I'm Glad My Mom Died(70)
Finally, when we get to the dingy backstage tunnel with fluorescent lighting, I can get a good look at my hands. They’re shaking and clenched in little stiff balls. I don’t need any more evidence than this. I’m having a panic attack. And I know exactly why I’m having one.
I haven’t thrown up all day. Laura only agreed to be my plus-one if I would agree to meet up with her ahead of the event so that we could eat lunch together. Laura knew that my instinct would be to starve myself before the award show, which could then lead to a binge and purge later.
She ordered a healthy lunch for us and sat there patiently while I picked at my food like a tantrum-y three-year-old.
“I know you don’t want to, but you need to eat. You can’t go do something like this without having some food in your stomach.”
We sat there for nearly an hour, my food untouched, when the car pulled up to take us to the event. I pushed my seat back and stood up until Laura gave me “no way” eyes. I knew she wasn’t getting in that Cadillac Escalade until I followed through on my end of the bargain. I forced a few bites into my mouth, Laura encouraged me to take a few more, and we were off.
The ride over to the pavilion was hell. I couldn’t focus on anything except for the shame I felt about how much food I had consumed, the calories in that food, and the fact that I couldn’t rid myself of it. All I wanted was a toilet, and all I got was forty-five minutes in LA traffic with some adult contemporary slow jams on the radio. (Laura’s taste in music is questionable.)
“Um, you okay, ma’am?”
Not now, Spicy Wings. I’m in the middle of a discreet breakdown. I mutter some half-word response, wipe my eyes, and push open the door to the backstage area. The first thing I see is, of course, the buffet table. The inevitable backstage buffet table, piled with crudite, olives, mini sausages, shrimp cocktails, mini grilled-cheese sandwiches, popcorn chicken, and cheeseburger sliders.
FUUUUCK. Cheeseburger fucking sliders. I’m dying to cram some meaty, cheesy sliders into my mouth and then throw them up in the bathroom. The act of purging gives me a rush of adrenaline and it’s so physically exhausting that I hardly have space for anxiety after I’m finished. I need the fix.
But I know I shouldn’t. That’s why Laura’s here. Laura! That’s what I need. I need Laura. Where is Laura?
I frantically scan the room. Manny from Modern Family chats with Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory. Fergie talks to Kristen Stewart, who stands in the corner biting her nails. At the other end of the room I spot Laura, beaming as she compliments Adam Sandler. It’s clear she has a crush on him. Who doesn’t? Shirtless Adam Sandler in the “shampoo is better” scene from Billy Madison was true porn for me as a child.
I’m torn. Do I interrupt Laura’s engaging discussion with America’s Favorite Goofball–slash–Occasional Indie Darling to tell her I’m in the middle of a panic attack? Or do I rush over to the buffet table and stuff my face with a slew of snacks, then go throw them up in the bathroom? Do I get my fix?
I beeline for the buffet table and don’t even grab a plate. I double-fist some cheeseburger sliders and start shoving them into my mouth. I turn my back so no one can see what I’m doing. I take bite after bite. I’m done with the first slider and halfway through the second one when I hear…
“I think it’s great that you’re eating. I would love it if you could slow down a little bit, though. And I want to make sure we step away to a private area afterward so that you can process your emotions without purging. How does that sound?”
My heart sinks. My cheeseburger slider does too. I feel it like a rock in my stomach. I know Laura means well, but in this moment I hate her. I hate that she’s disrupting my ability to purge.
“You know what? Why don’t we just head out now?” Laura suggests. She must have spotted the dried tear tracks on my cheeks, or my clenched hands, or she might just have such a good read on me that she knows how devastated I’ll be at having to keep down the sliders.
We pile into the car and immediately, I start to sob. The panic attack is in full force. It feels like death.
“NOOOOO! NOT THE SLIDERS!! WHY DID I EAT THE FUCKING SLIIIIIIDERS!!!” I wail.
“I know, baby,” Laura says affectionately. She strokes my hair. “You’re doing great. You’re doing great.”
Really? It doesn’t feel like I’m doing “great.” It feels like I’m in the middle of a full-fledged breakdown after white-knuckling my way through three teleprompter lines and not being able to cope with eating two Rich People’s White Castles. Laura assures me it’s normal to have these types of reactions after not purging, since my body’s been so used to the habit for so long and the habit has been a source of emotional suppression for me. But it doesn’t feel normal. My reaction feels humiliating but impossible to curtail.
I continue wailing. The driver looks ahead blankly. If this guy’s not reacting to a hysterical bulimic who’s getting orange spray tan on his freshly polished leather seats, I hate to think what else he’s witnessed in the back of his Cadillac.
“Can you flip the radio to KOST 103.5?” Laura asks politely.
The driver switches the radio. Gloria Estefan starts singing “Rhythm is Gonna Get You.”
“Mom used to loooove Gloria Estefannnnnn!” I sob, collapsing into Laura’s lap. I notice her toe tapping. The rhythm did in fact get her.