Like Real People Do

8. Prom Queen

TW: Eating Disorder (Restriction, Binging)

NEDA (National Eating Disorders Association) Crisis Hotline: 1-800-931-2237. 

Shut up, count your calories. I never looked good in mom jeans. -Beach Bunny

Tuesday, May 4th

Rhiannon's whole body burned with the good kind of fire. The kind of fire that felt like accomplishment. She panted to catch her breath and wiped sweat from her forehead. The gym membership from home didn't even hold a candle to the biweekly Pilates class at Pierre and Caroline's that had just thoroughly kicked her ass. She told herself it would be a good way to meet people in town but was not convinced at her own reasoning. The second she saw "workout class," Rhiannon's head spun and she wrote her name on the line. It was never about meeting people, she just didn't know how many calories yardwork burned, and she was a slave to the numbers. She flopped back onto the mat and calculated quickly in her head.

-250 calories.

She felt dirty keeping track. "Keeping track" is what landed her here in the first place. Rhiannon knew better, but lately she just couldn't stop herself. Despite the constant reassurance that it was just for the sake of "mindfulness" (or whatever bullshit excuse she'd come up with this time) it was the only thing that made sense anymore. Every time the stress levels in her life rose, so did the need for absolute control over something tangible. If it was the sick satisfaction from wrapping her fingers around her wrists or whittling her daily numbers down a little bit every day, then so be it. She needed stability, and Rhiannon didn't know how else to get it. Calories in, calories out. Even if the world around her was going to shit, at least she still had control over calories in, and calories out.

It was a dangerous game to play. The deeper she got, the more she hated herself. Restricting calories or purges meant relapse, and relapse meant failure. Gaining weight meant giving up, and giving up meant failure. Did she have too much self-control, or not enough? Dammed if you, dammed if you don't. No matter how much or how little Rhiannon ate, she would never get the satisfaction that she craved until she disappeared entirely. After so much time spent teaching herself that calories in was morally bad and calories out morally good, it was a wonder that she hadn't already.

"Excuse me, dear, I don't believe we've met." Rhiannon's head snapped up at the sudden interjection. An older, heavyset woman with a warm smile and an outstretched hand was standing at her feet. "Forgive me for the intrusion, but are you Patrick Turner's granddaughter?"

Rhiannon wiped her sweaty palm on the leg of her pants and gingerly accepted the handshake. If she needed any confirmation that her rationalization of being her to socialize was bullshit, this was it. Rhiannon never felt less prepared for a conversation in her life. "Uh, yeah. That's me. Rhiannon Turner." The woman's face lit up with glee.

"Oh, I thought so! You're every bit as beautiful as I'd imagined, and what a gorgeous name!" The woman beamed with a radiant smile. "I'm Marnie Callaghan, I own the ranch out in the Cidersnap woods. We're practically neighbors!"

"Thank you, my dad picked it out." Rhiannon shifted uncomfortably but tried to put a friendly face forward. Marnie had interrupted her at a bad time, but so long as everything looked okay it was fine. "It's great to meet you!"

"When I heard you were coming, I was so excited to finally meet you!" Marnie gushed. "Your grandfather was a particularly good friend of mine." She paused for a moment, her warm smile becoming tinged with sadness after speaking about him in the past tense. "I was so sorry to hear of his passing. He was a good man."

"Yeah, he was." Rhiannon never knew her grandfather that well, or at least not the man that Marnie remembered, but an admission like that would crush this poor woman right now.