Belly-Deep
By Chloe Cook
I nervously rub my foot against the carpet and try to feel the softness through my shoe. Really, I’m seeking any sensation—including static electricity— that will distract me from my current reality.
“Sorry about that,” Miss Jenna says as she enters the stuffy room late, effortlessly handling her navy coffee Tervis, pile of paperwork, thick binder, and pen all in one hand. This lady really has her shit together.
“A queen is never late— everyone else is simply early,” I reply; Miss Jenna obviously doesn't get the Princess Diaries reference, but she smiles at my remark anyway.
Commence the boring stuff. I meet with Miss Jenna (my dietician) twice a week; she basically just reminds me that I’m anorexic, tells me I need to keep eating, assigns more food onto my meal plan, and lets me cry. Most of my fellow patients dislike her since she’s the bearer of bad news when it comes to meal plan increases; I don’t blame Miss Jenna, though. It’s not her fault I have unhealthy, skeletal desires.
I’m three weeks into this rehab program, so I know the drill by now. I’m quite the expert. Top notch patient, I am. But in this session, she says something that genuinely makes me look downward to ensure my dinosaur socks are still properly fitted to my feet:
“I’m happy to let you know that, in our team meeting, we decided to promote you to level two! So, this means that…” and in this precise moment, I fade out into another ether of consciousness. Level two? Oh, no. Before a few seconds ago, I was a level one. This meant, among other things, that I ate every meal at a table with a supervisor, was expected to eat 50% of all meals, and was assigned “flush checks” (i.e., someone had to look inside the toilet bowl before I could flush— wonderful). Now, I’ll undoubtedly be expected to eat even more.
Miss Jenna says that this is fantastic, a great step in my recovery. She says that, since my “weight is trending how we like it” (translation: the pounds are packing on), I will now be given more freedom in the program. Amazing. Stunning. Adam better watch out because I’m Eden all this food. As she talks, my vision tunnels and I become completely aware of my body: I feel the padding building around my chest where nothing except bone used to be, I place my hand on my upper arm and find that I can no longer wrap my middle finger around to touch my thumb. My eyes begin to swell like my stomach does after a large meal, and salty water droplets threaten to slide down my cheeks.
Then, Miss Jenna speaks a proverb that will be my salvation: “You’ll be able to take individual snack outings now,” (translation: I’ll no longer be supervised all hours of the day). More freedom…that’s more satisfying than cancelling social plans and isolating myself in my room for a week. Miss Jenna lets me pick out a level two bead for my recovery bracelet. Every time I meet a “recovery goal” (like gain weight, uncover a deep psychological truth, actively participate in a group activity) I get a colorful, smooth, wooden bead to add to my bracelet. I pick out a plain brown one and complete a snack outing request slip as soon as I exit the office.
The following morning, I immediately check to see if my request was approved. The little swirly “a” at the end of Miss Jenna’s signature looks like a halo. I meander through vitals checks, mindlessly pick at breakfast, and pay no attention to the morning group sessions; my eyes stay focused on the clock, eagerly awaiting A.M. Snack time.
When the moment arrives, I walk through the facility’s reception area and tell the secretary I’m heading out. I enter the lavish elevator and see my reflection in the golden walls. I see my chin and legs and hair and nose and feet. I look boxy, stiff, and mildly jaundiced: basically, I look like a Lego. This small peak at my own image prompts loud chattering amongst the voices: “These people are making you fat,” “As soon as we’re out of this place we can go back to the way things were,” “This sucks. Let’s quit.”
To the voices I say, “I hate the way you make me feel.” If I get too metacognitive about it, I know I am the voices, but yet, they aren’t me. That’s just too weird. I decide to engage in the therapeutic strategy of distraction: I close my eyes tightly and balance on my left leg, placing all my weight onto my toes. I remain this way until the elevator reaches the ground floor. I’m pretty sure someone else got on and witnessed me weirdly squatting with my eyes closed, but that’s okay. It tamed the voices.
As I exit the building, I’m overwhelmed by exactly two things: the disgustingly high temperature, and the absurd number of stores littering the large plaza. The recovery center is conveniently situated on the edge of a populated shopping area: plenty of restaurants and cafes nearby to go be disordered in. I’m definitely skipping the mandatory snack, because, well, who’s here to stop me? Instead, I’m going to use my valuable hour of freedom to peruse the stores.
I trudge through the terrible heat and walk towards the Barnes and Noble. As the seconds of sun exposure pass, my heartbeat quickens, my head fogs, and my chest feels heavy. Apparently, my body needs a break from this extremely brief, seriously strenuous exertion. I quickly retreat into a store I’ve never heard of called “Recreational Equipment, Inc.” I’m allergic to pollen and I don’t camp or do outdoorsy recreational activities…naturally, this is the perfect place to stop.
I pass through the door’s threshold into the cool air. I see a waterfall cascading down a giant mural of mountainsides hung to the wall. I slowly walk by canoes, kayaks, paddleboards, tents, and rows of fishing equipment. Just looking at the hiking boots makes me tired. I make my way to the back of the store, where the athleisure section is located. I see mannequins of perfectly proportioned women forever frozen in a state of jogging, all likely on their way to make a fresh mannequin kale salad and smile about eating it because it’s so fresh and clean and good for you and fresh. I look at a pair of leggings: they’re sage green, soft, and seem sturdy enough to not give me camel toe. They’re kind of cute. I’ll try them on.
I walk around with a stupid, confused look on my face as I try to locate a dressing room (because putting them all in the same location of the store would simply be illogical). It takes me way longer than it should, but I manage find one without having to interact with an employee. I walk inside the small, well-lit room and draw back the heavy curtain behind me (because having a door with a lock for a room in which people get naked would simple be illogical).
I don’t face the mirror yet. First, I slowly unzip and unbutton my jeans. I carefully pull my left leg down through the pants, making sure not to catch my foot in one of the holes, and do the same for my right leg. I look at my legs deeply: I see both the slightly out-of-place kneecap from an old injury and the fresh bruise from running into my nightstand this morning. These legs have carried me through states and seasons of all types. They’re like children really, how could I pick a favorite? Limbs are limbs, left and right. I say to them, “No matter what happens, you guys are my legs, and I’m grateful for you. Y’all are good legs.”
Calmly, I turn and face the mirror. I witness the light falling onto my thighs and calves like they’re trophies in a display case. My legs are winners! First place, baby! But I turn to my side, and I see it. A few tiny craters dot my thighs; my skin looks like playdough that a toddler has prodded with their fingers. White and pink markings in the shape of tree roots lightly outline my hips. It’s not a big deal.
But it is. And I can’t.
I throw the leggings at the mirror without trying them on and carelessly re-enter my jeans. I run out of the room and find the nearest employee. I ask them to direct me towards the bathroom, and they say it’s on the second floor. I see a storm brewing in the mountain mural.
I easily lose my breath flying up two flights of stairs. The random burst of exercise gives me vertigo. I use the handrail and wall as stable guides to the door: I look inside and find all the stalls are empty. This is safety.
I enter a stall and lock it. I open my purse and dig for anything of use; a pen, a straw, a keychain, anything. The first thing my hand touches is a yellow highlighter. That’ll do. I roll up my sleeves, tuck my hair behind my ears, and hunch over the toilet. I skipped breakfast. There’s nothing left inside of me, but it still has to go. I can’t carry all this weight. Just as I’m about to push the end of the marker to the back of my throat, the bathroom door opens.
Fuck!
I feel like a teenager who just got caught having sex by their parents: soaring, pure, unnerving exposure. I slam my butt onto the toilet seat and pretend I’m peeing or something.
Be normal, I say to myself, a nineteen-year-old woman, highlighter in-hand, sitting on the toilet with her pants completely on.
Although I cannot see it, I hear the clacking heels of another woman walking towards a stall. She opens a door and sits in the stall directly next to mine.
What the hell? I think as my face contorts, Aren’t there like 5 stalls in here? Isn’t it an unspoken rule not to sit next to an occupied stall when plenty of others are open?
Then, noise.
A full, booming, steep fart echoes through the room. And I know it did not come from my ass. Then, another, and another. Fart after fart, this woman conducts her own flatulence orchestra, and I have a front row ticket that I didn’t ask for. And it doesn’t stop. A few seconds into this performance, a deep but quiet groaning noise squeaks. The grunting, groaning, moaning, and heavy breathing is so shocking I almost open my mouth to ask the woman if she’s okay. I just sit there, silently and mildly scared, during this whole exposé. I’ve never been this close in proximity to such shamelessness.
I’m astonished. I think of all the times I’ve hid, the moments I’ve tucked my smile under my shirt to hide my double chin or denied myself food because someone was watching…I feared the power this woman possessed to be so crudely human. Was she an otherworldly creature, or an average citizen handling a terrible rectal eruption? I wouldn’t know.
Of all the bathrooms in this plaza, of all the stalls in this suite, it’s most certainly a force of fate that brought this woman to me. I don’t have the guts to face her (I fear what cosmic reaction may happen if I look into her eyes) and so, in the middle of a particularly hoarse groan, I scamper out of the restroom like a deer escaping the demise of a car hood. I don’t even flush the toilet to pretend I had actually done something urinary-like.
I hold back all of my emotions until I’m out of the store. I leave the air conditioning, brace the heat, and stand still in the middle of the sidewalk.
Then, I laugh.
I laugh belly-deep, bone-deep, canyon-deep. I laugh so hard each of my individual cells shake. I laugh loud enough to be heard over blaring midwestern tornado sirens, popping cannonballs, and I-want-to-speak-to-the-manger moms. I cackle, childlike, genuine, and unapologetic; the air bubbles up through my throat like hot oil insistent on spraying out of the pan. I stand on the sidewalk and let myself be heard. I likely look maniacal, but this is the first moment in months I’ve felt something and wanted to keep feeling it. I don’t want to remove this joy; I want to hold onto it. I feel like a human, three-dimensional and fully dynamic. And all it took was some random girl with the shits.
Chloe Cook is an undergraduate student attending Northern Kentucky University. She currently serves as Editor-in-Chief for the student-run creative magazine, Loch Norse Magazine. Her work can be found in Haunted Waters Press, Tule Review, and Oakland Arts Review. Her first chapbook, entitled Surge, is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press in Fall 2021. She currently resides in the NKY region.