FAITHLESS : 2003 : STEPHANIE.ZIOBRO

on caffeine

I probably stopped eating about a year ago. And it’s not because I thought I was fat or felt any competition from other females regarding who can eat the least.

I just stopped.

And it began logically enough. After I was kicked out of my apartment and moved in with Jim, I had no idea how long I was going to be there. All of my stuff took up every square inch of his spare room, which he normally used for studying and art projects. So there was that. On top of everything, my cordless phone was in one of the 47 boxes I’d piled up, and because I had basically just thrown everything into boxes, I didn’t think to remove the battery from the phone, so for the first week I was there, an incessant and highly irritating beep emitted from somewhere in the room. Constantly. Not even closing the door could make it go away. So these three situations – the unknown time span, the amount of space I took up, and the subtle form of noise torture – made me very self-conscious about being there. So I figured the least I could do was not eat his food.

So I didn’t.

And after about a month of this, not eating became a habit.

And it wasn’t until I realized that the only way I could get my clothes to stay on was with the use of safety pins, that I visually saw how much weight I had lost. People had been commenting, but I brushed it off. Then I saw a picture someone had taken of me, and I was in awe at how huge my head looked against my shrunken frame. I didn’t think about the fact that I had lost fifteen pounds in a month, and whether or not that was unhealthy. Physically, I felt okay, and what was more twisted, was that I was happy I was losing weight. For women, being able to fit into a smaller size was like climbing Mount Everest. Yet there was something taboo about talking about it. You just didn’t tell another girl that a size 7 was too big for you, even if she was a size 5. Speaking of losing weight was just a silent victory, and no matter how you went about doing it, you were winning. You just couldn’t tell anyone.

I figured that my weight loss was merely temporary, that as soon as I got my own place, I’d start being able to eat again, and everything would be fine. So the first thing I did after I moved into my new apartment, was go to Stop and Shop and buy over $200 worth of groceries. But unbeknownst to me, my "habit" had grown into a warped lifestyle, and the fruit got mushy, the bread got green, and the cold cuts made their appearance known via a rancid odor that made me hold my breath every time I opened the refrigerator door.

Ten months and negative forty pounds later, my refrigerator is a home for two bottles of home-brewed beer given to me by a friend with a page of directions on how to drink them, and the fear of drinking them incorrectly results in them still sitting there, 3 tubs of butter – because my mother had bought them for me in bulk and I never used it because any bread or bagels I bought just sat there to take up space, and a gallon of milk for coffee.

I rely on coffee.

And I rely on it far too much. My hands are shaking from over-caffienation right now and its not even 10am yet. So between not eating and speeding up my metabolism with massive amounts of caffeine, so help me God if I can walk through a metal-detector at the airport without safety pins stopping my progress…

For years I wore a size 10. A few months ago, I went clothes shopping for new pants, and just for laughs, I tried on a size 5. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered, but they were on sale cheap, so I figured why the hell not.

They fit perfectly.

I hadn’t been a size 5 since sixth or seventh grade, and in sixth and seventh grade, a size 5 is equivalent to a size 10 mid-adulthood.

This intrigued me, and I became obsessed.

I went to four different stores and tried on various size 5 items.

They all fit.

And when I walked out of the mall that day, I found myself thinking that I’d come back in a month and see if I could fit into a size 3…

Illogical Brain: I’m thin! I can be a model now!

Logical Brain: How’d you get so fucked up?

I’ve done research to see if I have an eating disorder.

I don’t.

I’ve gone to the doctor to see if I have a thyroid condition.

I don’t.

I’m fucked.

I wake up at 8am and drink a pot of coffee before 10. If I have to go to work, I drink coffee when I get there. I come home from work at 2am, and I have a cup of coffee. You’d think all that caffeine would have me bouncing off the walls to the point of restraint, but it doesn’t.

I’m tired.

All the time.

But when I lay down to go to bed, I can’t sleep.

I get phone calls from my mother:

"Have you lost more weight?"

"I don’t know." I don’t have a scale.

"How are you feeling?"

"I’m tired." I’m fucked.

I’m tired of a lot of things. I’m tired of going to work and having to listen to gossip I don’t care about. I’m tired of sticking my hands in the maraschino cherries to make shirly temples and I’m tired of having to heat up Hot Bacon Mustard Dressing which smells like feet. I’m tired of making sure I have the appropriate "flair" and that my tattoos aren’t showing. I’m tired of everything that’s on TV and of every video that I own. I’m tired of my arms and shoulders breaking out because I don’t drink enough water. I’m tired of making just enough money to pay my bills. I’m tired of hating my job. I’m tired of being motivated to change jobs and then changing my mind about that. I’m tired of wishing I could do whatever I want and not being able to. I’m tired of not feeling like doing what I thought I wanted to do when I have the opportunity to do it. I’m tired of the phlegmmy cough I have from smoking too many cigarettes. I’m tired of shaving my legs and blow-drying my hair. I’m tired of the mind-games played when you start dating someone. I’m tired of the 2am phone calls from Johnny Mack saying "come over and watch kung-fu" when I know he just wants to get laid, and I’m tired of considering going over because I just want to feel close to someone. I’m tired of the stories my mind tells me when someone says they’ll call and then they don’t. I’m tired of the stories my mind tells me when someone says they’ll call and then they do. I’m tired of doubting people’s intentions. I’m tired of second-guessing my own. I’m tired of any song by Destiny’s Child. I’m tired of waking up everyday wanting to kill myself. I’m tired of finding reasons not to. I’m tired of praying to God and begging to be Normal. I’m tired of having to pretend everything is okay when it’s not. I’m tired of fearing I’ll make an ass out of myself in front of people I don’t know. I’m tired of worrying about what people think of me anyway. I’m tired of daydreaming. I’m tired of real life. I’m tired of writing this story because halfway through every chapter I think, "What’s the point of this anyway?" I’m tired of not wanting to write this story. I’m tired of wishing I was different and I’m tired of worrying about the fact that I wish I was different. I’m tired of thinking that when I walk into a room and someone is sitting on a couch, that the reason their hand is under a pillow or a sweatshirt is because they don’t want me to see that they’re actually giving me the finger. I’m tired of how often my phone rings, and I’m tired of it not ringing. I’m tired of waiting for something good to happen, and I’m tired of finding everything wrong with any good thing that does. And I’m tired of knowing that only I can make good things happen, and that I am in charge of my own life and where I want to be. I’m tired of wishing I had someone that I could totally and completely rely on, and I’m tired of knowing that I can truly only rely on myself. And I’m tired of questioning how much longer I can rely on myself when ultimately I wish I wasn’t here at all? I’m tired of being faced with the realization that I’m 27 years old and every day I cry because I’m not dead.

I’m so fucking tired.

And I have a canister full of sedatives right in front of me. And I think about swallowing each and every one of them, and how nice it would be to finally be able to close my eyes and fall asleep and not be tired anymore.

Taking the easy way out seems like something I’m entitled to. For once, I feel completely and utterly selfish. I don’t care who I hurt. I need to put myself first for a change. What good is everyone else being happy if I’m in indescribable pain? Its as if I cut off my arm with a butcher knife for a friend who needed a replacement. Yeah, they’re thrilled and grateful that I sacrificed for them, yet have no idea how much I hurt as I smile and bleed all over the floor.

Think of me first.

For once.

For this.

Is that wrong?

Because it would make me so so happy…

Why does my happiness have to mean that everyone else suffers?

Can’t we all be happy that my mind is finally at peace? That I’m finally content? Doing what makes me feel good?

So many people have told me that I deserve to be happy.

I deserve it.

"That’s all we want for you."

Well, why is there a "rule," then?

It’s as if I walked into a grocery store and all these bells and whistles go off and people start throwing balloons and confetti at me because I’m the one-millionth customer, and my prize is an all-expense paid shopping spree – I can get whatever I want, and any amount that I want, and shop for however long it takes me. But just as I’m about to head over to the freezer section, someone yells out, "Wait! The only rule is that under no circumstances can you purchase ANY Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food Ice Cream!"

What?

What’s the whole fucking point then?

Why go shopping?

I don’t eat anyway, so why is this such a big deal?

But what if I swallow them, and then I change my mind? What if I suddenly think of one thing I have to look forward to that I don’t want to miss out on – like hearing that the Fatboy Slim video for "Weapon of Choice" with Christopher Walken is going to be on in an hour and it will be my only chance to see it? Or Johnny Rivera from Ochoa’s Salon picked my name out of 100 for a free haircut and color and the appointment is tomorrow at noon? Or Graham Chex, my absolute favorite cereal, is back on the market and the shipment will be at Stop and Shop at 8 o’clock that night?

I have a complete inability to make myself puke.

And the thought of having my stomach pumped again scares the crap out of me – plus, what if I need someone to drive me to the ER and no one is around to do it?

So I don’t take the pills. I don’t slit my wrists. I don’t hang myself. Instead, I pray to God every day to take me. Because I know if I do it myself, I’ll go to Hell. But I think, maybe if I pester Him enough, He’ll get sick of me begging and say "Oh alright already!" and send a huge dump truck down Route One the wrong way to careen right into me. I’d even make a deal with Him. I’d tell Him that I’d come back to Earth and live for others – absorb everyone’s pain, but I just need to know that I don’t HAVE to be here, that I can go back up when I need a break and watch Heaven Cable Access and make donations to various PBS charities…

I just want to know I have a choice.

Because maybe, being given a choice, being here wouldn’t be so bad.

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