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Waaaaay back when I was a little girl of 10, I truly thought I was the first and only person since ancient Rome who binged and purged. Can you imagine being all alone with this affliction? I told my mother and she thought it was a pretty clever way to get skinny. So did the doctors. Morons meant well. It took me 25 l-o-n-g years to kick the habit. Note to those of you with eating disorders: you CAN heal and actually eat normally!
Here's Chapter One from The Skinny: Adventures of America's First Bulimic, by me, Rayni Joan, available now from amazon.com. It's fiction, but I lifted tons of the material from my life. If you'd like to leave me a message, I would be happy to hear from you. I'd especially like your feedback about the following piece of my book.
CHAPTER ONE
It’s a Saturday morning, mid 1953, and the Hit Parade is on the radio, blasting Eddie Fisher crooning “Oh, my pa-pa,to me he was so wonderful.” I think of Grandpa as I hum along and sadly and madly chew and snap a mouthful of gum. I’m standing in front of the mirror over the bureau inspecting my new body in the smallest jeans I’ve ever worn. I’m a fraction of the size I was, but I’d like to be still skinnier so I hold in my stomach and pose as I brush my unruly chestnut hair into crazy patterns that cover my face.
I’m peeking through the hair mask when Daddy charges into the central thoroughfare bedroom and kills the volume. The sudden disruption makes my stomach hurt. This is no wonderful papa. This is the tyrant of my life. I’d like to fart big smelly gas at him but since losing 60 pounds, I don’t have that potent weapon anymore. Too bad because now that I force my food up, my sense of smell has been fading in and out, mostly out. It would be so perfect to fart stinky ones and be immune to the stench. Not that I’ve ever minded my own farts. They saved my ass from the sensitive-nosed tyrant many times.
It’s so interesting that vomiting takes away my sense of smell and my farts along with the fat. Since I’m the first and only deliberate barfer since the Romans, maybe I should keep track of all the effects of this fabulous new discovery and write a book – except I’ll still want it to be a secret. Hmmm. That could be a problem.
Daddy stops near me, mutters a disgusted “Goddamn pig kids,” then points to something on the floor. “Pick that scrap up, Weena,” he barks. At the moment, he’s a bulldog, husky, with large wrinkles.
Slowly, I lay the hairbrush down, turn around and follow his finger. He is pointing to a white speck most humans would need a microscope to even notice on the flowered linoleum.
“Not guilty,” I say casually, amazed at my boldness. An instant cord of tension arises between us. I continue to chew and snap, careful not to ingest my hair.
He parks himself inches from me, scrunches up his face, narrows his eyes. Raising his voice sharply, he emphasizes each word: “I don’t think you heard me, so I’ll say it again. Pick it up. Now. And get rid of that goddamn wad of gum while you’re at it. You look like a hairy dog crossed with a cow.”
I force myself not to laugh although I think that’s funny. “I heard you,” I declare, eyes fixed on him through the hair veil. For the first time, I notice, even though I’m twelve and he’s forty-something, we’re the same height. “I meant I’m not the one who dropped it.” I shove the hair out of my face and chew on.
I get a quick whiff of his cigarettes and Bay Rum and then the smells vanish.
He slaps me hard across the face. The gum shoots out like a projectile just missing his ear and in the exact same moment, without hesitation, reflexively, my open hand comes up and smashes him back full force. Oops. My heart pounds. I think my handprint on his cheek will be the last sight of my life. For sure, he’ll get me now. I stand my ground, ready for anything. Let him kill me. He’ll fry in the electric chair.
His color rises, narrowing eyes stare, whites expanding wildly. His nostrils flare, chin juts out. I notice a couple of blackheads on his squashed nose. The muscles on his upper jaws tense as though he wants to bite me. Outraged, beyond words, clenching his teeth, he waves his index finger in my face as he backs me into our little bathroom up against the tub. There’s nowhere to go. I have to lean backwards from my waist into the blue plastic shower curtain. This is so stupid it strikes me as funny. My sense of smell returns for a moment and I inhale the unpleasant plastic of the shower curtain. Then it’s gone.
This miniature room is my place of secret empowerment, and it’s weird to be stuck here with my crazed father. He resembles the same guy who takes me fishing and plays music with me, only now he’s possessed. This has happened fairly regularly for as long as I can remember, but it’s the first time I’ve fought back nongaseously. I didn’t mean to, but now I’m glad. I maintain eye contact. Drops of sweat gather on his deep pink forehead, trickle down his cheeks.
“Don’t you ever, ever dare to lay a hand on me again or I’ll kill you,” he hisses, just above a whisper. I don’t believe him. But he never hits me again.
The day after our confrontation, when all of us Wines are at dinner, including my 16-year-old sister Karen and seven-year-old sister Victoria, I tinkle my fork against my glass for their attention.
“Mommy, Daddy, Karen, Victoria,” I proclaim before eating a bite. “I have something to announce to all of you.”
Daddy looks up suspiciously. Karen chuckles. Mommy keeps passing food. Victoria pays attention.
“I don’t want to be called Weena or anything like that ever again. My name is Rowena, and please call me either Rowena, Rowie or possibly Ro. If you call me anything else I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you. That’s it. Now may I have some potatoes, please, Mother?”
“Okay, Rowie,” Mommy says and smiles.
“I’m still going to call you Weenie,” Karen pipes, then quickly adds, “Only kidding.”
“That wasn’t funny,” Daddy snaps at her. It is the first time I have ever heard him use a negative tone to Karen. Usually this is reserved for me or occasionally, Mommy.
“Sorry,” Karen says, eyes down, mouth tight.
“Sorry what?” Daddy continues, his fork down, an unheard of threat hanging in the air. “Sorry, who? Speak to your sister, Karen. Rowena has made a very grown-up request and I would like you to be grown-up about it. Kindly address your sister the way I expect you to from now on. Use her name when you tell her you’re sorry. I’m waiting.”
Karen flushes bright pink. “Sorry, Row E,” she blurts out.
“You can do better,” Daddy goes on. “Don’t be a smartass.”
“Sorry, Rowie,” Karen says softly.
“Thanks,” I say, beaming. I feel like a million bucks.
— 8 —
But Daddy doesn’t defend me again. Instead, our quarreling escalates. When he rages, I join him at the same decibel level. Not myself anymore, I have a strange sensation that I am acting for a camera rolling, recording every word and movement except my secret bathroom scenes, which remain off limits. Daddy and I star as antagonists, sparring verbally. I feel far more skilled at it than Mommy has ever been. On the dinner table set, I am not eating anymore, just filling up. I stuff myself with second and third helpings of everything as the family gossips and chats about humdrum issues.
“Time to take down the storm windows and put up the screens, Buddy,” Mommy says at a typical Wine meal. “Pass the butter, please, dear.”
“Be nice if I could get some goddamn help with the storms and screens, for Crissake,” Daddy says, passing the butter. “Pop used to take care of it with me.”
Pop refers to my favorite person in the whole world, my grandpa, whose death a couple of months ago plunged me into despair and triggered my discovery of the ancient Roman barfing technique I’m secretly using to get skinny.
“What do you think about asking my brother Sidney?” Mommy suggests genially.
“What do I think? Aside from your brother being fat, lazy, incompetent and a stupid sonovabitch, what do I think? I think you’re dreaming, Pearlie, for Crissake. Your brother’s a goddamn slob. He’d just get in the way.”
Karen adds, “Oh Daddy, Uncle Sidney would probably be happy to help. You underestimate him.”
“No, I don’t,” Daddy says. “When it comes to work, your uncle’s good for nothing.”
Mommy’s lips quiver. She’s on the edge of tears.
“Victoria and I could help, Daddy,” I say, shoveling yet another forkful of potatoes into my mouth, close to completely stuffed and excitedly readying for the purge.
Victoria agrees enthusiastically.
“Don’t be stupid,” he says. “That’s not a job for kids.”
At that, I leap into my act. I jump up from my seat right next to him, slam my chair in, and yell angrily, “Don’t you call me stupid. I am not stupid. How dare you call me stupid? You might have said something kind about my offer. It was sincere.”
Then I storm off, straight to the bathroom, lock the door, run the bath so the water can drown out the gagging sounds, and throw up dinner. I’m grateful for the opportunity to get away from the table. Daddy just about always presents me a cue for a similar escape. It is becoming a nightly performance. It amuses me. Weeks go by like this.
One night, as usual, I rise, thrust my chair against the table and erupt. “You did it again, Father. Put me down again. I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.” My stomach is bursting. I’ve eaten three helpings of dinner with extra bread and butter and several glasses of milk.
Daddy grabs my wrist. “Just a minute, young lady,” he says. “Sit back down, goddamn it. We have to talk about this.”
“What the hell do you mean?” I snarl, panicked inside. I have to find a way to empty my stomach. I stand defiantly. He holds on to my wrist. If only I could get off a nice big fart. I try. Nothing.
“Don’t use that kind of language in this house,” he says.
“Why the hell not? It’s a free country. And anyhow, who the hell do you think I learned from?”
Mommy and Victoria slip away from the table.
“Rowie,” groans Karen, getting up and pushing her chair in. “Do you have go through this same scene every night? Enough already.”
“Don’t blame me, Karen. I didn’t start this,” I snap.
Daddy clears his throat, wiggles his finger as a signal to Karen. She sits back down.
“Sorry, Daddy,” she says sweetly. “May I please be excused?”
“You may, dear,” he says. “Run along.”
He’s hurting my wrist. His demon mask bares itself, flared nostrils, tense jaw, rigid chin, wild eyes. The monster is back. I imitate Karen and him, mocking their saccharine tones. “Sorry, Daddy. May I please be excused? You may, dear, run along.”
He tightens his hold on my wrist.
“Don’t you use that sarcastic bullshit tone with me, Rowie, for Crissake. I’d like to know what in the hell you think you’re getting away with night after night jumping up and leaving the goddamn table. You’re not fooling me any longer. I’ve got your goddamn number.”
I’m terrified. Am I busted? What will I do? I can’t live without my new routine. My stomach throbs. I have to find a way to empty in the next few minutes before the digestive acids go to work and the vomit sours. I tug and yank with the intention of pulling my arm away, but that makes my wrist ache more. I stand there next to my chair staring at him.
Finally, I growl, “What’s my number?” My wrist pulsates where he is squeezing it. I think he may be breaking my bone.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” he says. “It’s obvious you’re picking fights every night to get out of doing the dinner dishes. You haven’t helped your mother in weeks.”
Relief floods me. I melt. “Oh, I’m sorry, Daddy. I want to help with the dishes, really I do.”
He lets go of my wrist. It’s swollen and sore. Damn, it’s my throw up hand. No matter, I’m free.
I pick up my empty plate and call to my co-conspirator in the kitchen. Mommy knows how I’ve lost all the weight and gave me the go-ahead, but we haven’t talked about it since the night I asked her whether it was okay and she told me the Romans did it so it must be.
“Mommy, please leave the dishes for me to dry. I’ll dry every night. I’m just attached to my bath right after dinner.”
Victoria, who suspects I’m up to something, comes back into the dinette, chimes, “Why don’t you take your bath after the dishes are done, sister dear?”
“Because this is my routine, sister dear,” I shoot back.
“A pretty odd routine, Ro,” says Victoria, raising an eyebrow, as she continues to clear the table. “Hey, Daddy, why don’t you ask her the real reason she runs to the bathroom right after dinner?”
Mommy walks in just in time to rescue me. “Now, everyone,” she says. “Let’s have peace for once. Stop picking ..ie. She’s allowed her oddities.”
Victoria mumbles something under her breath and looks disgusted.
Daddy is satisfied.
I dash to the bathroom, run the bath, lean over, and, inserting my middle and index fingers into my throat, effortlessly dump a heavy load into the toilet. With my stomach freshly emptied, and my mood elevated, I take a quick dip in the full tub, followed by a shower, which I prefer; then, assuming I smell of soap and toothpaste, ignoring the usual sore throat, pittering heartbeat and slightly swollen glands, I happily skip to the kitchen in my pajamas to dry and put away the dishes. After-dinner baths are now acceptable. I no longer need fight scenes at the table.