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I can’t wear a cat suit and it’s my Mothers fault

Tracey Young-Cleantis



��My love of food began when my Mother made it forbidden. She hid Snickers bars (which I hated), but I ate them just because she hid them from me. It was a demented treasure hunt, whatever she hid I treasured.
��My Grandmother also contributed substantially to my eating disorder. Grandma was from the south and bar none the best cook. Even if you don’t like chicken-fried steak, white gravy, mashed potatoes and biscuits, you’d like my Grandmas. They could sell her gravy in big gulp cups. She’d call me when she was bored or lonely; “Hon, would you like some fried chicken and biscuits swimming in gravy.”
��“Yes, I’ll be right over.”
��I don’t recall ever turning Grandma down for a lunch invitation. She knew how to get company. Besides cooking whatever I wanted, Grandma never watched my portions or hid food. The cookie jar was always open without any snide comments like, “If you were really hungry an apple would be just as satisfying as a cookie.” My Mother said this so easily. A Marlboro cigarette hanging from her pursed yellow mouth, after she inhaled, she gulped down a shot of vodka. Mom always claimed the clear liquid to be vodka.
��Before I learned the truth, I’d had the flu and took some aspirin with what Mom called water. I drank it before she could stop me. I did a Danny Thomas spit take with straight vodka and I threw up immediately. She didn’t yell at me she couldn’t.
��I started skipping dinner at 12, it was just too much. Both of them so loaded, they just sat there telling me my every fault. Maybe if I was throwing back scotches, I too would have enjoyed our family dinners of burnt London broil, cold asparagus and heaping servings of criticism.
��“Get your elbows off the table,” my Mother said as she picked up a limp spear with her fingers. Clumsily stuffing the entire thing in her mouth, she continued to talk with her mouth full of green goo. I chose to retreat to my beautifully coordinated Laura Ashley Adolescents Dream Room. Matching bedding, lamps, curtains, wall paper and even teddy bears covered with the saccharin sweet fabric. There was talk of making me a night gown and robe to match my room. But X would have been like Where’s Waldo? They would not have been able to find me, which would have been just super with me. Alone and undisturbed eating cookies and writing what at the time I thought was profoundly moving and deep poetry.
��Like..

��Mother she is so cold
��she is so mean
��she is a uterus machine.

��I’d wait till they passed out and I’d go downstairs and eat as much Heavenly Hash ice cream as I could get down my gullet. If I ate so much they would notice, I’d have to go to the store and replace it and eat it down to the point at which I found it. I always promised myself I’d throw it out, but never did.
��Patty, a sophomore, initiated me. A freshmen, in the initiation rites of bulimia. She taught me how to throw up and what foods came up easily. Ice cream helps bring up whatever food you have eaten before, where as peanut butter is very hard to throw up. She explained that Gentle Correctol TM isn’t even worth taking, extra strength and only after you can’t get anything else by puking.
��I remember more about my virgin experience as a bulimic than I do my other virgin experience. I was at my best friend’s house, the afternoon before the Spring Fling Dance. I ate five Farmer John all beef franks. I put honey all over them, I thought it would make it easier to throw them up. What an idiot.
��I went into her bathroom and kneeled at the porcelain god, praying I could get all the food up, so I could look good in my Sassoon jeans. when I started, I needed only one finger and had to press violently on my stomach. It took a long time, that first time, but it seemed worth it.
��Toilets are easily destroyed. I ruined three that I know of. Plumbers came in and out of our house so frequently, they almost became friends of the family. Mom suggested we have a key made just for the guys at Roto-Rooter, Dad thought it was a bad idea. I am sure the plumbers knew what I was doing, but they never told my folks the cause of our plumbing difficulties. They knew as long as I didn’t go into therapy they could get that swimming pool by late spring. The last time was really humiliating. Frank the oldest of the three brothers who own the South Pasadena franchise, gave me this sort of Uncle talk after replacing our third toilet.
��“Betsy, I know it’s not my place to say, but I know what you’re doing and you better be careful.”
��Frank couldn’t look me in the eyes, he stared at his filthy work boots and waited for me to say something.
��“My friend in Tarzana, well see he’s a plumber too and he’d replaced five toilets at this families house, see, and the girl she was only maybe seventeen and she died.”
��“Thanks Frank, but it’s not like that. I’m really okay.”
��“You’re a pretty young lady, you think your fat?” Frank shook his head in disgust.
��I’ve seen Franks ass more times than I have seen my own. He’s too fat to get pants that fit around his waist. This is not a man whose body evaluations I would let affect me. But for a minute I wished this fat plumber was my Dad.
��After the chat with Frank I headed straight to K-Mart. Got myself a plunger, liquid plumber and a huge spaghetti pan. Now I could do my own plumbing. I got the vibe that if we needed toilet number four Frank would have a word with the parental units. I got the army size spaghetti pot so I could throw up in the comfort of my own room. I used to miss most of “Dynasty,” trying to throw up Ding-Dongs on commercial breaks. Now I could have my cake and eat it too. My parents never questioned the 20 quart pot in my room, they never even noticed the smell. I did bum a lot of incense but please.
��At seventeen I realized there was a name for what was wrong with my parents: Alcoholics. I went to Alanon meetings hoping to figure out how to cure them. I brought home all the available literature and leave it lying around the house. they would tell all their friends what I was doing. They would all laugh. “Isn’t it a riot?”, My Mother would drunkenly ask her best friend, her face swollen and pink.
��Dad was having an affair with a women in Palm Springs, who had three Charlie’s Angels kind of daughters. They were pretty if you like that funkadelic feathered hair do, frosted lipstick thing. So, one day Dad’s leaving the comforts of home for a “business trip” in Palm Springs. He says to me as he passes,”You’d better watch your weight.” That’s how my Dad chose to say good bye. If he had stopped to have a conversation with me he would have found out I was on my period and my face is always bloated on my period, I’d actually lost weight.
��“Dad, I’ve lost three pounds. “
��“That’s great kitten, but you don’t need to worry. And sweetheart, that lumpy oversized sweater really brings out your eyes. You are such a lovely young lady, I am so darn proud of you.”
��We’d kiss and he’d be off to play golf. back in time for family night, instead of to his bimbos. It’s not a fantasy I would tell Mr. Roarke about, but it’s mine.
��Dad had distorted ideas of what fat was, he’d been around those anorexic daughters too much, all three of them flight attendants . They had the nerve to call our house and ask to speak to Big Daddy, they said it like they watch “Dallas” too much. Dad says they are calling for advice on the stock market. They are getting advice on investments while I get tips on my eating habits.
��When I went away to school, I started going to Overeaters Anonymous after I was forced to spend part of my tuition money on dental work, because all of the stomach acids rotting away my teeth. Patty never told me about the problems of Bulimia, only the benefits. I’d really had it, I was tired of being in Psych. class missing the lecture to thoughts of what I’d have for lunch.
��I called my parents from school like I was supposed to do every Sunday night. I tried to explain that the rates are lower Sunday day, but when they get something in their head, forget it.
��I told them about my teeth and how much I was throwing up.
��“I need help.” I paused, waiting for my Mom to tell me she’d be out on the next plane.
��“Oh honey, you are a strong girl, you’ll be fine. You’ve just got to get some will power. That’s why you have always been so pudgy. No discipline.”
��“The dentist says I’ll need $3000 more in work.”
��“Just put it on the Mastercard. Does he take credit cards? Most doctors do now. When I had my face lift they kept trying to get me to finance. No way, do you remember Frances Stieberman?”
��“Is she the one with the schnauzers?”
��“No,that’s Rosie Lieberman. anyway she put her tummy tuck on her Diners Card and she’s paying 21% interest.”
��“The dentist recommended a good inpatient facility for eating disorders in Chicago.”
��“Just stop, you’re silly. If you don’t want to be fat, don’t eat. But for Christ’s sake, stop throwing up. Don’t waste our money like that. Now here’s your Father...”
��“Hi,Dad,”
��“How’s school?’
��“Fine.”
��“Good.”
��“Is it snowing? Johnny Mountain said it’s snowing in Chicago.”
��“No, not yet.”
��“It’s beautiful here in sunny California, don’t know why you left, 75 degrees -”
��“Great.”
��“Okay, well, we’ll talk to you next week.” He paused, as if he might want to say something really important.
��“Bye,” Dad said.
��“Bye.” I said.
��I always feel so good after I open up to you. It’s so cathartic. We’ll have to do this more often. I said to the dial tone of the receiver, wishing my parents were on the line to appreciate my sarcasm. I thought about calling Frank, but with all the toilets he’s fixed I am sure he wouldn’t remember me.



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