I'm Glad My Mom Died(86)

Food—the lack of it, the want of it, the lust for it, the fear of it—still takes up so much of my energy. Any mention of a meal, any reminder of one, still causes a rush of anxiety throughout my entire body.

That’s why if there’s a choice between dinner and another thing, I always choose the other thing. I want to postpone the chaos of a meal for as long as possible.

I grab my choppy auburn wig and sunglasses from the nightstand. I’ve started using this disguise when I go places to avoid getting recognized. Miranda and I walk to Disneyland and hop on Space Mountain, then on Matterhorn since it’s close, even though neither of us likes it very much. We walk to the partner theme park California Adventure. We ride the Guardians of the Galaxy ride and walk through the Animation Academy building, where we learn how to draw Simba. We’re folding up our drawings when the inevitable happens. My stomach growls. We both laugh and agree to get dinner.

Miranda knows all about my food issues. She’s known for a while—since early on in my recovery when it was suggested that I tell a few trusted friends. Since then, Miranda’s been very supportive.

I appreciate her support but it’s also difficult at times. Before Miranda knew about this stuff, when bulimia was my secret, I could get through the ups and downs on my own. I was the only person I had to be accountable to, the only person I would disappoint. But now that she’s in on the secret, I can tell she’s hyperaware of my eating tendencies. She’s constantly observing. I’m not just disappointing myself with my slips, but her too.

“Where do you wanna go?” Miranda asks.

“Wherever there isn’t a line.”

I just wanna get the eating over with so I can brace myself for the onslaught of emotions and will my way through their intensity until they pass and I haven’t purged. Hopefully.

We walk to Downtown Disney, the shopping district attached to the theme parks, and head for Tortilla Joe’s since they usually have the shortest line. We’re seated in a corner booth and we order right away—chips and guacamole for the table, Miranda gets some tacos, I get salmon with salad. I always think if I order the healthy thing, I have a better chance of not throwing it up after. Less shame in salmon than in a hamburger, I suppose. Or I would suppose if it worked every time. But it doesn’t.

I’m so hungry by this point that I can’t stop myself with the chips and guacamole. I tell myself just one, just two, just four, just six, but I don’t stop at just one, or two, or four, or six. I keep going. I think I’m selling casualness despite what’s going on in my mind.

It’s so annoying, eating-disorder brain. Anytime I’m having a conversation with someone over a meal, there’s another conversation happening internally—judgments and criticisms and self-loathing that press on me with such severity. They’re a brutal distraction. I can never be present with whoever I’m with. My focus is always more on the food than the person.

I’m told that this narrative, this way of thinking, this “eating-disorder brain,” will lessen with time. I guess we’ll see.

The main courses come. I can tell by the way Miranda’s watching me that she knows I’m anxious. I remind myself to chew slowly, look calm, act normal. Then I excuse myself and say that I have to pee.

I get to the bathroom and check under the stalls to make sure they’re all empty. I started doing this after a Disneyland trip three years ago when I got off Jungle Cruise and beelined for the Adventureland restroom to throw up my clam chowder. I was right in the middle of purging when a little hand poked out from under the stall next to me with her Mickey & Friends autograph book, asking me to sign it. I couldn’t because I’m right-handed, and since I’d just purged, regurgitated bits of clam chowder were trickling down my arm. If those bits got on her autograph booklet, Little Bailey would be forever changed.

Luckily this time the stalls are all empty. I have to be quick so no one catches me. I hurry into the biggest one. I shove my fingers down my throat and purge repeatedly until nothing comes up anymore. I wipe the puke off my arm with toilet paper. I hate the toilet paper on Disney property because it’s very thin so it crumples up around the vomit every time and I have to scrub the little puke-toilet-paper-dingleberries off my arm with more thin toilet paper and then there are more puke-toilet-paper dingleberries and then there’s more scrubbing and so on.

I’m bent over the toilet bowl when I remember something Jeff told me.

“You don’t wanna be forty-five at the office Christmas party, with three kids and a mortgage, sneaking into the bathroom to puke up the artichoke dip,” he’d said.

Sure, I’m not forty-five. And I don’t even like artichoke dip. But it is my twenty-sixth birthday. I am getting older.

I think of Mom. I don’t want to become her. I don’t want to live off Chewy granola bars and steamed vegetables. I don’t want to spend my life restricting and dog-earing Woman’s World fad diet pages. Mom didn’t get better. But I will.





89.


I’M STANDING ON AN EXCRUCIATINGLY rich Brentwood homeowner’s slanted lawn. My stilettos have sunk into the grass. I should’ve never worn stilettos to a party on a lawn, but I don’t know how to dress myself and I no longer have Nickelodeon stylists who prepare me for events.

It’s dark out and there are twinkly lights and celebrities all around me. I’m at some sort of holiday industry gathering my new manager invited me to, the manager that represents me for writing. (My agents dropped me after they realized my break from acting was not gonna be short-lived.) I yank my heels up from the grass and make my way to the buffet table when what to my wondering eyes should appear but some miniature cheeseburgers… but I don’t feel like something meaty and cheesy right now. I feel like something sweet. And these days I pay attention to what I feel. I spot a dense, warm chocolate chip cookie. Perfect.