Do something

TW: Eating disorders

Callista was ten when she held a passion for the world that wasn’t quite ready for her yet. The blown-open curtains of her snug bedroom cascaded in gusts of summer warmth, her variety of Silly Scents arranged by her side as she lay stomach down on the floor. Her feet kicked through the air in a comfortable rhythm. She drew with a quiet love for her art, a childlike wonder clinging to every decision she made.

The sound of the neighbour’s Koshi wind chimes and the cooing mourning doves comforted her in a way her body would remember forever. Her soft, squishy wrists rubbed against the paper; she knew well from experience that it would cause her a rash, but couldn’t peel herself from the fun she was having. Lost in her thoughts as she drew, a small, unknown smile plastered on her face as she wondered how Mama and Dad would react.

Lately, she had been pushing herself to make anything that Mama would like; maybe even use her favourite seashell magnet to hang it on the fridge. Callista drummed her feet at a faster pace, the excitement for the future reaction encouraging her.

Dad was always first in line to see her drawings (Callista had a ‘save the best for last’ rule). As much as she loved her father, only Mama held the power over the seashell magnet. She twisted the paper behind her back as she padded behind the living room couch.

Dad was watching Mythbusters. Again. Like he always does at 3 P.M. every afternoon. Mama had been adequate at insisting they purchase an app called ‘Netflix’, yet Dad refused every offer…for whatever reason. Callista found herself invested in Mythbusters for a few moments, curious about how grown men could make a boat split down the middle; however, a commercial break stunted her interest. She tapped Dad’s shoulder, noticing how the bright, cool light accentuated the potato chip crumbs in his beard.

“Dad, look what I made.”

Nervously, she handed him the paper. Her dad smiled,

“That’s nice, kiddo,” he praised.

“It’s colourful, very colourful. You’ve been liking these uh, rainbows lately, huh?”

Callista quickly nodded her head. They’re not rainbows, Dad, her brain itched to say. “Reminds me of Picasso, or whatever his name is. Uh, Van Gogh? One of those,” he glanced up to see Callista expectantly looking at him for an explanation.

“Good artists, all good artists. Very nice, why don’t you go show your mother? I’m sure she’ll like it.” he turned back to his Mythbusters and sodium-inflaming chips.

She’ll like it, Callista repeated in her head as she approached her parents' bedroom. She knew Mama was working; she could tell based on the aggressive sound of keyboard clacking. She took a calming breath and carefully stepped inside. Mama immediately spun away from her work.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Callista pressed her fingers tighter into the paper, inhaling. Every breath felt precious. She handed her the paper. “Do you like it, Mama?”

She watched intently as her mother ran her thumb over the waxy film of the crayon. Callista made a note to herself that Mama’s thumb was going to smell like Blueberry.

“Sweetie, why do you keep drawing stuff like this?”

Callista wasn’t sure how to admit that drawing made her feel things that nothing else could.

“I like doing it.”

Mama’s smile softened, a tender look overcoming her as she gazed at the picture. “Callista,” Mama said lightly, gaze still settled on the paper, “Stop drawing stuff like this, it’s a disgusting waste of time.”

Callista stared. “Why?”

Her mother sighed, annoyed. “If you’re going to spend your time drawing, then I want you to do it correctly.” She caught her daughter's downcast expression.

“Or don’t draw at all. There are other things you can do worth your time.” She pushed the paper into Callista’s limp fingers. “Go put that away.” She paused, “I need to re-braid your hair, it’s getting on my nerves.”

Callista obliged, nodding slowly and trudging out of the room. She felt unreasonably numb as she shoved the paper under her bed, uncaring for the useless impression. She kicked the Silly Scents, watching them fly into the wall. Humiliated. Callista felt so terribly humiliated.

I want you to do it correctly. But she tried! She always did!

Desperately, she clawed at her face to try and rid herself of the embarrassingly useless tears rolling down her cheek. So stupid. No wonder you’re never taken seriously.

She silently cried, listening to the lulling Koshi wind chimes. When her tears dried, she stilled, thoughts swirling in her head that were too big for her crayons to convey. She wanted control over more than just a childish hobby.

Callista was twelve when she found that control.

“Callista!” Her mother called, “Eat your leftovers, sweetie, we’re leaving soon!”

She stared at the red dress fitted perfectly to her body.

For weeks, her parents planned to attend a party for her Dad’s job. When asked if she wanted to go, Callista’s first thought was: absolutely freaking not. She didn’t say that, though, because Callista is a sweet, polite girl who always listens to her mother; she’s above immature language. So, she lied through her teeth to say yes, on the spur of the moment. I’m grown up and mature, of course, I would want to go to an adult party!

Dad continued to insist to her that it would bore her to death, but she denied every proposition. He wasn’t going to ruin her chance. As she trotted down the stairs, said father gently ruffled her hair, careful not to mess up the perfectly crafted braids, knowing damn well Mama despised it.

Stacked within the fridge were Callista’s leftovers from the night before’s dinner. On the top of the box, ‘C <3’ was written in her mother’s precise handwriting. Underwhelming food resided within: salty mashed potatoes, chicken with bare minimum seasoning, and glazed carrots so soggy they might as well be juiced.

Staring absentmindedly, a feeling that she had been pondering every time she put something in her body overcame her: Do I deserve it?

It continued as she slammed the microwave door shut, as she mindlessly pressed buttons with a dimming noise in her head, and as she sat down. You don’t deserve fuel if you only waste it.

Recently, in her FACS Basics class, Callista had been learning about disordered eating. The example pictures from the lesson were forever engraved in her brain: girls with stomachs sucked so far in that their ribs stuck out, chest bones so protruding it looked like even the most delicate touch would break them. She recalls the way the class erupted in revolting noises. Such visceral reactions to girls who were simply existing; it admittedly intrigued Callista. Her teacher called them sick, weak, and unhealthy; yet she wondered what it would be like to feel that empty. She especially wondered how Mama would react to her broken body, the child she had once nurtured in her own stomach, hardly surviving. It was a sick thought, but lately, a look of pride and a look of concern would give Callista the same satisfaction.

She picked at her food, curious.

She stood up from her seat, opened the trash can, and dumped the whole box. She ignored the alien heaviness in her chest and embraced the voice in her head telling her she had won control.

Soon after, Mama came rushing down the stairs.

“Honey, it’s a casual event. No one’s gonna care what we look like,” Dad exhorted. His casual khakis and t-shirt deeply contrasted with Mama’s high-end work pants and button-up red shirt.

“Yes, yes, and that’s why we have to look nice!” she retorted, slipping her glossy maroon heels on. “Image is important.”

Dad sighed, wanting to argue but having the experience to know better.

At the notice of her daughter, Mama’s expression softened.

Callista wanted a stronger reaction.

“Sweetheart, did you eat?” she asked. Callista, with the growing excitement of a lie in her chest, responded, “Yes, Mama.”

Callista was thirteen when she realized how sick she really was.

As her newfound friends cheered at the excitement of not having to eat 3D printed cafeteria food, Callista trained herself to take unnoticeable deep breaths. Two meals in one day? One was already a formidable amount, and anything over 300 calories was simply outrageous to put in her body. Every loss of emptiness drove her insane: chewing, swallowing, digesting. She would fucking explode if she went through more torture than she needed to.

A sticky note was glued on the container with overwhelming calories. Eat up, it read. Callista bit her cheek, repulsed.

Star, her best friend, had taken precious time to craft each of her friends' lunchbox meals, blissfully unaware of the pain the thoughtful notion caused. Suki, her other best friend, had bought her a Diet Coke (Callista nearly fainted when she offered regular soda). Darius, her other other best friend, watched with furrowed brows as she stared at her container. If you don’t eat, he’ll say something.

She moved slowly, unlatching the lid with careful exactness. If she took up time, she could get away from the lunch break with less useless shit intruding in her body. She paused, cracked her Diet Coke open, and took gradual, measured sips. Darius raised a brow. She set the can down stiffly, the fizzing in her empty stomach bringing her unusual happiness.

After waiting for one of her friends to also take a sip, she removed the lid.

Callista was met with triangle sliced sandwiches that reminded her too dearly of summers spent with her dad, the windows rolled up, and grass stuck to the carpet. Heart-shaped peach slices, a perfectly frosted brownie, none of it was rushed. It was food made with care.

For the first time in a year, she saw the love and history in food rather than the calories.

Yet it made her feel weak. Callista was supposed to be disciplined. She constantly researched on her flip phone (Mama wouldn’t allow her anything too modern, since it was “dangerous”) about other people like her, and their methods of control: pick at your food, talk while you eat, take a sip of water after every bite, move your legs so you burn calories, chew gum when you’re hungry. She once saw a video of a girl who survived on nothing but Diet Coke.

People like that had effort she was horribly jealous of; Callista’s sickness wasn’t worth a second glance.

She stared at the lunchbox, her hunger wanting to eat more than anything. But eating would mean she had lost.

But Star just wanted to be nice! Star always meant good; they all did.

The peach slices had the least amount of calories. Her jittering fingers reached for one, the gloss sticking to her malnourished skin. She brought it to her mouth, fighting not to grimace.

“Casty, don’t force yourself to eat if you don’t want to.” Darius sighed, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Unexpecting direct bluntness, Suki and Star turned. ShitShitShit; Star was going to hate her! Expecting a barrage of questions, concerns, anything, she braced herself.

Star silently took the container, “I’ll just bring you peaches next time.”

Just like that. The simplest thing in the world.

For someone who wanted to be seen so badly, Callista felt mortified at the sudden awareness. Her friends knew she was sick? Who else knew? Had they been aware the whole time? If her friends knew, then did Mama know? Was she just not sick enough yet?

An awakened twisted excitement arose within her.

If she were visibly sick, Mama would do something.

Callista was fourteen when every scrap of a normal routine had been drowned out by obsession. Every day, when she woke up, she exercised until she couldn’t breathe. One scrawny meal a day had transitioned to living off low-calorie drinks and unflavoured oats.

She took every chance to exhibit her disorder without words. Only around people, she would wrap her bony fingers around her frail wrist, displaying her unhealthy body as theatrically as possible.

Callista slept every chance she had to burn calories. At home, at school, in the car, everywhere. After her nightly excruciating workout routine, she would collapse into bed (only ever on her left, because it ‘burned weight faster’), rest, begging for her. She pressed pillows into herself as tightly as possible: the feeling of weight on the bed embarrassed her.

Not a second went by in the day when Callista didn’t think about food. She thought of it as she pushed herself off the floor, her spine bruised and burning, but not nearly as much as the words in her head: useless, fat fuck, all you do is take up space, you’re a disgusting waste of time. Stay sick! Stay disgusting!

You’re either remembered or forgotten; which one do you want to be?

When she wasn’t exercising, she was watching other people eat. Hours of her life spent on videos of someone else, getting the satisfaction she denied herself.

Callista grew insufferable. The look of her friends’ collective frustrated expressions became a routine, like her other fixations.

Birthday parties were always Mama’s decision, no matter how badly Callista wanted to be with her friends. Dad was across her, staring with an unplaced look. Mama was beside her, cooing as she sliced undesirable calories.

She blew out the candles, wishing for her friends to be happy without her.

Later, she stood in the hallway with fingers coated in snot, saliva, and blood. In many futile attempts, she tried and failed to make herself puke the unwanted chunk inside her. She scraped and scraped at her throat, even gulping down salt water, but nothing worked.

Callista craved to sleep, but she stood silently, waiting. She had been undeniably loud in her attempts to vomit; the thin walls should’ve forced her parents to hear. She hoped it was enough.

Mama stepped out of her bedroom dressed in her silky jammies, the orange halo glow from behind defining her taunting smile, conflicting with the pitch black hallway.

Do something, Callista’s thoughts begged.

“Callista,” Mama said soothingly, her smile softening.

She swallowed, “Yes, Mama?”

“Happy Birthday, honey,” was all she received.

Callista was fifteen when she killed herself. Metaphorically, at least.

Still. Everything was so unbelievably still. Yet Callista’s body was on fire, eating her alive to survive.

Her heart pumped against her chest, her skin, throbbing through her ears, begging to be seen.

Every breath she took was sharp and painful, the cold bedroom air burning the back of her throat. Was the room even cold anymore? Everything was so godawfully cold. The shower, the blankets, the warm summer air. Nothing had effect anymore; she was just so fucking freezing.

Any slight movement sent a shockwave into her head. The room spun as she sat up, the building pressure in her brain threatening to explode at any moment. She heaved, her body begging for even an ounce of energy, the oxygen reaching her blood by a blessing. Truly, she had been carved out.

She gagged on useless stomach acid, used to the routine. It didn’t scare her that she was dying. It wouldn’t be until Mama did something.

The door to her bedroom swayed open. Mama approached the bed, pressing her cold hands through Callista’s hair. She leaned into the touch and toppled into the bed. Vision blurry and blotched, she reached her hands up, searching for Mama.

In blindness and confusion, she sought the warmth she had recognized but yet to understand as a child. She wished she could’ve told her younger self to worship every moment spent in her mother’s arms. She would do anything to have that safety again.

As someone with no control, that feeling was scarce. But based on familiarity alone, Callista thought she would always be safe in Mama’s arms.

“Mama,” she whispered, her small voice scratchy and raw, as dependent as an infant. “Mommy.”

Mama’s fingers threaded through her hair with surgical precision, “Yes, sweetheart?”

Callista didn’t want to die without ever feeling the care of her mother again.

“Can you run me a bath, just like when I was little?”

“Of course.”

She intertwined her feeble fingers with Mama’s hearty ones, trailing slowly and with painful effort behind her. The bath faucet turned; water that will never be hot enough poured out. Mama swirled in iridescent bath soap as Callista stared at herself in the mirror, her baggy jammies covering her body. She pulled out her tangled braids, strands of hair following. She unbuttoned her top and, while bracing herself on the bathroom sink, slid the remaining ounce of warmth down her legs.

Every bone in her body bulged. Thin skin revealed bursting veins, blood with no use. With an aching hunger that would never be fulfilled within her, Callista was skin and bone. Barely human.

This was Mama’s last chance to do something.

She settled in the tub, the hot water leaving her faded skin red. It didn’t diminish the cold in the slightest. Water hardly stirred as she moved, blueberry-scented bubbles circling her weak body. Mama brought a filled cup to her head, washing her with distant remembrance.

Callista stared at her fingers, long and useless, already pruny. Hands that were meant to create were wasted on a disgusting amount of time on a life that wasn’t hers.

A gush of water flowed down her back.

She was so exhausted from waiting for something to happen. God, she just wanted to be known without begging for it.

“Will you do something, Mama?” She murmured, her voice hardly above a breath.

Mama dipped the cup into the water, bringing it to her head.

“Silly girl, I don’t know what you mean.”

She poured the cup; Callista felt no warmth.

She should’ve known better than to expect someone who doesn’t want her to save her.