That’s why I know that whatever Tariq did, it was something terrible. There was no other reason that my sister would be gone, would be this quiet, this long.
Without even thinking about it, my body booted up my computer.
So I want to skip this part, gloss over it and get right to the next day, when my real work began, when my darkest and most horrific fantasies began to really take shape. But what kind of Rulebook would this be, if I left out the ugly parts? I need you to understand what you’re up against, when you’re dealing with the care and handling of a human body. When you’re trying to master the art of starving.
They were endless, those sixty-or-so seconds while my computer came to life. I spent them looking around my room, shocked to see how small it was, how cluttered, how sad its walls were with their crooked posters that belonged to Ten-Year-Old Matt, Thirteen-Year-Old Matt, Now Matt.
Whales; The Nightmare Before Christmas; Venom and Spider-Man grappling; Albert Einstein. I don’t even remember how or when he got here.
Every night, I sent Maya an email. Sometimes something short about how my day was, sometimes something in-depth and ultra-whiney, throwing a typed temper tantrum because I wanted her to tell me what happened, how I could help, when she’d be coming home.
She rarely wrote back. When she did, it was in single sentences. Everything’s great talk to you soon.
Bullshit.
I opened my browser.
I always start with video games. Wholesome, childlike pursuits. I do homework. Lurk around social media sites. Look at Maya’s Twitter and Facebook to see if she’s said anything. Browse fan art sites, look for loving graphic beautifully rendered illustrations of my favorite gay ’ships (Harry/Draco; Zuko/Sokka; Selina Kyle/Harley Quinn). Sometimes I’ll go to chat rooms, find like-minded people to talk to. There’s a Hudson one, even, for gay guys in my same small town. Lots of people use these spaces for finding hookup partners, but I don’t dare. I know how this really works. They’re all faking it, all trying to trick me and any other actual homo, and lure us to a dark place where they can take their long slow painful time murdering us.
And then—somehow—I can never pinpoint when, or how, or figure out what triggers it—BAM! My screen is full of naked.
Boys. Men. Men alone, looking moody on beaches or beds, holding themselves lewdly, leering at me, saying You will never have this; you will never be this. Men together. Doing unspeakable, marvelous things.
I moaned, out loud, when the first ones shuffled across my screen.
I wish I were strong enough to stop. But really, porn isn’t the problem. I only got a hand-me-down computer in my room six months ago, and I was feeling miserable about my hideous self long before that.
Every television commercial, every movie, every photo in every magazine showed me what my body should look like. Every walk down the Hudson High halls confirmed I would never be one of those jock boys with the perfect hair and clear skin and jacked stomachs and invincible confidence. I’d never be Bastien, never Ott, or Tariq. But I had this. This this, oh god, this.
When it was over, when I looked down at the mess I had made, when I once again snapped back to reality, terrified that my squeaking chair had made too much noise and awakened my mom and she was standing in the doorway Disappointed In Me, I was almost crying. Because I was so goddamn hungry, because I was breaking my mother’s heart, because I was disgusting, because my sister, because my body, because Tariq . . . because life.
I stood up. With Lust momentarily sated, Hunger returned. Black stars bloomed and faded in my peripheral vision. My legs wobbled; the room dimmed.
Finally, I thought. It’s happening. I’m breaking through, escaping the physical world, becoming a ghost, unencumbered by this ugly body.
I am dying.
But my body was strong. It fought back, held tight to the here and now. Stabbed me in the gut again and again, the stomach pain so sharp this time that I doubled over.
Barely seeing, I stumbled down the hall. Mom had gotten up off the couch and gone to bed at some point. All was darkness. I didn’t need light, though. I knew my way in the dark. Ninja-silent, I moved through the house.
When I opened the door, the fridge blinded me. Bright, clean white light. A crinkled landscape of tinfoil-capped casserole pans and cookie tins and deep glass bowls. So much food, from so many different hands. Food was love. All these people—they loved my mom, loved Maya, and they wanted to help, and the only way they knew how was to make food. I wanted to throw up.
So much food, so many of my favorites, but there was only one thing I wanted. Only one food could make me feel better. The one thing that was irreplaceable.
Sobbing, squatting on the floor before the open refrigerator, I stuffed tuna-fish sandwiches into my face until there were no more.
RULE #4
The warrior well versed in the Art of Starving understands that while the body is the enemy, it is a worthy adversary. It is to be respected and listened to. You are not always on completely different pages. Hunger, you should fight—but fear, you should listen to. Fear is the place where your interests and your body’s interests will usually overlap. Fear, you should listen to. Not dying is a goal you both share.
Usually. We’ll deal with that later.
DAY: 2
TOTAL CALORIES: 500
The next day, I was sealed up tight inside a straitjacket SCUBA suit made of chewed-up tuna fish.
My edge was blunted. The sandwiches had sealed up my nostrils, caked shut my ears, rubbed Vaseline into my eyes. The dirty high school hallways boxed me in. Also, someone went and filled the halls up with invisible marshmallows, thick billowing clouds of them, and I walked through them in slow motion, sound coming at me, muffled and stretched out. The trophies in the trophy cases mocked me, laughingly whispering, This is what normal boys and girls do, they win things, you’re only an embarrassment, a source of shame.
At least my stomach had stopped hurting. My body had won that round and could afford to sit back and gloat.
I thought about puking up all those sandwiches once I saw what I had done, but that’s a line I won’t cross. If you make yourself puke, you have a problem. Not that I’m above making myself puke—gym class bullying in freshman year of high school made me an expert at the Teacher-I-Don’t-Feel-Good-May-I-Go-to-the-Bathroom technique, followed by a precision finger-throat combo, followed by a trip to the nurse’s office to get a pass saying I was excused for the period.
Me and the nurse got to be good buddies that way.
But I know myself, and once I start down the road of allowing myself to eat, and then puking it all up, I’m done for. I’ll do it at every meal, and I’ll be dead in a week.
So when I mess up, I force myself to deal with it.
I am in total control.
See? I told you I don’t have an eating disorder.