A Bag of Water
Author’s Note: In 2020, I moved intermittently to Taipei for a year, a 14-hour flight from all of my classmates during a critical development period. My social life revolved around my family, failing to engage in even simple conversation with anyone my own age. At the same time, I dealt with my persistent body image issues, exploiting food for comfort. I was depressed so I binged. This piece was written thirty minutes after it occurred. It explores themes of loneliness and growing up.
May contain triggering imagery.
She slipped. She promised herself that she wouldn’t eat but even she can’t keep promises. Her body, still conscious, directed her into the kitchen where a box of leftover pasta sat. “One small bowl,” she told herself, scooping up half of the pasta and proceeding to microwave it. She waited for 30 seconds, listened to the muted reminder that her food was ready, pinched the edges of the bowl, and carried it to her desk - where her movie awaits.
It was one of those romantic comedies; a girl who moves into the big city meets obstacles at work, but somehow finds love and money. This movie girl wasn’t wearing a mask, stuck in a foreign country, separated from her “friends” or developing loneliness that was incurable to mankind. No, this girl lives happily ever after.
She paused the movie and made her way from her desk to the kitchen, microwaving the second half of the box. Water dripped behind her. She played the movie.
She devoured the second bowl, quicker than the first. Taking the bowl, she opened the refrigerator door, scanning the contents, searching for something. Anything. In her mind, an anthem develops, “I’m not hungry. I’m not hungry. I shouldn’t eat. I shouldn’t eat. Eating will make me fat. I’m not hungry.” She grabs the salsa jar. The cap was yellow, the words “mild” on the rim. The jar itself was half empty, perhaps attacked by the others. Water droplets grease the sides of the jar, seeping into the open flesh wound on her hand.
That wound has been there for a couple of weeks now but she never bothered to treat it. She would pick on it after taking a class, completing math homework, or simply when she was bored. The sore often festered and bled but her monotone lifestyle needed a little bit of red, just to spice things up. The wound stung, it was just yesterday that she peeled off the entire layer of skin. “Eczema” she explained, “an innate habit that can’t be controlled.”
She walked over to the medicine cabinet. She opened the cabinet doors, and the momentum forced a green S. Pelligrino bottle with “DO NOT DRINK” marked on the side, and an “x” on the unscrewed cap to fall onto the uneven wooden floors. “Crap,” she thought to herself, desperately throwing paper towels onto the ground, “the trees are gonna get me for this.” She walked to the kitchen, cautiously trying not to fall, and grabbed the Swiffer with the used towel…
Now the movie girl was in her climactic argument. The exact one where the girl gathers up all her anger and directs it towards an argument with her significant other. The girl eventually storms out, mascara streaming down her face.
She was icing her wound to prevent further aggravation but the ice melted into a bag of water. It was just sitting there, sedate, on her desk. She reached for another chip, scraping the last bits of salsa from the jar. All of a sudden, she felt all the food from yesterday, the day before yesterday, last week, congregate in her throat. Each bit of substance bloated her stomach, slowly creeping up her esophagus. She suppressed it, putting a bit too much energy into her stomach pat. Then, she held her breath, slowly sucking in her stomach, hoping that she could look like the others. “I’m not eating,” she vouches.
After a while, there was a restless knock at the front door. She sighed, dropping her movie and chips to get to the door. She slumped out of her room, still aware of the bump in her gut, jelly under her arm, blubber on her thighs, scars behind her joints, and the petiteness of her figure. She knew it wasn’t healthy and that she shouldn’t be thinking about it, but it was addictive like drugs. Each step burned another calorie. Water still buttered the floor…When the others came in, she was on the ground.
