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He stopped at the kitchen table as my mother continued her rage. I had a spoonful of cake in my mouth.
“For Christ’s sake, Tess, you can’t feed a child all this junk. Look at how much weight she’s gaining.”
I had no idea what my father meant then, but I knew from his tone that it was bad.
“It’s baby fat,” she yelled in my defense, or maybe her own.
“That’s enough, Dee-Dee,” he said, taking the box away from me and dumping it in the trash. “She shouldn’t be having all this sugar.”
“Why don’tyoufeed her for a change if I’m such a lousy mother?”
“I have to work, Tess. God knows you can’t hold down a job for longer than a minute before you quit or get fired.”
“Everything’s always my fault,” she wailed. “Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you. I just can’t keep doing this.”
“Don’t leave me, Ben. Please.” Her anger abruptly turned into crying and bargaining as it usually did. “I’ll do better. Get another job. Keep the house clean. Take care of you and Dee-Dee. Please…” She gripped his arm as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ll die without you.”
“Calm down, Tess.” He stroked her hair. “I’ll be back after this job.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“I love you, Ben.” She sniffled.
He kissed her forehead then came over to me and bent down. “Daddy has to go away for a while. You be a good girl for Mommy, okay?”
“Okay.” I nodded. “When will you come back?”
“Soon.”
But it was a lie. I think on some level my mother knew that too. He left and she stayed in bed while I watched TV and subsisted on ice cream and whatever else I could find that didn’t require cooking. I waited and waited for her to feel better again. Keeping away from her room like she asked me to. Being quiet. Not answering the door when Miss Bridget from across the hall came to check on us. I don’t know how long it was before the police were called, then Social Services. That was the first time I was taken into foster care. The first time I realized nothing would ever be fine again.
For years after, I blamed her for not being strong enough. Blamed my father for not caring enough. Blamed myself for not being the good, perfect daughter worth keeping.
I rub the stabbing tightness in my chest, reminded of a line from an old movie,Hope Floats. “Childhood is what you spend the rest of your life trying to overcome.” A depressing thought.
I pad to the office, throw away the empty Chinese food containers, and pick up our strewn clothes, wishing I could undo the last half hour. At the front door, I switch on the porch light for Mick. Upon seeing my purse and bags in the foyer, I remove the novel, diary, candles, and ring box. A fresh wave of sorrow engulfs me as I place the ring inside my lingerie drawer.
Minutes later, I’m standing in the kitchen, my emotions in knots. The craving is there to comfort myself. To soothe the pain. Numb the emotions. Mick had stocked the fridge and pantry with groceries from Mort’s Deli. Gourmet cheeses, deli meats, thick loaves of Italian bread, salads, crackers, two pints of ice cream. Enough to feed a family of six or a one-woman binge.
It’s the reason I never keep this much food in the house. I know better. Though that hadn’t stopped me two Saturdays ago. After learning about Papa T’s death, I overdosed on a container of low-carb muffins, tub of keto ice cream, and low-carb crackers. I would have preferred pizza and brownies, but the truth is I can binge on almost anything. Because it’s less about the actual food and more about the compulsion.
My chest is already tight; my breathing, rapid and overloaded with anxiety. The yearning to binge is a temptation I can barely resist. The only thing that pulls me back from that perilous edge is the knowledge of where this temporary comfort will end: with me hugging the toilet bowl and hating myself. And worse, Mick finding me that way.
The night that I’d literally flushed away twenty-one months of abstinence, I’d been too raw and vulnerable to work through the delay and distract method I’d learned in therapy. This time, I won’t make any excuses. The pull is a clear and present danger. But I make myself walk away.
In the living room, I roll out my yoga mat, light the candles in the fireplace—preferring them over the hassle of logs—then lie on my back with my knees bent. Counting in tens, I breathe through a series of stretches—deep inhalation from the diaphragm that expands my rib cage, and exhale slowly navel-to-spine. I pay attention to each move and breath of air. Even as my mind wanders to negative thoughts and painful memories, I direct it back to the exercise, noticing how the anxiety starts to unwind inside me and relax some of the tightness in my chest.
Twenty minutes later, the desire to comfort-eat isn’t totally gone, but it’s at least diffused. I think about calling Mama T just to hear the hug in her voice. But I’d spoken to her earlier and calling twice in one day, especially at this hour, would raise concern. Instead, I open the floral journal. Now what? Biting my lip in thought, I finally write:
I will be strong and confront my fears.
I will let the past go.
I will believe I deserve happiness.
