It was then, on that day, I had stopped eating.
Some time before that, it was a series of father-acts-like-father, mother-cries-on-shoulder, father-berates-mother, mother-bad mouths-father, father-reacts-in-violence sort of episodes. And a little while before that it was mostly silence, and pondering. Silence and pondering and worrying. Then, sometime later, it was the control.
Losing control in the marriage I could not fix. In the relationship I could not mediate. In the anguish I could not subdue.
Fighting to hold onto some semblance of hope, happiness.
And yet I lost it all. All but one.
The control I had over my physical self. The frame of which melted to a paltry skin and bones, a pallid palate of sharp angles and sunken atrophies and aches that went on for days.
Slowly, and surely, I stopped eating.
I couldn’t bring myself to do much of it. Didn’t pay much mind to it.
Eating, then, had become a useless activity, a waste of time, of energy.
And so I gave it up in pursuit of melancholy dreams, and the hair that fell out in clumps while I slept, and the bones that rattled to and fro, and the ache in my heart that I just, quite simply, decided to exacerbate.
More to come your way in Volume Three (you can read Volume One here)
*Note: the impetus for these recent outpourings are nothing to do with the eating. I am a healthy eater. Don’t fret about that. The impetus, rather, is of a familial nature. A parental nature. To do with the father, specifically; and to this man I say, no more, sir. I am done.