It isn’t sufficient to say that my parent’s marriage, the lack thereof, had been the reason I had stopped eating. Nor is it entirely accurate. The impetus may have been the dichotomy between the two of them, but I was the one managing and propelling and exacerbating my own mental deficiencies.
Surely I couldn’t have contributed anything of considerable weight or importance. Surely this was the delusion that I convinced myself of.
The marriage, the deterioration of, was running on its own steam. It’s only in retrospect (in fact, and quite frankly, all of this is in retrospect; could you see me trying to save it with the sound rationale to no better? I think not) I realize this. Which is to say, the success and the failure of their bond was wholly within their power, within their choosing.
No amount of worry, or desperation, or hand holding, or screaming, or crying was going to change its direction. No amount of heartache, or withering, or destitution was going to help.
I had to realize this. But I couldn’t. The desire to throw myself into the fire was immeasurably powerful. I had to do it, or so I thought.
And I think back on this; I think back to the comforting, warming, health instilling fat that abandoned my frame with such expediency, the result of which dressed me in aching joints and bones, wherein the ligaments of my knees slipped from side to side, like a rubber band rolling back and forth against a smooth river stone.
My knees seemed to ache at a constant, as though the bones were grinding themselves into the pumice stone that was my kneecap. My heart wasn’t any better off, it seemed. I remember, quite distinctly, something my mother had said. In regards to the healthy layer of fat I had lost, “it went to protect your heart.”
I also remember thinking what that would look like. If, for instance, Warriors of Fat, those little opaque blobs of goo, swung their tiny little misshapen bodies around in defense of the last vestige, the vital organ of a dying boy. In this make-believe world of mine, the Warriors of Fat fought bravely against the Stress Monsters, those harbingers of death, and acquaintances of such wicked beings as the Doomsayers of Depression-dom and the Assholes of Atrophy.
In the end, as I realize today, the effort was perhaps mildly courageous, but ultimately flawed, childish, irresponsible. And there really isn’t much sense in wondering about the what ifs. The end result, that of divorce, would have been the same regardless of my tampering.
But I would be remiss if I did not put aside my cynicism, and say that I am better for having experienced it.
After all, experience, if used aptly, can lead to gained perspective, insight into oneself, knowledge and wisdom.
See earlier entries in the series (Volume One, Two and Three)