We were told what foods were to be taken out of the Goldstein Consuption Rotation. Refined Sugars. Saturated Fats. Simple Carbohydrates. These foods would feed our sausage-y little legs, they said, and we would never be truly loved or taken seriously if we had legs that looked like Oscar Mayer Wieners. We would never be accepted in the real world, because fatties don't have beautiful friends, or glamorous jobs, or hot boyfriends. We didn't want to live our lives like that. All of those beautiful foods that we adored...cotton candy. funnelcake, saltwater taffee, caramel apples...the ones that made our diets look like we were the children of carnies, and not of Connecticut bourgeoisie, were now off limits for the walrus twins.
Miss Lewis found me crouched one day, surrounded by bushes, shoving Equal packets into my mouth. Those bushes were the same one that Arnold Parker had fingered me in the summer previous. The chemically sweet taste was far inferior to my insatiable desire for sugary, fatty goodness, but it was either this, or hacking my veins open with a filed down haircomb. The Equal packets quelled my gluttonous appetite for sweets. Slowly, over time, I became desensitized to my need for these things. My caloric intake dwindled, as did my weight, and with this, my spirits and self esteem soared. I had friends. Boys noticed me. At first, it was hard, but the ends far outweighed the means. This was it.
I find myself falling down, falling into old patterns. Depression brings out the Cookie Monster in me, and I can't stop. I eat everything I can get my hands on, and today was no different. I consumed an entire dozen of Krispy Kreme Cookies and Kreme donuts...then I licked the box clean. the fifteen minutes it took me to eat them, dulled the maddening pain in my heart. The crushed Oreos topping the donuts looked like something Claude Monet would have painted when he was feeling like I was -- an impressionistic muddle of brown, grey and black; crushed pieces of heartbreak. Hobbes looked at me forlornly, but knowingly. Sometimes I think he's the only one that can feel my pain. I can virtually feel the cottage cheese collecting under the skin of my thighs now; but it doesn't matter. I am alone.