I'm Glad My Mom Died(69)

I nod along. No idea what a life wheel is, Laura, but let’s get it spinnin’.

“Over the next four months, we’ll go grocery shopping, cook together, discover your hobbies and passions through experimentation, read a stack of eating-disorder-specific books and take notes on what does and doesn’t resonate with you, and explore balanced and non-obsessive physical activity options together.” (My eating disorder translates into exercise as well. I run a half-marathon twice a week and five to ten miles every other day.)

All of this sounds well and good to me, especially since Laura will be by my side through it all, and I’ll lose Steven if I don’t. Where’s the dotted line, baby? Sign me up. I’m ready to change.





71.


I CATCH A WHIFF OF BURNING toast and dog piss—the unmistakable smell of my spray tan. I wonder if Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson caught a whiff of it too. Even if he can smell it, he doesn’t let on. Bless him.

I’m standing backstage at some Teen Choice People’s Choice Fan Favorite award show—they all blur together—waiting for the commercial break to end and my segment to begin. I’m wearing overpriced heels with straps that dig into my ankles and a two-piece turquoise floral set, even though I don’t like floral patterns. This is the outfit that was approved by the network, so this is what I’m wearing.

The Netflix show hasn’t yet been released, so I’m still only known for Nickelodeon stuff. They’re still airing new episodes of Sam & Cat, so I’m still on the cover of all the tween magazines with a sassy hand on my hip and a bright smile on my face, portraying the image of a carefree starlet with the world on a string. Tee-hee.

Even though I’ve been seeing Laura for a month, I feel worse off than I did when I initially sat in her tufted chair. Firstly, because Steven, who is the reason I sat down in Laura’s tufted chair in the first place, is out of town working on a show that shoots in Atlanta, so I’m unable to lean on him for support. And secondly, because now I’m aware of just how bleak things are. I’m no longer able to remain in denial about how much of a problem my alcohol consumption is (a big one) and my bulimia is (a bigger one). I’m no longer in denial about the extent of my grief over Mom’s passing (insurmountable).

The first three weeks of my program with Laura were all about gauging exactly where I’m at by collecting info. And so far, I don’t like the info we’ve collected.

I’m binging and purging five to ten times a day and drinking at least eight or nine shots of hard liquor a night. The first three weeks with Laura have shown me just how dark my situation is, just how much of a failure I’ve become.

But now we’re on week four of our five-sessions-a-week schedule. And week four is the first week where, instead of just assessing how pathetic my day-to-day life really is, Laura starts to help me toward change. We’ve already identified my main binge, purge, and alcohol triggers, and RED CARPET EVENTS came in near the top of the list in all caps—not only because of the stress and nature of the events themselves, but because red carpet events inevitably come with lots… and lots… of food. And lots and lots of food means lots and lots of opportunities to binge and/or purge. Because of this, Laura and I decided that, for the next few months, Laura will be my plus-one to all these events so she can monitor my behavior and serve as emotional/mental support.

The lights are low. I can see the crowd. Laura’s sitting in the front row. I make eye contact with her. Laura smiles and starts to mouth, You’ve got this, but just as she gets to the th in “this,” a mother trying to corral her fleet of young children scuttles past her. Laura makes an “excuse you” face until she realizes that the mother is Angelina Jolie. “Excuse you” face turns into “oh, you go right on ahead you glorious angel” face.

I try to meet Laura’s eyes again, even for a quick second, before the lights come back on. I’m desperate for her support. I’m sure that I’m penetrating her soul with my desperation, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve lost her to Angelina. Not that I can blame Laura. I get it.

The camera operator, Chip—I don’t actually know his name, but there’s a 90 percent chance that any given camera operator’s name is Chip—starts giving me the five-finger countdown. I swallow my nerves.

The lights shock me when they come on. It doesn’t matter how many random tween/teen/kid awards shows I participate in, I never get used to the lights. They are blinding, and I’m amazed how more people onstage giving or accepting awards for things that don’t matter don’t squint while they’re up here.

I start talking, saying whatever’s on the prompter, with a big smile and my “fun” voice. I notice my hands are doing a lot of big gestures, but I can’t seem to control them. The whole thing is an out-of-body experience.

Nick Jonas waltzes out and accepts an award, and the lights are off again. I gasp for air like somebody coming up from holding their breath underwater for too long. I look down at my hands. I can’t see them because my eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the lights being off, but I don’t need to see them to know that they’re shaking.

I’m approached by a security guard who carries himself like a man who takes his wings extra spicy just to prove a point. As I’m escorted to the backstage area, I feel little heat streams running down my cheeks. Shit. Tears.