You Bring Me Home

1

It all started when I was thirteen. We lived in California, in a house at the end of a cul-de-sac. My dad was a bank teller and my mom worked the counter at a family-owned flower shop. Our house was anything but the grandest of things. The walls were dingy, the floorboards creaked too much for comfort, and the foundation was falling apart.

We were in a little bit of a financial bind. My parents didn't try to hide it from me. It was apparent every single time I got home from school. I'd walk into the house with my backpack weighing heavily on my shoulders and a rumble in my stomach. My mom would give me a weak smile and clap her hands together. I can only imagine she was trying to keep it together. She'd tell me, "This is all we have, sweetie." And she'd push a plate in front of me only containing the smallest fraction of crumbled crackers and pieces of ham. She always left the kitchen the same way, on the verge of tears.

That's why I could never bring myself to eat what she had given me. I didn't have the strength to shovel bits and pieces of crackers and ham into my mouth because of her. See, my mom couldn't exactly skip a meal even if she wanted to. She needed to eat. My mom was diagnosed with stage two Diabetes when she was just fifteen years old. She had maintained a pretty good standing with her incurable disease, but when things started to get tough, her health declined. At the end of the day, I rather her eat, than I. The way she always left the kitchen, vulnerable and wilted. I managed to leave the kitchen, tall and strong. I always found my way to her bedroom, with my plate in hand. It hurt to see my mom so torn down, so pale that all she could muster up was what was at the back of the fridge. I always gave her my share of dinner because I knew I could eat at school.

But as time went on, that was never the case.

It all started when I was thirteen. We lived in California, in a house at the end of a cul-de-sac. That's when I fell in deep with my anorexia.