Nick Caccamo

I Believe in Something

Here’s the thing about hunger. It’s transitory. It passes after a few days and becomes secondary; a dull ache easily ignored, an emptiness that soon turns into a lightness of being. A buoyancy born of shedding myself of the weight, literally and figuratively. 

This is my hagiography.

Here in the monastic quiet of my childhood bedroom, curtains drawn, desk lamp spotlighting me, I admire my scars. It’s a sign of how far I’ve come, my evolution, my experience in the hermeneutics of self-harm. Back in high school, I would scratch up and down my arms with the needle to my compass that I used in geometry class until I bled. I did it to let the pain out, to provide an escape for the frustrations boiling up inside of me. There’s permanent scarring, little irregular fault lines traversing the valleys of my forearms. Such understated beauty in self-abuse; the exquisite dignity latent in the physical manifestations of one’s self-loathing. What I do today is so much more productive and rational than that. In fact, self-harm is a misnomer; what I’m doing now is self-improvement of the highest intensity. 

I have complete self-control over my own body and anything that enters it, and hence I have total control of my life. It’s simply extreme self-discipline, and self-discipline this good is rare. I’ve fully invested in the asceticism of my lifestyle; I’m an anchoress, retreating from the world of decadence to worship at the altar of abstention. Nothing in this world comes easy; only the difficult things are worth doing, and nothing is more difficult than denying oneself the pleasure of uncompromising consumption. I treat it as if it’s a religion of sorts, secluding myself from friends, family, any source of temptation. I am indulgence inverted, purification personified. Deprivation, deprivation; the Eleventh Commandment.

I won’t beat around the bush or sugarcoat it. I starve myself.

I’m not even hungry anymore. I’m looking so much better now. If you could’ve seen me junior year of high school; I didn’t even get asked to homecoming and ended up sitting home so many weekends by myself. A cliche, a parody of teenage misery. I swore that I was going to make a change.

Now’s the time in life for big decisions, you know. What’s your major, where do you see yourself in ten years, can you calculate the average monthly payments on a twenty-five-year repayment plan split between fixed and variable interest rate student loans at eighteen years old and the percentage of your income this will consume into your forties, can you do your own laundry, cook a hot dog? Can you commit to calorie counting and abstaining from carbs perpetually?

I lost thirty pounds. Suddenly guys started paying attention to me. By senior year, I was down to one hundred twenty, but I knew I could look better; I couldn’t stop there. I was going to be as thin and beautiful as possible. I would put every other girl to shame. By graduation, I was taking aim at sub-one hundred weight; it was close and in my sights. Nothing was going to stop me from hitting that target.

Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels. 

My parents were worried when they noticed I was losing so much weight my first year at college. I told them I could be thinner, I didn’t like how big I was. “That’s the way you’re built,” my dad said, with the dismissive nonchalance and resigned cynicism of someone who has accepted their fate.

My nightmare was the desert server at the fancy seafood restaurant near our house. He sauntered to our table, tempting empty decadence with deserts perched precariously on a tray held at a canted angle. Smiling lasciviously, gesturing lewdly to the saturated fat-laden sugar cream on his platter as if he were the devil itself, peddling the grim deliverance of empty calories. The snake tempting Adam with apple crumble garnished with cinnamon streusel, poached and julienned bourbon-soaked pear, boysenberry thyme reduction drizzle, toasted walnut topping.

Amazing grace, how sweet the nothingness that saved a glutton like me. The sublime righteousness of being skinny.

At dinner it seemed like Mom was trying to choke me with pot roast, drown me in gravy. But I abstained, because when I ate, I could never be filled. I started wearing baggy clothes when I went back home so I wouldn’t have to deal with their “concern.” My boyfriend Evan would tell me I looked great just as I was and didn’t need to lose any more weight, but I knew he was just trying to be nice and compliment me. Mom wanted me to get help. “This diet you’re on is pretty extreme, don’t you think?” she said. 

The problem is that “diet” is not a big enough word for what I’m accomplishing.

It’s a set of principles by which to live one’s life and requires nothing less than strict adherence. Diets are temporary, based on the latest pseudo-scientific trends peddled by charlatans with dubious Dr. honorifics preceding their names; the kind of doctors that appear on late-night infomercials or daytime talk shows, on tattered, faded paperback covers in the fifty-percent off bin at the bookstore. Not the kind that treats people holistically and tells you what you need to hear. Not the kind that espouses the profound and profane truths that my enlightened online pro-ana community does. The mind controls the body and if your mind is in order, then so too shall be the body. My commitment is not a transitory diet but a total conversion to austerity. There can be no straying, no relenting. Discipline above all else: the Twelfth Commandment.

I exercise every day:

8:00-8:30 am – jog two miles

2:00-3:00 pm – push-ups and sit-ups, followed by stretching

3:00-5:00 pm – work out at the gym–stair climber, elliptical, stationary bike– maybe lift some weights

I stay under one thousand calories a day with a balanced diet:

Six bottles of water a day: zero calories (does it get any better than that!? Spoiler alert: water is underrated.)

An apple: ninety-five calories (sometimes two if I was really hungry)

One cup of riced cauliflower with one cup of lentils or chickpeas: two hundred fifty calories

A late afternoon high-fiber, low-sugar granola bar for a pick-me-up: two hundred calories.

One cup of cereal: one hundred calories (usually Corn Flakes or Cheerios and ALWAYS eat it dry.)

Three carrot sticks, two celery sticks: one hundred fifteen calories (can’t forget the vegetables, have to get those vitamins somehow)

For protein I occasionally have a low-fat, low-sodium protein bar.

Weekends are cheat days and if Dad grills some chicken or Mom bakes fish, I might eat it if it’s not marinated in any butter or oil-based sauces. 

And NO RED MEAT OR SODA. EVER.

My body is a temple, I shall not allow impurities and pathogens to enter it. All bodily orifices secure and perfect. No malignant foreign bodies, no animal carcasses. No trans fats, no hydrogenated oils. Purity, sanctity, the Thirteenth Commandment.

After freshman year I was down to one hundred pounds and it was the best I’ve ever felt. The way the other girls would look at me; the stares of disbelief and suppressed admiration. I knew they were jealous, thinking to themselves “How does she stay so thin?” I tired easily, and sometimes I felt weak. But it was so much better than being overweight. Evan still wouldn’t admit that I looked good. He said I was too thin, that it felt like I was going to break in half when we were fucking. His worry was genuine, I could read him like a book. But it was Evan’s typical exaggeration. The sky is always falling. He has a tendency to declare disaster when it’s merely mishap; catastrophe when it’s simply a setback. Yell fire in a crowded theater when it’s only smoke. I knew deep down he liked how I looked. I didn’t need his toxic empathy. 

I have my routines down to a science now. I drink lots of water to keep my stomach full and take three Dexatrims a day, a half hour before every meal so that I’m full after a few bites. I get at least six hours of sleep a night (less than six hours sleep a night increases appetite by fifteen percent). I take a daily multivitamin pill, which includes calcium (for healthy bones/teeth/hair), iron and vitamin B (for energy), and lecithin (to help my body metabolize saturated fats) to supplement anything I’m not getting from food. I suck on hard peppermint zero-sugar candies constantly because it’s something to put in my mouth and peppermint decreases appetite. I keep my room freezing even in winter so that my body will burn extra calories to keep my body heat up. Sometimes I get the urge to binge, but I’ve found ways to control it. I’ll take a bite of some really fatty food like chocolate, chew it, and then spit it out in the garbage, just so I can get that taste in my mouth like I’ve eaten something. Pleasure and denial combined, sublime and torturous. I use Crest Whitestrips twice a day, which really helps my urges to binge because while the strips are in there I can’t eat anything for an hour (and I get whiter teeth in the process–win-win!). 

These methods work well, and they’re not too extreme. I read somewhere about a woman that keeps bleach in her kitchen so that whenever she gets the urge to binge and fixes herself a meal, she pours bleach all over the food so she can’t eat it. Now that’s taking it a little too far. I’m not crazy; I’ve just elevated my game to a level that civilized society hadn’t caught up to yet. I know better than everyone and I’m scared. I’m scared of how easy this all is, of my own efficiency and effectiveness, that no one can stop me even if they tried. My puritanical streak, calvinistic pedigree, swallows everything. 

Blessed is the beast who chews but does not consume.

I lay out all my pills on my desk daily: Diurex (commonly used to relieve bloating, two hundred milligrams of caffeine per pill), ephedrine HCL (to increase energy, decrease fat, and prevent muscle tissue from breaking down), Xenadrine RFA-1 (rapid fat loss catalyst and energy booster), Dinitrophenol ( thirty to fifty percent increase in metabolic rate makes this the ‘mother’ of all fat burners – it was used in the concentration camps during World War II to keep prisoners warm during the winter without the need for heating the buildings.), Phentermine, Xenical (inhibits the absorption and breaking down of fats by attaching to enzymes in the digestive system called lipases, causing fat to pass right through the body), Furosemide, and Ephedra (to reduce appetite and increase fat metabolism). I check my body weight at least three times a day.

Blessed be the lamb in the land of Ozempic.

Do it; stare at me. Admire my sharp angles, no curves to be found. Protruding ribs, flat stomach. No ass, no breasts, don’t need them. Sir Mix-a-Lot would cry. Sing my name in oblivion hymnals, devotionals to the deprived. Praise my passion, my perfection. Tell me how beautiful I am. Go ahead, you know you want to. Mutter it under your breath if you must, don’t feel ashamed. Feed me your body envy; your jealousy nourishes me. Your eyes wide as I pass by, ogling me, gaunt goddess, emaciated angel. 

Blessed are the selfish and solipsistic, for they are the epitome of ultimate achievement.

Mom and dad take me to the hospital occasionally. I’ve been there twice this month already. It’s the same thing every time I go: dehydration. But the doctors can only stick some IVs into my arms and fill me up with nutritious fluids and prescribe a healthy balanced diet. I never listen though. What’s the point of conforming to society’s version of “healthy” if I look like shit? 

But I feel that deep down, my parents gave up on me long ago. It’s not that they don’t care. They just don’t know what to do. Sometimes they try to get me to speak with a psychiatrist, but I won’t let any psychiatrist distract me from my goals. They take me to church, but my stomach can barely stand the salvation. My parents check in on me only sporadically now, giving me looks of mild contempt at best, total disgust at worst, like they’re angry with me for what I’m putting them through. They tell me I’m suffering from a deadly disease, looking at me like a wounded animal instead of the anchoress to be admired. But they’ve learned not to lecture me; they know they can’t knock me off course. They don’t like to talk about it; I don’t either, chewing my salad in silence. It’s a delicate detente. My “disease” is no more deadly than theirs, it’s just inverted; I shrink inward instead of expanding outward. No gout, no type-2 diabetes, no heart disease or hypertension. No afflictions of the ordinary whatsoever.

I stopped having my period about six months ago. At first it was a little disturbing and weird but I’m used to it now, and I actually like not having to deal with it. Who needs cramps and bloating anyway right? My hair falls out in clumps after I take a shower, despite all my vitamin and calcium supplements. But we all have to make some sacrifices to achieve our ultimate goal. I’ll sacrifice some hair to stay thin. Being thin is more important than being healthy. If you aren’t thin, you aren’t attractive. And no matter what anyone tells you, you can never be too thin. 

Thin is beautiful.

Every night before bed I look at the wall above my bed where I pasted two statements I printed out from the internet:

“Strict is my diet. I must not want. It maketh me to lie down at night hungry. It leadeth me past the confectioners. It trieth my willpower. It leadeth me in the paths of alteration for my figure’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the aisles of the pastry department, I will buy no cinnamon rolls for they are fattening. The cakes and the pies, they tempt me. Before me is a table set with kale and lettuce. I filleth my stomach with liquids. My day’s quota runneth over. Calorie and weight charts will follow me all the days of my life, And I will dwell in the fear of the scales forever.”

“I believe in Control, the only force mighty enough to bring order to the chaos that is my world. 

I believe in Oughts, Musts and Shoulds as unbreakable laws to determine my daily behavior. 

I believe in perfection and strive to attain it. 

I believe in salvation through trying just a bit harder than I did yesterday. 

I believe in calorie counters as the catechism, the inspired word of god, and memorize them accordingly. 

I believe in bathroom scales as the sole indicator of my daily successes and failures 

I believe in a wholly black-and-white world, the losing of weight, recrimination for sins, the abnegation of the body and a life ever fasting. 

Amen.”

These are my prayers. What nourishes me, destroys me; this is my will and testament.

And now I lay here in bed. Evan came over to cheer me up. He snuggles and he jokes, but I’m too weak to fuck and too weak to laugh. I’ve barely eaten at all this week. I ask Evan to get me a few ice cubes out of the freezer and chew on them, to give me that feeling like I’m eating, and it kind of fills my stomach up a little bit.

Evan tells me that it looks like my breasts are gone. He’s right; I haven’t had to wear a bra in two months. This is a good thing. Freedom from our self-imposed restraints; I don’t miss it, I welcome and embrace it. I must be down around eighty pounds by now, but I’ve been too weak to make it to the bathroom to weigh myself for the past few days. God, I’d say it’s been three days since I last pissed. I simply don’t need to anymore. No waste, only Purity; my body operating at one hundred percent efficiency, using only the bare minimum needed to survive. I am the miracle of life moving in reverse; I can make myself disappear from view, cocooned in my room until I emerge smaller, lighter than before, butterfly to caterpillar; a magician’s trick made real by self-discipline and sacrifice. My little obliteration rituals.

Bedridden, I strain to sit up and look in the mirror and just stare at myself for a few minutes, the way I do every night before bed, noting the progress I’ve made, and plotting future improvements. Some nights when I’m feeling especially depressed because of my lack of progress, I sit there with a knife pressed to the throat of my reflected image, staring into my sunken eyes, and tell myself over and over again “You can do better than this you know you can do better than this keep trying I know it’s hard but god I know you can look better than this,” until the words all sort of mash together into one meaningless ramble. My vision has been getting blurry lately but I can see my ribs clearly, so I feel fine. My ribs stick out so far now, it’s amazing. My collarbone even juts out a few inches, and I trace my finger along it.  All my determination and perseverance is paying off. And I’ve finally come to understand the meaning of life, through staring blankly at my skin stretched taut like plastic cling wrap over my rib cage.