“Whatever you want,” he deferred, making his way back into the living room.
This was my life. Bullied by day and neglected by night. At least that’s how I felt initially. My father’s inability to take care of me only made my addiction to food worse. Not only had I lost my mom, but it was clear in the months following her death that I was losing my father as well. As the years went on, I played the adult role as he regressed, becoming more and more dependent on me for even the simplest of things, like signing school permission slips or picking up the groceries.
As the television played on in the background, I searched the cabinets for something to make for dinner. A box of pasta and a jar of sauce would have to do, though if I was really going to stick it out with Micah—whateveritended up being—I doubted pasta and sauce would be on the menu for very long.
That thought alone had panic racing through my veins. It was more than simply having my main coping mechanism taken away from me. Healthy food was far more expensive than the prepackaged crap we’d been eating for years. He couldn’t even pay the mortgage. There was no way in hell he was going to have enough money to pay for actual food. As it was, I had to use the money from his returned beer bottles to get through the week. That all too familiar feeling of anxiety and depression spread through my chest.
In the span of fifteen minutes, from the time Micah left to now, I had already changed my tune. I went from motivated and ready for change to undercutting my attempts at a new me before I even started. “Enough,” I coached myself, keeping my voice from traveling into the living room. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm my worries.
It’s time.
And it was. Something changed this afternoon. My inability to stand up for myself was more frightening than I would ever admit to anyone. I’d had enough. So tonight after dinner, I would do a little research online. Sure, Micah said he’d help, but this was up to me. If I truly wanted to change my body, I’d have to learn how to do it on my own.
Which was the only way I knew how to do things around here.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die.
At least that was the sound my feet were making as they pounded against the pavement at the ridiculous hour of six in the morning. It was pitch-black, only the street lights shone down, casting an eerie glow on the sidewalk every now and then.
“Come on,” I heard from somewhere in front of me. “You got it.” That last part was barely audible over my loud breathing. Never in a million years did I think my lungs could draw in that much oxygen and still feel like there wasn’t enough in the atmosphere to keep me alive. “Jude,” he called out, sounding much closer than he did just seconds ago. “You did it,” he cheered, letting the genuine excitement lace into his words.
Stopping at my side, Micah slapped his hand to my back, knocking whatever wind was in my chest clear out of it. “What?” I gasped, still unable to gain control over my breathing. With my hands on my knees, my chest heaved painfully. Spots of light burst to life behind my closed eyes despite the bleak darkness of the early morning sky. “What did I do? Am I dead?” I joked, only half-heartedly. “I’m dead, right?”
Micah laughed, never pulling his hand away from my shoulder. “No way, man.”
Marveling at how he could speak without so much as a deep inhale, I cocked my head to the side. Shooting him a death-ray stare, I didn’t need to say a word. My face, which I was sure was a nice shade of beet red, said it all.
He laughed again, not paying too much attention to the “shut the fuck up” look I was giving him. Angling his head to the side, he indicated that we should keep moving. Considering my legs were shaking, walking seemed like a good idea.
Especially when the other option was collapsing to the ground.
“A mile,” he announced after a few steps. Holding out his arm, he handed me his bottle of water, which I gratefully chugged down in about two point five seconds. “You ran a mile.”
“No shit,” I replied, unable to hide the shock even through my deep breathing.
We stopped under a street light. A wide smile split his face as he stretched his arm to look at his watch. “Fuck yeah you did. And in only . . .” His words trailed off as he started walking again.
“In only what?” I called out, trying my best to catch up to him.
“Huh?” he asked, pretending like he didn’t hear me.
“You heard me. How long did it take?” I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, but honestly, I didn’t care. My need to know my starting point drowned out the background noise in my head, yelling at me that I was too far gone to be saved.
Micah’s face twisted—his brows knotted and his lips pulled into a thin line as he looked at his watch one more time. Clearly torn between what to tell me, I interrupted whatever war was going on in his head. “Look. I’m not expecting marathon pace here,” I reassured him. “All I want to do is get better. And in order to do that, I need to know where I started.”
Giving in, his shoulders slumped. “Forty minutes.” I was glad he kept his eyes glued to the ground. It gave me the privacy I needed to deal with my shame.
“Seriously? That’s a freaking shitty-ass time,” I muttered, as the memories of always being the last kid to finish the mile run in gym pummeled me in the gut.
I had half a lap left. Of course everyone else was waiting for me at the finish line, standing there, twiddling their thumbs waiting for the fat kid to drag his ass to the end so they could all go inside. No longer able to jog, I slowed to a walk. My lungs were on fire, and my legs were nothing more than lead weights holding me down. The sweat poured into my eyes, making it nearly impossible to see anything, except the synchronized shoulder-slouch of every kid in my gym class as my feet inched along at a snail’s pace.
Never in all my life did I want to vanish into thin air like I did right then.
Mortified beyond reason, I hung my head in shame. One foot in front of the other. That was all I could do. There was no getting out of finishing, so I simply had to keep walking.
