I'm Glad My Mom Died(60)

I pull on my costume sluggishly and head down to set. I haven’t memorized my lines because I don’t care anymore. I wish they would just fire me. This place is toxic and bad for my already poor mental health. I want out.

I arrive to set for a scene in a boxing ring. (One of my castmates plays a boxer who is managed by a ten-year-old.) I thumb through my lines, silent.

We start rolling. First take, I get through—barely. Second take, I get through—barely. Third take—I don’t get through at all. In the middle of my second line, my breathing gets away from me and speeds up, like it does whenever a panic attack is coming on. Shit. I see stars. I’m afraid I’m gonna pass out. Then I collapse on the floor. My chest heaves. Drool spills out of my mouth as the most hideous, intense cry of my life pours out of me. In front of everyone: the cast, the crew, the extras.

Finally, one of my co-stars, the one who plays the boxer, picks me up and carries me off set. He takes me to my dressing room and sits with me. Patti joins. They comfort me and tell me they understand. They’re here for me.

Then someone knocks on the door. I’m immediately frozen with fear. Patti shouts that we’ll be out in a minute. A booming voice from the other side demands to come in. I can tell it’s one of our producers.

“Yeah, not now,” Patti says rudely to the producer on the other side of the door. I love her. I appreciate her. She has the balls to stand up to these people.

“Can I just talk to Jennette for a minute? I feel for her,” the producer says.

A part of me believes them. Or at least wants to believe them. Another part of me is suspicious. I choose to believe them. I allow them in. They ask if we can speak privately. The others leave.

They sit down on the couch opposite me.

“I like how you’ve decorated the place,” they joke, since I’ve added absolutely nothing to this cold box of a dressing room.

I don’t laugh. They clear their throat.

“I’m assuming this is about your being removed from the directors’ slate.”

“It’s about a lot of things.”

A beat. They proceed.

“I want you to know that I vouched for you. I wanted you to direct. And there’s somebody else here who doesn’t want you to direct. Very badly, they don’t want you to direct. So badly that they said they would quit the show if you did. And we can’t afford that. So we had to remove you from the slate. I just want you to know that it’s not your fault.”

I’m stunned. I have no words. The producer gets up and exits, shutting the door quietly behind them.

Somebody didn’t want me to direct? So much so that they said they’d quit the show if I did? I don’t even understand how something like this is possible. I make myself throw up again and again and again. I don’t know how else to deal with everything happening around me. I don’t know how else to cope with so much of my life being so out of my control. I look around at the white walls. Maybe I should decorate the place. The prop master knocks on my door to deliver the buttersock for my next scene.





62.


I’M WALKING AROUND WHOLE FOODS buying groceries for the week. I’m coughing up the big bucks for my produce and frozen meals because I’m hopeful that if I spend an obscene amount for a bag’s worth of food, I will be less likely to throw it up.

By this point, I’m starting to realize that bulimia is not sustainable for me. My throat bleeds daily, my teeth feel softer, my cheeks look puffier, my stomach struggles to digest food, and I’ve gotten a handful of cavities since this started. I think I want to change, but so far, willpower has gotten me nowhere. Every morning I tell myself I’m not gonna throw up today, and every morning by ten a.m. I already have. Since willpower clearly hasn’t worked, this Whole Foods thing is me trying a different strategy.

I pull a frozen meatloaf meal from the shelf and inspect the nutrition label for calories and fat: 440 calories, 15 grams of fat. No way. I put that shit back.

Another one of my brand-new strategies is lowering my calorie intake like I did when I was a kid. I figure that if I keep my calories low, maybe the urge to throw up will go away and I’ll be able to keep my food down. At least this is what I tell myself on the surface. But deep down, I know the truth.

The truth is that I wish I had anorexia, not bulimia. I’m pining for anorexia. I’ve grown humiliated by bulimia, which I used to think of as the best of both worlds—eat what you want, throw it all up, stay thin. But now it doesn’t feel like the best of both worlds. It feels terrible.

I’m filled with so much shame and anxiety every time after I eat, I literally don’t know what to do to make myself feel better except throw up. And after I’m done, I half do. Half of me feels depleted, exhausted, like there’s nothing left, which is helpful. The other half of me now has a splitting headache, a sore throat, vomit sliding down my arm and tangled in my hair, and even more shame on top of the initial shame since now I’ve not only eaten but thrown up, too. Bulimia is not the answer.

Anorexia is.

Anorexia is regal, in control, all-powerful. Bulimia is out of control, chaotic, pathetic. Poor man’s anorexia. I have friends with anorexia, and I can tell they pity me. I know they know because anyone with an eating disorder can tell when anyone else has an eating disorder. It’s like a secret code you can’t help but pick up on.