I'm Glad My Mom Died(84)

Tech people start telling us we have to move. Bio-dad gives me his phone number and tells me to text him. We hug and say goodbye. Miranda and Colton come over to me. I’m having a lot of feelings and I can identify what they are. It feels like progress.

I’m glad he knew we existed. I’m relieved to have this event over with. I’m disappointed by the brevity of it. I’m confused and sad that he didn’t reach out to me first. I will never know for sure if he wanted to meet me, or if he’s just saying it because that’s what you’re supposed to say.

As far as first dates go, this has certainly been the most interesting one I’ve been on. I’m not sure if there will be a second.





85.


IT’S COLD AND HEAVY IN my hands. I walk slowly with it because I’m stalling. I’ve gotten rid of it before, seven or eight times. But every time, I go right back out the next day and get a new one. So far I haven’t been able to get through twenty-four hours without getting a new one, but I’m hopeful that this time might be different. Maybe this time, since I’m making it more of an occasion, since my getting rid of it is my gift to myself for my twenty-fourth birthday, I’ll be able to get rid of it for good.

My scale has defined me for so long. The number it shows tells me whether I’m succeeding or failing, whether I’m trying hard enough or not, whether I’m good or bad. I know it’s unhealthy for anything to have that much authority over my self-worth, but no matter how hard I’ve tried to fight it, I have always felt reduced to the number on the scale—maybe because, in a way, it’s easier. Defining yourself is hard. Complicated. Messy. Letting the number on the scale do it for you is simple. Direct. Straightforward.

I am 95 pounds. Or 105 pounds. Or 115 pounds. Or 125 pounds. Whatever the scale reads, I am that and only that. That is who I am.

Or rather, who I was. I no longer want that number to be the entirety of who I am. To define me. I am ready to experience life beyond the scale.

It sounds ridiculous, “life beyond the scale.” It’s so dramatic but unfortunately true for me. I’m embarrassed that this is my reality. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s growth, to be embarrassed.

I approach the trash room and pull down the latch to open the chute door. I drop the scale into the chute. I hear the scale slide down it, banging against the sides of it as it falls. It lands. I leave.

The next day comes and goes. I don’t get a new scale.





86.


WE’RE SITTING IN A SWAN boat on Echo Park Lake. A goddamned hideous swan boat. Neither of us have said a word for the past five minutes, which feels like a lot more than five minutes when you’re sitting in a goddamned swan boat.

I’m staring at Steven. He doesn’t feel me staring. He’s looking off into the distance half wistfully, half depressed. He’s so contemplative these days, but in the way that gets you nowhere. It’s the way that makes your wheels spin and your thoughts keep going in circles but there’s no forward movement.

I tried for so long to help Steven. Or to control him. I’m not sure which since they’re so closely related. But a few months ago, I gave up.

It started with Jeff giving me some materials to read on codependency. Everything I read resonated a little too much and forced me to accept that Steven and I were in a deeply codependent relationship. Jeff suggested I stay focused on trying to solve my own problems.

“But I’m here. I am trying to solve my problems.”

“And you’re doing a great job.” Jeff nodded, affirming. “But I have a feeling you might be able to make more progress if you take all that energy you’re spending trying to manage Steven’s life and instead put it toward managing your own.”

The shift happened quickly. Per Jeff’s suggestion, I added group therapy to my weekly self-improvement regimen. I read more books on eating disorder recovery. The more time I spent focused on my issues, the less time I had to focus on Steven’s. And the less I was focusing on Steven’s, the further apart we grew.

It’s been sad to recognize how much fixing has been the backbone of our relationship. Whether it was Steven trying to fix my bulimia or me trying to fix his marijuana addiction or pushing him to find the right cocktail of medication, it’s been the glue of our relationship. Without that aspect of fixing the other, we don’t have much to talk about. Like right now.

“Steven,” I say finally. It jogs him out of his trance. He looks at me.

I don’t have to say a word. He knows what’s coming. He starts to cry. I do too. We cry and we hold each other and we pedal our giant fucking bird boat.





87.


“JENNETTE, I HAVE THE WHOLE team for you,” one of my agent’s assistants tells me over the phone.

Whenever “the whole team” is on a call, it’s one of two things: very good news or very bad news. “The whole team” only jumps on a call to celebrate or handhold, nothing in between. One by one each member of “the whole team” clicks into the conference call. I wait to find out which kind of news it is.

“Is everybody on?” a voice asks.

“Yeah, we’re all here,” another voice says.

“So, Jennette…”

Bad news. A pause is always bad news.