Date: Sun, 21 Jan 2007 07:50:06 -0800 (PST)
From: Lusty <lustyville@yahoo.com>
Subject: Starving For Love-Part 1. Imperfection

     The tip of my finger was turning purple with a hint of blue.
The rubberband had successfully cut off the circulation. I stared
at it while the slight tingle began to fade to numbness.

     "You could lose your finger," whispered the kid next to me.

     I flipped him a choice finger and he turned his attention
back to the teacher. My goal wasn't to lose my finger, but I had
been playing the same game since I was a child. Boredom always
led me to it, almost forcing me to do it. I would keep tightening
a rubberband around the top line of my finger and watch as the
tip began to expand a little before finally changing colors. I
always kept the rubberband there until the tingle disintegrated
in to nothing.

     Truthfully, I shouldn't blame my actions on boredom. I know
it's my fault. I know I am so screwed up that pain and numbness
are my only reminders that I am still alive. My parents are
great, for someone else, but not me. My siblings are great for my
parents, but all wrong for me. I am, well, I'm not great for
anyone, not even me. I'm too chubby, too depressed, too strange.
My hair is too long, but I like it this way. I dyed it black
about three years ago.

     I think about our recent family photo and it seems so
obvious. My mother, father, brother and sister all have blonde
hair and blue eyes, the perfect American family, and then there's
me, lurking in the background of the picture with my trademark
black hair, black clothes and black finger nails. I'm not a goth
or anything, I can't dig the music, but I love the way they
dress, so free from the constraints of society. My therapist says
I dress like I do because I'm afraid of looking normal and still
not fitting in, so I am shielding myself from possible rejection.
I think he's full of shit. I tell him that on a regular basis.

     I'm 5'9," my one and only friend, Tom, says I'm rail thin,
but I see fat staring back at me when I look in the mirror. I
still have the family blue eyes because I can't get down with
contacts. I don't mind hurting myself, but the idea of putting
something in my eye freaks the hell out of me. I don't have any
piercings or tattoos because I'm not old enough in my state to
sign for myself and the idea of getting it done in someone's
basement is on par with the whole contacts thing. You already
know about the hair and the clothes, so I guess that's basically
all there is to me. Oh wait, I forgot to tell you that I used to
be extremely fat and most of my current emotional issues probably
stem from that dark period in my life. My therapist says there is
a direct relationship between the time I was fat and me dyeing my
hair. It seems like forever ago when I was morbidly obese, but
it's only been three years. I came out my mother's womb as a
chubby baby and proceeded to continue to get fatter until I was
thirteen. Imagine being fat in a family of people with perfect
bodies. I used to hate my brother and sister because being skinny
came naturally to both of them. We ate the same damn food but I
was the only one who gained weight. The kids at school were
relentless until sixth grade, which was when Tom came to town.
Tom was my knight in shining, green sweater clad armor. He stood
up for me during his first day and has been relegated to loser
status along with me ever since.

     Once I had a friend, I started to care about my appearance.
It bothered me when Tom would sit next to me on the bus and he
didn't have his own space because my fat was pressed up against
him. In seventh grade I decided to make a change. I started
secretly exercising in my room, doing sit-ups and push-ups and
stretches, and I cut back on my intake. I tried to eat half of
what I used to eat, which didn't go unnoticed by my brother and
sister. They were surprisingly supportive of me. The first month
was glorious as the pounds started to melt away, but then I
seemed to plateau. My selective intake regimen, known to most
people as an eating disorder, started out simple enough. I would
eat breakfast, eat lunch and then eat dinner. I would throw up my
dinner and I noticed I was starting to lose weight again. My
parents commended me on my weight loss, but they didn't know my
secret. The problem grew from there. Soon I was throwing up after
every meal and by the time I was thirteen and a half, I was
basically not eating. I avoided dinner by staying late at Tom's
house, or going to the library and then telling my parents I ate
while I was out. My excuses worked for a while, but my mother
started to worry about me and soon they discovered that I wasn't
eating anything. They were so worried about me that they sent me
off to some center for people with eating disorders, hence how I
met my therapist. It was awful, but it did get me to start eating
again.

     I came home thinking I was fully recovered. I almost made it
six months before I had a relapse and my parents and therapist
decided I needed to go back to the center. I'd never tell Tom,
but it was his fault. I finally reached a point one day when I
couldn't deny the way I felt about him. I had tried to convince
myself that I loved him like a brother, but everything changed
that night. We were playing a video game in his room and joking
around. We started wrestling like we did all the time, but that
time I couldn't help my excitement. I wanted him to kiss me and
when he didn't I felt stupid for even thinking it was possible. I
lost it after that. I couldn't bring myself to eat.

     I've been out for a year and I have no intentions of going
back. I try not to eat much, but I do eat. I was watching
television the other day and I saw a special on exercise
anorexia. I think that's what I have now, although I'm trying to
work through it on my own without my parents or therapist sending
me back to that center. I know that an eating disorder is a
disease and that it will be a lifetime battle and I don't think
I'll ever have a normal relationship with food again, but my
parents and Tom are just relieved that I have a relationship with
it.

     Anyway, I returned from the center with a better
understanding of my problem, but I still wasn't happy with me. No
one knows, but each time I stopped starving myself, I started
hurting myself more often. I think I've done pretty much
everything I can think of to hurt myself. I've slammed my fingers
in doors on purpose. I've tried cutting, which I still do
occasionally. I burn myself on a regular basis. When I first got
back the last time, I threw myself down the stairs and told my
parents and the doctors I tripped. I broke my arm in that fall,
but the pain was like a high to me. The sick part is that I
enjoyed the rush from my broken arm so much, that now I have to
convince myself on a daily basis not to take another trip down
the stairs. I know something is really messed up inside me. Tom
doesn't hurt himself. My brother and sister don't hurt
themselves. My parents don't hurt themselves, and I'm willing to
wager a boatload of cash that most of the people at my school
don't intentionally hurt themselves either. The thought of how
much I crave to inflict pain on myself almost brings a tear to my
eye, but I avert my attention back to my now numb finger. I
remove the rubberband and place it on another finger.

     I can't wait until this class ends and I can spend time with
Tom. Seeing Tom is the highlight of my day and the irony is that
I only see Tom during lunch. He watches me like a hawk, so I
always make a big show of eating. If my plate isn't full enough,
he will give me some of his food. The first few times he did it I
was annoyed as hell, but now it makes me feel good because I know
he cares. Sometimes I purposely get a little food so he will say
something about it. He says, "You need to eat more than that,"
and I hear, "I love you."

     I know that I have loved him since the day we met, but I
know he would never be attracted to someone like me. I should
probably discuss this with my therapist, but we only talk about
my food, control and low self-esteem issues and I go out of my
way to keep him from knowing too much about what's going on with
me. If he knew I purposely hurt myself, he would have my parents
put me in an institution. I wish I didn't have to see him. I
don't like it. He always asks too many questions.

     The bell started ringing and I grabbed my books and walked
to the door. I was on autopilot as I put my books in my locker
and started walking to the cafeteria. A guy in front of me
stopped suddenly and I bumped in to him. He turned around and
said, "Watch where you're going, you freak!"

     "Sorry." I walked around him and continued to the cafeteria,
but my mind was no longer clear. My mind focused on my
interaction with the guy in the hallway. Everyone, except Tom,
treated me like shit and I took it. I cowered to the idiots at my
school like they were gods and I didn't know why. The self-
loathing part of me was eager to stand up for myself and gladly
take the punishment, but something always held me back.

     I got my lunch and sat down at my usual table, tucked in the
corner. I kept my eyes focused on the table as I waited for Tom
to arrive. Something smacked me on the side of my head. I heard
the laughter and I looked up just in time to see the guy I walked
in to in the hallway pointing at me and laughing. He had his
friends around him and they were laughing as well. When I was
ten, I would have cried, but I outgrew my tears years ago. I
returned my gaze to the table. The group seemed satisfied because
nothing else hit me. After I was sure they had all looked away, I
picked up the apple that had made contact with my head and put it
on my tray. I smiled as I remembered the feeling of the apple
hitting me, the sudden pressure on the side of my head
accompanied by a sharp pain.

     "What are you smiling about?" Tom asked. My smile grew wider
as he sat down across from me. He looked at my tray and shook his
head. "You need to eat more than that. Is that really all you're
eating?"

     I examined his tray, filled with food and what appeared to
be a double serving of macaroni and cheese. "Don't you get tired
of asking me that?"

     He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Don't you get tired of
making me ask you? If you would put some damn food on your plate
we wouldn't have this problem." He picked up his plate and I knew
what was coming but I watched in mock horror as he slid half of
his macaroni off of his plate and on to mine.

     "I'm not going to eat that."

     "You better."

     "What if I eat half of it?" I always tried to bargain but he
never went for it.

     "No, eat all of it. It's not that much." I wanted to tell
him the approximate calorie breakdown of everything on my tray
and the number of hours I would have to spend in my room tonight
trying to exercise it off, but I wanted to make him smile. I
loved his smile. I picked up my fork and ate a few bites of
macaroni. "See, it's not that bad is it?"

     "I guess not." I ate a little more before he finally started
to irritate me. "Must you always watch me like that? I'm eating,
okay?" Sometimes he stared at me so intensely that I feared his
eyes would crack through my exterior and my whole body would
start to shake as I broke in to tiny pieces. I hated myself for
wanting him so much. I hated knowing that wanting him made me
gay. Being gay was another characteristic that distinguished me
from the normal world. I would have told my therapist but I was
afraid he would tell me being gay was just another manifestation
of my fear of exclusion and was only serving as a self-imposed
barrier between me and everyone else. He would probably tell me
that I had a crush on Tom because it was my way of testing his
love and I was setting him up for failure because I knew Tom
would never be able to love me the way I loved him. At least
that's what I always imagined my therapist would say, but I
haven't had the balls to tell him much of anything. I could be
wrong about Dr. Conley, my nickname for him, but I don't think I
am. I stand firmly by my contention that he is full of shit.

     "Are you coming to my lacrosse game tomorrow?" Tom asked. I
knew he was trying to change the subject to keep me from freaking
out.

     "Have I been to one yet?"

     "No, that's why you should come tomorrow. It's a really big
game. We could go to regionals if we win." His eyes sparkled as
he talked about the game he loved. The game that was his ticket
to instant popularity and yet he seemed perfectly content to stay
in the trenches, dare I say, the gutters with me. I knew I was
holding him back. I tried to let him go freshman year, but he
kept coming back like a lost puppy and after a while, I stopped
bothering trying to push him away. We were juniors now and on the
verge of becoming men, but he was still my friend. Half the
people on his stupid lacrosse team harassed him about being
friends with a loser. He told me they never gave him a hard time
about it, but I knew he was lying because I heard them teasing
him before.

     I was probably hands down the biggest loser in my high
school and I mean that. If the yearbook had a biggest loser
contest, I would be the winner. They probably didn't have one
because they didn't want people to have to see my face an extra
time in the yearbook. Last year, the yearbook editor, Molly
Kinkaid, thought it would be funny to take out my picture and
replace it with a picture of a giraffe in a black wig. It was so
not funny. Tom was outraged and he made a big stink about it, but
nothing happened because everyone said it was an "accident."
Yeah, accident my ass. How do you accidentally cut and paste a
picture in to someone else's spot? That's like me accidentally
putting my foot up her ass. She is a bitch and I almost hate her.
I say almost because she is my chemistry lab partner and she is
always so nice to me, at least to my face, but I've heard her
saying shit behind my back.

     "Well?" he asked.

     "Well what?"

     "Are you coming tomorrow or not? Everyone is going to be
there."

     "Oh goody."

     "It won't be so bad, just focus on me the entire time and
you'll be fine."

     "Won't that be gay looking if I watch you the whole time?"

     "Who cares? And besides that, I watch you all the time. Does
that make me gay?"

     "That's different."

     "How?"

     "You don't have a gay bone in your body."

     "And you do?" My food went down the wrong pipe and I started
to choke. "Are you okay?"

     "It went down the wrong pipe."

     "Oh." He watched me drink some water before he asked, "So
are you coming?"

     "No."

     "I want you to be there. It would really mean a lot to me if
you came. I'm finally a starter on the varsity team, we're
winning, we're probably going to go to states and all I want is
to look in the stands and see you sitting there."

     My heart skipped a beat, "Why do you want me there so
badly?" I abandoned pretending to eat.

     "Because you're going to be my inspiration."

     "Huh?"

     "My family can't be there and you're the only person who I
love enough to substitute for them. I play better when I know
someone is there just for me. You know that." I rolled my eyes.
"You remember what happened four games ago when my parents
couldn't come."

     I laughed as I thought about him barging in to my room with
his hair still wet from sweat and his game gear still on. "What
happened to you?"

     "I played like shit, that's what happened. Oh god, it was
awful. It was like I couldn't catch the ball and I couldn't do
anything else right either. My passes were shaky. I tripped and
fell over my own feet about three times. I'm so embarrassed.
There's no way I'm going to be a starter in the next game. I'll
probably be dropped down to junior varsity."

     "Calm down Tom, I'm sure it couldn't have been that bad."

     "It was."

     "Well what the hell happened? Are you sick?"

     "My parents missed the game."

     "And?"

     "And they're like my lucky charms or something. I started
panicking when I looked over at the stands and all I saw was a
bunch of strangers. I don't know what happened. I didn't feel
right when I was playing. I kept looking over hoping to see at
least one of them."

     "Well that's your problem."

     "What?"

     "You weren't focused on the game."

     "Shut up." He sat down next to me and I got a big whiff of
his body odor. My mother would say he smelled like the outside.

     "You didn't shower did you?"

     He looked over at me and when he saw my smile, he said,
"Shut up."

     "Earth to Sam." I looked across the table and Tom was
looking at me. "I won't mess with you about lunch for a whole
week if you come to my game."

     "You promise?"

     "Yes."

     "Well I'll think about it."

     "Okay, but I know I'll see you there."

     "How do you know that?"

     "Because I just made you an offer you can't refuse." He
smirked.

     The rest of lunch was fairly normal. I ate a little more but
I didn't finish the food on my tray. Tom and I talked about the
usual subjects and then it was time for us to separate again. The
rest of the day was insignificant because Tom wasn't involved in
it.

     After school I ran for an hour around the track and then I
walked home. I showered and did homework while I waited to be
summoned for dinner. I was mute throughout dinner. My brother was
a freshman at one of the local universities. My sister was a
freshman in high school at Montville Academy. She begged my
parents to send her there because of the school's basketball
team, but I've convinced myself that it was because she didn't
want to go to the same high school as her loser older brother.
They talked about their days and reminisced about things from the
past. It was always the same. I knew I didn't belong there. Once
the torture called dinner ended, I went to my room to exercise
off the rest of the calories I had eaten. I fell asleep around
midnight.

     I woke up the next morning and thought about going to Tom's
game. I had tried to go to one of his games freshman year, but I
was dumped in the trashcan before I made it inside. I knew his
game must have meant a lot to him for him to play the food card,
and all I wanted was to make him happy so I eventually decided I
would go. I showered and got ready for my day. I was feeling like
shit before I went down for breakfast and I needed some release.
I stuck my left index finger in my open drawer and I slammed the
drawer. It wasn't one of the more painful things I did to myself,
but the sting usually appeased me until I could do something
else. I made sure to switch up my fingers because I had a fear
that I would do some serious damage if I did it to the same
finger all the time and my secret would get out.

     I went downstairs and had a bowl of cereal before I grabbed
my bag and left for school. I happened to see Tom in the hallway
and he walked up to me and gave me a hug. "What was that for?" I
asked.

     "You looked like you needed one." He patted me on my back
and then said, "I got to get to class."

     There was no incident of importance before lunch. I sat at
our usual table waiting for Tom. He sat down across from me and
his eyes immediately scanned my plate. "I'm coming to your game
so you better not say anything about my damn tray."

     "Okay." He didn't say a word as he put a piece of grilled
chicken on my plate. I raised an eyebrow. "I never said I
wouldn't try to feed you. I just said I wouldn't mess with you
about it. You can eat it or leave it there. I won't say anything.
At least not for the next week, but if you don't come to my game
I'm going to start holding you down and force feeding you." He
laughed.

     "I already told you I'm coming to your game." I smiled.

     He reached across the table and pushed my hair behind my
ear. I hated exposing my face. "That's better," he said, "now
smile again. I missed part of it the first time."

     I moved my hair from behind my ear and looked at him.
"Aren't we a little touchy feely today?"

     "Aren't we always?"

     I started cutting up the piece of chicken and he smiled. "So
what time does your game start?" I asked.

     "7:30."

     "I can't believe I'm going. If I end up in the trashcan
again I'm holding you personally responsible."

     "If you end up in the trashcan again, I'm going to beat
someone's ass."

     "With whose help?"

     "I can handle myself."

     "I'm sure you can."

     He spent the rest of lunch talking about the importance of
the game and recapping the season as if I missed him telling me
about it the first time. After lunch, I was a nervous wreck. I
thought everyone knew I was going to the lacrosse game and they
were all plotting ways to embarrass me.

     I ran for an hour after school and then I went home and
followed my normal routine. Dinner was different because I had to
tell my parents that I was going to the lacrosse game.

     "Are you sure you want to do that?" My mother asked as soon
as I finished my sentence.

     "It means a lot to Tom."

     "Is he like your boyfriend?" my sister asked.

     "Grow up," I shot across the table.

     "Be normal," she shot right back.

     "Honey, don't talk to your brother like that." My mother
looked at me. "Do you want Charlie to go with you?"

     "I have plans," he said.

     "No, I don't need a babysitter. I can handle it by myself."
I knew she was worried I would be bullied and she would have to
come to the school and find me severely agitated and have to
schedule an emergency session with Dr. Conley.

     "Okay, but call me if you want me to come pick you up."

     "Yes, Mom." My family went back to their four way
conversation. After dinner, I went to my room and got ready for
the game. I needed to calm myself down so I reached in the bottom
drawer on my nightstand and pulled out the steak knife. I hated
doing what I was about to do, but I needed to let out some
tension. I hid the knife under my shirt as I took it to the
bathroom and washed it with soap and water. I had this awful fear
that I would cut myself with a dirty knife and I'd get an
infection and my secret would be out. It seemed everything in my
life revolved around my fear of people finding out the truth
about me. I returned to my room and locked my bedroom door. I
pulled down my pants and I was about to make a fresh cut on my
upper thigh when I changed my mind and decided to do the usual. I
put the knife back and pulled out a lighter, a cigarette and an
ashtray. I didn't smoke cigarettes because I thought it was
disgusting, but I guess the things I did do with the cigarettes
could be considered disgusting anyway.

     I light the end of the cigarette and look at my left thigh.
The right thigh is for cutting, the left thigh is for burning. I
occasionally stray to other parts of my body, but my thighs seem
to be the best hiding place. I take the cigarette and slowly inch
it towards my thigh. I feel the heat before the tip makes contact
and I hear a slight sizzling sound as it burns my skin. I pull
the cigarette back and decide if I should do it one more time. My
body says no, but my head tells me I need it so I lower the
cigarette and leave another mark. I put out the cigarette in my
ashtray and carefully study the fresh burns. I know my boxers
will rub against it throughout the game and remind me of what I
did and on some level that knowledge makes me feel even more
relaxed. I pull up my pants and rest for a while before I make
sure the cigarette is out and put the materials back in the
drawer.

     I slipped out of the house without saying goodbye to anyone.
I arrived early to the game so I sat as far back as I could. I
closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else and then I
lowered my head in to my lap. Someone shook me, "Sam." I looked
up and saw Tom. "Why are you sitting all the way back here?"

     "I, um"

     He grabbed my arm and pulled me up, "Come with me. I want
you to sit with my father."

     "I thought you said no one was coming."

     "He changed his mind." I recognized the look on Tom's face
and I knew he was lying.

     "You tricked me." He turned and dragged me behind him down
several rows.

     "It was the only way I could think of to get you here."

     "Why do you want me here?"

     "Because there's somewhere I want to take you after the game
and I knew you wouldn't go unless you were already out."

     "Are you serious? I could have met you by your car or
something. How could you do this to me?"

     "Relax, it won't be that bad. No one's going to mess with
you while my father is around."

     I finally ripped my arm away. "This better be good."

     "It will." I wished I could see his face because it sounded
like he was smiling. We reached his father and Tom left to finish
changing.

     "So how are you Sam?"

     "I'm fine, sir."

     "I can't believe Tom finally got you to come to one of his
games. He was so excited this morning."

     "He was?"

     "Yeah, he's been making plans all day. You guys are going to
have a great time after the game."

     I wanted to ask him what he meant, but people sat behind us
and I didn't feel comfortable talking to him anymore.


Copyright Lustyville 2007
Please send comments to lustyville@yahoo.com and check out my
other stories at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lustyville