At the awkward age of eleven when my breasts were bumps instead of bodacious, I studied the models in Vogue and Elle magazine the same way a priest studies the scriptures. If there were articles of substance in the volume, I didn’t notice them. I was too obsessed with the women of perfection

The flood of messages telling me I needed to be as beautiful, thin and exotic as the women in every edition compelled me to go to any length to control my weight. It was painful for me to compare my body to the bodies of the women on the pages. My eyes darted back and forth from the thighs on the models to the thighs on my frame, and I hated myself for the difference. The girls in the magazine didn't have an ounce of fat on their bones. I squeezed my thigh.  My thigh resembled a turkey leg at a county fair. I was far meatier.

I memorized an advertisement of Brooke Shields in her Calvin Klein jeans. I fantasized what it would be like to live in her body. If only I had her hair or her eyes or her lips or her bushy eyebrows. If only I was thin like her. Life must be so easy for her. All the boys must want her. All the girls must want to be her. I will never be that skinny. I will never be that glamorous. I will never be enough.

 

I haven’t slept a wink. It’s 5 a.m.  A vast quantity of cocaine circulates in my bloodstream.  Birds chirp outside my window to wish me a good morning. I cover my ears. I have nothing to whistle about.

My party is over.  I am toxic-liver drunk. I am parched-mouth dry. I am buggy-eyed paranoid.  I am little-men-running-around-my-apartment delusional. I am hung over hard.

My friend dresses for work. She searches for her keys. She is sorry for leaving me. She will be fired if she doesn’t go. I wonder how she can be responsible at a time like this. 

How can she function?  I am barreled over by the reality of her departure. Oh my G-d, she is leaving me. What am I going to do? I am sick as a dog. Something is very wrong with me.

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