The Mess Of Me by Chantelle Atkins

Author:Chantelle Atkins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Modern Fiction
ISBN: 9781780256276
Publisher: Autharium
Published: 2014-09-15T23:00:00+00:00

19

Dear World, well the rest of the week is a shitter. I only get through it by thinking about Friday. About me and Joe and Marianne, alcohol and a huge massive party. My mum watches everything that I eat, and clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes every time I go out of the door for a jog. “Don’t get any skinnier,” she warns me time and time again, as if it is somehow up to her how thin or fat I am. “Size ten is small enough. You don’t want to be any thinner than that.” I don’t know what to say to her half the time. How does she know what I want to be? Why does it matter to her? I just want to be healthy for Gods sake.

The strange thing is, I have reached my target weight, my target dress size and all that. This is where I am meant to be, this is who I wanted to be. But somehow it doesn’t exactly fill me with joy. Instead I feel restless and on edge. I feel like I can’t relax, or take my eye off the scales, or the fat will find its way back to me. Insane I know, but I can’t seem to help it. I am starting to panic about every little thing I eat. I am starting to worry if my runs are long enough to cancel out what I have consumed. I am starting to view all meals with suspicion and caution. It is getting harder and harder to satisfy my mother, without panicking myself into a right old state. Instead of feeling happy, I am wound up and tense. I am verging on an argument with almost everyone. I feel a kind of anger and frustration spinning around inside of me that I just cannot pinpoint or understand. The only time I feel good, the only time I feel truly at ease and free, is when I am running. I feel like I am running away from it all World, that’s how it feels, but you know what? I’m not really am I? I’m just running in circles.

Food is increasingly disgusting to me. Especially the remnants of it. The leftovers. The smears and crusts on last night’s dinner plates. It’s just vile. It gets to the point when I can barely stand going into the kitchen in case I see an unwashed plate, or a cereal bowl filled with uneaten brown mush. Ugh, it’s awful. That’s when you realise what you have really eaten, when you see the remnants of it like that. The way tomato sauce darkens and hardens, and you have to scrape it off the plate. It makes my stomach turn over. Takeaways are even worse. I won’t go near these anyway, but Mum and Les designate Friday as their takeaway night, and Saturday mornings now reek of stagnant curry, or cold fish and chips. I can barely stomach the hallway, let alone the kitchen, where I can see the stained plastic containers, and the plate all the leftovers have been shovelled onto.

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