actually prepare the food yet so I'll go make it now. You can sit in the living room."

"It's fine, ma cherie," Papa laughs and places the box of croissants he was holding on the living room table. "Your brother forgets all the time."

My brother. I feel myself tense up. I love my brother, but I don't want to see him right now. Even talk about him. The way he eats disgusts me, stuffing hamburgers and milkshakes down in his throat as if he hasn't eaten in six years. He's also a little chubby and something about that makes me look away from him.

I know I have worse eating habits than him and now probably weigh more, but I still can't stand to think about him. I'm scared he's like me. That he can't live without eating, that his days are filled with horror and his nights with dreams.

As I walk into the kitchen Papa follows me.

"I'll help you make the food," he says. I notice him looking around, studying everything. The tiny bit of relaxation I was feeling vanishes. I tense up and smile wider.

In the freezer I find two grilled paninis from Tim Horton's. While I put them in the microwave Papa makes a salad from some almost rotting vegetables.

"It's not like you to have all this already-prepared food around," he remarks. I didn't make up a reply for that if anyone asked me. My brain starts panicking, but my body already knows what to do. It nods and makes an unconditional sound, bending over the microwave.

We eat at the living room table, me picking at the food and mumbling replies to Papa's conversation. When we finish eating Papa sits back and looks at me. My eyes automatically dash away from his, scared that if they meet Papa will know everything that's going on. He asks the question anyway.

"Mathieu, what is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Papa, I don't know what you are talking about." I pick up the plates, meaning to bring them to the sink.

"Stop." Papa's hand is touching my wrist. "There is something wrong. Please tell me what it is, Mathieu. I want to help."

"I'm fine, Papa." My voice sounds monotone, not convinced in itself so I repeat my words. "I'm fine, Papa." I still don't look him in the face.

Papa doesn't ask any more questions, but helps me put away the left over food, all the while talking about these two puppies his friend bought. I tell him that his friend should have gotten puppies from a shelter and not from a pet store, and the conversation sounds almost normal.

When he leaves Papa kisses me and I can feel his eyes on me, worrying, though I still haven't looked at him since he asked me what was wrong. I let him kiss me and hug him back, but I am scared to hug too tight or too long in case Papa thinks I am asking for help with the hug. It lasts barely a second.

When he is out of the door and it is closed behind him I finally let myself break down. The thoughts come washing over me like flood water that was held back too long by a dam. I cry and choke over the toilet though nothing comes out of my throat.

I don't remember going to sleep. I wake up the next morning-afternoon with my clothes still on and the blankets on the floor, but me in my bed.