Cold Front Confrontation

March 6 2016

            In the car, I turn on the engine and start backing out of the driveway. I don’t turn on the radio and neither does J.  I’m still singing unable to cope with the silence. But talk is meaningless. The air suffocating us with everything unsaid. 

Can you do me a favour. I grip the wheel with both hands, eyes on the middle line of the road. Ask me a question.

Pause. 

I don’t know… what kind of question?

Something you...want to know… something that bugs you.

J breathes out. Do you really want to do this now?

I guess not. 

_________________________________________________________

Went skiing at Blue Mountain with my Dad and J today. The car ride there was two hours. It was early in the morning and quiet.  J and I played scrabble on my ipad in the backseat, and my Dad ate trail mix with my Granddad in the front.  I picked at an apple I had packed, knowing I was going to be expending lots of energy on the slopes. 

Did you have breakfast? J asked quietly.

I am right now. I took a bite of apple, larger than I would’ve liked. 

That’s not breakfast, Jordan.

Fine I’ll have some trail mix too.

Better, I guess. J grew quiet. He was sitting no further than two feet away from me and yet a

distance grew between us. 

I reached across the seat to touch him, prove to myself he was still there, that I wasn’t losing him.  I’m excited. I can’t wait to see how you manage on skis for the first time.

J snorted. Second time.

Must be a pro then.

J puts down his word. 30 points. Your turn.

We continued playing the game until we pulled up in front of the white-capped buzzing resort. 

I never ate the trail mix.

We spent a full day on the slopes, J learning faster than I expected, but still skiing slower than I wanted. Not enough to count as exercise.  Sitting on the chairlift, feeling my thighs spread across the cold metal, and feeling like a whale in my snowsuit, I was fixated on how many calories were in the taco salad I had consumed at lunch time, feeling as always like too much and not enough.  How long did I walk Jaeda last night? Did I run enough during it? I should have done a longer yoga session this morning. Actually, why didn’t I go out for a run when I woke up?  I won’t have a chance to go for a run tonight, would I? Unless J went home right away. But then I’d have to face food alone. It’s easier when he’s present.  So maybe I’ll get him to stay late, and get my ass out the door for a run first thing tomorrow. But then again Jaeda and I both have more energy at night, maybe it would be more worth my while to do it then. But then what if I spend all morning in the kitchen eating everything in sight. What if-

Jordan? 

J’s voice brings me back, and I tense up,  feeling like I’ve been caught doing something wrong even though I don’t quite know what that would be. Maybe for not being the outgoing happy exuberant and energetic girl I was when he fell in love with me last year.  For my selfish, introverted, self-obsessed tendencies to have crept into my being over time. I know its my food issues. They are still there and they’re ruining everything. I’m just so trapped and obsessed and I know it’s hurting us. 

You okay if this is our last run today?  Hill’s closing in 10. 

Last run and I hadn't even broken a sweat. I’ve been taking it too easy on myself, stopping too much, I should have been squatting more in my stance. I won’t even be sore tomorrow. 

Well maybe we can squeeze in one more-

might not have time.

J grows cold and aloof again, and I'm desperate to feel the heat of his body, but there’s too many layers of snowsuit between us. 

I have something to tell you later. I whisper quiet enough not to travel to my dad sitting on the other side of us.

J nods his head briefly. Later.

I say thank you, and I don’t know why.  

The drive home is dark and quiet.  People are tired and content to rest, but  I feel anxious and uneasy in the night. I try to make small talk and chatter, to tease J about the fences he almost crashed into, praise him for getting to his feet so quickly. He good naturedly goes along with it, my Dad joins in, but quiet seems to be the equilibrium for tonight so it settles like a heavy blanket for the second half of the ride. I put in my earphones and listen to Taylor Swift new albums out but I keep finding myself keep coming back one of her first songs I heard  years ago.

Hold on baby you re losing it

The waters high and you’re jumping into it 

And letting go 

And no one knows

That you cry but you don’t tell anyone

That you might not be the golden one

And you’re tied together with a smile but you’re coming 

Undone  

We finally get home around 8 and Moms made dinner. I don’t want to eat but when I start I feel like I can’t stop feeling frenzied and starving. I joke and complain about how I’m pigging out. 

      Of course you’re hungry. My mom speaks sharply. You’ve been skiing for eight hours.

Hardly. I think.  We spent more time on the chair lift than on the hill. And then I  sat on my ass in a car for 2 hours each way. The run I didn’t do today would have been much more exertive. But I keep my mouth shut. Not doing this with J here. 

After dinner, J drifts down into the basement and collapses onto the couch.  I crawl on top of him. He grunts and shifts so that I am nestled into his chest and shoulder, our typical jigsaw formation. I start singing the Taylor Swift song stuck in my head. 

The water high and you’re jumping into it

And letting go ‘and no one knows

That you cry 

But you don’t tell anyone

You might not be the golden one 

Tied together with a smile and you’re coming undone. 

Do you want to tell me what you wanted to tell me now? He asks mildly. 

I take a breath as discreetly as I can, not to disturb our rib cages sandwiched together.

            I promise I won't judge. He says, gently, hesitantly. I think I have a pretty good idea what it is.

             That gets me. I get a tinge of warmth or pride or love or something nice course through me and I lift my torso up to look at him. His green eyes looking just past me, his jaw tight. What has he noticed?  He must really care about me. Maybe he can tell that I've been overthinking food again. 

What do you think it is? I ask

I want you to tell me. He prods.

We dance around the subject and we change topics to the obvious little things neither of us can really focus on for long. Its torment. I kiss his ear because I know it drives him crazy. He runs his hand up my body, caresses my tummy. I complain how full I am from dinner.  J comments sarcastically on what? Soup and salad?

He doesn’t get it. I had so much. 

It’s getting late. I’m falling asleep. J yawns. 

I’ll drive you home. I say.  It was getting late and he was getting out of it and I’m tempted to let it go. I am scared of where this is gonna go anyways. 

My parents already in bed, we tiptoe up the stairs, grab the keys and head into the car in silence, except for the same Taylor Swift song I can’t stop singing under my breath. 

            In the car, I turn on the engine and start backing out of the driveway. I don’t turn on the radio and neither does J.  I’m still singing unable to cope with the silence. But talk is meaningless. The air suffocating us with everything unsaid. 

Can you do me a favour. I grip the wheel with both hands, eyes on the middle line of the road. Ask me a question.

Pause. 

I don’t know… what kind of question?

Something you...want to know… something that bugs you.

J breathes out. Do you really want to do this now?

I guess not. 

J shifts in his seat, rubs his temple.

No, I think we should. Are you ok to drive?

My heart beats like the time we were both on drugs in the rain at a rave last summer.

Yeah. 

You sure?

I collect myself. Yes I’m fine. Promise.

Do you make yourself throw up?

I remember being at a baseball game when I was young. I don’t recall much of the game except for the bucket of cotton candy my dad bought me and the fly ball that went into the stands. You’re so lucky. He told me later. If you were two inches taller it would’ve got you.  I never saw the batter hit it, just the ball whizz up and above my head, in awe of how close it was I could touch it, how fast it was going even in slow motion. Apparently it didn’t hit anyone, some major fan managed to catch it and kept it as a prized possession. I sat there the rest of the game, there but not really, feeling the brush of that flyball on my cheek over and over, rooted to my seat by the fear that never had a chance to set in.

Do you make yourself throw up?

Eyes on the road, focused and unblinking.  knuckles white, at 10 and 2. 

Only a few times. Less than 10. Honestly.

Maybe we can breeze by this. This isn’t the problem. This isn’t what I was going to say. This isn’t what Josh needed to know. 

One time or ten, it doesn’t matter. Just the fact you feel like you have to do it is... terrifying. 

Josh waits for me to say something, anything, but I can’t. Thoughts and feelings and shards of reasons rush around me but nothing concrete comes into fruition. 

It was when you moved into residence I noticed it. The first two weeks. And once at my parent’s house. In the bathroom. I heard you. 

 Tumbling down a rabbit hole now, Josh tumbling right down with me. It feels like we’re in a vacuum. There’s no turning back. 

I was so sad. Scared…. You’re killing yourself.  He clears his throat. Because you are. Slowly.  I cried. Driving back home in my back home in my car. You were so thin...so thin.

So thin. I revel in the announcement, astonished by the concern.  Maybe I wasn’t just mentally crazy. Maybe I had something physical to justify it too. I didn’t say anything, partially because I was still in disbelief and shock at the words coming out of this boy’s mouth, and partially because I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted to hear him lay into me, to feel his fear, his pain, his concern. I was desperate to know he still cared, that he still loved me, that I was someone worth the worry. 

You have to tell your parents. J balled his fists, squeezing them tight. I almost told them myself. But I thought that would only make things worse. I can be there when I do it if you want.

I was no longer a thinking being, but a feeling being. I was overwhelmed by tides one after another of sadness anger fear frustration elation confusion crashed over me, and rendered unable to speak, choking on mouthfuls of salt water. All I could do was listen as josh continued to talk, months of worry and confusion spilling over us, like sticky soda stains the seats of a new car. He told me How worried he was. How this was an eating disorder. How I was killing myself. How couldn’t I see how skinny I was getting? That couldn’t I see that it was not attractive? That it was scary. That he loved me, but not what I was doing to myself.

He spoke with such directness, so measured and  controlled, I felt powerless and new, like a child, trying to fight numbness to sink my teeth into his every word.

His voice cracked every so often and he would pause, and I know his monotone and lack of emotion was all that was keeping him from breaking down in front of me.  He was being strong for both of  us. Saying all the right things, everything that was hard to say and hard to hear. He sounded so hurt. Like a crack in his voice might send him to pieces. I desperately hoped he wouldn’t cry because I knew I would lose it too.

I had no idea I was hurting him like this. I thought he liked how thin I was. He always told me he liked “thin girls.” I felt his distance, and I thought he was growing bored with me, tired of my whining and weakness and lack of direction.  As hard as it was to have this conversation, I reveled in it. He loved me enough to say this, to feel this.  I was hurting him so much he was drawing away to protect himself.  I felt a ripple of hope for us. 

We were still deep in our confessional when we turned down his street, even though I had been driving well under the speed limit. We pulled over short of his driveway. I turned off the engine. Our seatbelts remained buckled. I don’t know if he was looking at me. I still couldn’t look at him. 

I was still so blindsided by it all. I thought this conversation was in my control. I thought it was just going to be me explaining my eating disorder to him. Instead he was explaining it to me. He told  me that I am always cold because I have no body fat to keep me warm. I know this, and feel more pleasure that he recognizes this, that I’m not just the typical cold woman. I confessed that I’ve been so reluctant to talk about my eating disorder because I don’t seem to fit the typical description. 

        That’s what every alcohol and drug addict would say. Eating disorders are like addictions. He gets it. He’s done the research. 

He takes it more seriously than I do. He thinks I’m truly hurting myself. He told me over and over in various ways that I don’t eat enough for all the exercise I do. 

I told him about how I feel like a crazy person when I walk my dog, running in zig zags, doing jumping squats whenever she stops to sniff something. 

I managed to glance at him across from me. He looked up, shook his head just slightly, and sighed. You don’t need to burn off every single calorie.

He told me I need to go to therapy.  

I told him about Sheena’s Place, and how I’d already been to the support groups there once or twice. 

He told me I need to keep going. 

I told him about how the hospital program called, and how I was supposed to call them back. 

Call them. He ordered.

I will. I rolled my eyes, laughed. 

When. He pressed, not buying in. 

I don’t know. Soon. 

Across the street, a woman walked by with a big shaggy dog on a leash. We both watched her pass. 

I just want you to be happy and healthy Jordan, even if you’re not with me. 

Of everything he says to be in this car that night, its that line that devastated me the most. I had never pictured a future without him. That was never supposed to be an option.

We talked some  more, glancing at each other once in awhile, the air defrosting between us.  ED is out and no longer a secret. We can both breathe easier right now but the struggle is far from over. 

I don’t know what time it is but it was  late when we finally got out of the car.  Josh gathered me in his arms, and we stood wrapped in each other. He rested his chin on my head, my face burrowed in his chest. We exchanged i love yous. I say thank you and sorry. And Josh said  that he knows I can do this.  He said people can recover from this.  

I believe in you.  

I don’t look up at him because i couldn’t let him to see me cry.

Are you ok? He asked softly.

I nodded. 

Are you sure you’re ok to drive home.

I stepped away, collecting myself. I’m fine. I'll be fine. Promise. 

I drove home with the radio still off, not able to remember the lights or the drive as I let myself into the house and crawled into bed. 

I closed my eyes, but any chance of sleep was thwarted by the hurricane of truths and feelings accelerate and colliding at lightning speed in my mind.

In my journal I write a letter to Josh. Ill never send it, but it’s the first real commitment I’m making to embarking on this road to recovery.  If I can’t do it for me just yet, I’ll start doing it for him.