How Many Licks Does it Take to Get to 100 Calories?

By. Alexis Amezquita Borrego

*please note this content could be triggering for some

I am 21. Impulsive, reckless, young, and the epitome of self sabotage. People often tell me, “You don’t know. You have no clue what the real world is like yet.” Maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t, but I definitely know enough. All I have ever needed to know. I know this world wants to see me wither away, the embers of my soul burned to ash, into nothingness, just like me.

I tap once, for good measure, and back away. My foot tapping away at the scale softly, steadily, then with much more intent. We’re speaking to each other. This beautiful, excruciating dance of Morris code with one another, at least 5 times a day. “0.0”. Here we go, I tell myself. Don’t fuck this up. We’ve only got 3 more pounds to go, and you better not disappointment me. I prepare myself, for the absolute worst, right before the storm approaches, but I am not safe. I am never safe, from the tsunami of pessimistic peril that consumes me, this tidal wave of taunt that endlessly crashes within me. I have no escape route. I am not my own shelter.. I feel my body tense, as if my ribs, my very foundation, is caving in on me. In these 4 seconds, that determine the entirety of my day, my worth, I try to make my feet feel light. I try to fade into that nothingness once more. Encompass it. “117”. FUCK FUCK FUCK.

Anger ensues, this impenetrable rage, and boundless emptiness. Realization strikes, and I know what I have to do, even if it’s never what I want to do. I kneel in front of the porcelain before me, like it were a god that I have no choice but to idolize. My left hand clenched firmly around the rim. My index finger and middle, firmly placed tightly together. Inseparable, as always. I place it to the back of my throat, as if I were cocking a gun, and any second I’ll hit the back of my uvula and pull the trigger. I begin, repeatedly and methodically, gagging, heaving, regurgitating on every last speck of self worth I can muster. This feeling is orgasmic to me, otherworldly. A melodic symphony held between my body and me, and in this moment, just briefly, I don’t entirely detest myself. I repeat the process five more times, in the name of self gratification. My eyes begin watering, my heart is pulsating, between every heave, every little gasp for air. The tears escape the comfort of my eyes, and rides the curvatures of my cheeks, until it reaches my chin, and rolls away, as if it never happened at all. My thoughts begin to stir, and I ponder, are these tears merely vomit induced, or am I beginning to gain a conscience, an empathy for myself that has always been eternally lacking. It doesn’t matter, none of it ever matters.

Without hesitation, I skim my brain for any and every article of food I’ve ingested, in the last 6 days, that could have caused this catastrophic fuck up. Every bite, and regret that follows, neatly organized within the burrows of my mind. My family and I, arrived in LA, merely six days ago, for our “getaway”, and I’m already regretting this vacation, indefinitely. Explain to me, what exactly have I “gotten away” from? Nothing. I’m still entrapped in this wretched, protruding body - attached with four more pounds of crippling regret, and relentless guilt. At least, within the comfort of my own home, I had a routine, clear instructions, an explicit blueprint for this body. In the confinement of the four walls of my bedroom, my resentment towards myself is lessened, and I long for that feeling, endlessly, again.

As of now, here are the facts, I’m undoubtedly restless, exasperated, delirious, and admittedly, I’m beginning to spiral. I’m descending towards the depths of no return, a place where only the worse outcomes are present. Without question, suddenly, I feel it. My abdomen begins rippling, quivering, sending a shockwave of negative electricity throughout the entirety of my body. The tectonic plates in my stomach are shifting against each other, and rumbling laboriously. An explosion is commencing, and the worst possible occurrence is taking place - I’m hungry.... In fact, I’m starving, and I know all too well that nothing good ever comes of this, only the most disastrous of wreckage. Anxiety arises, the alarms are echoing throughout my head, and I have to think of something else. Anything. I begin speaking to myself assertively, “Lex, stay focused. Just get your shit together. And fast. You can do this. We can do this.” This pep talks seems to appease me, and I shift my thoughts accordingly to the task at hand. I do my best to commence my weekly evaluation, and rummage through the infinite pages of my food diary, but before I can even begin, I’m already interrupted, by my mother. “Kids, come on! We’re headed to dinner. Let’s go!” Welcome to a little segment that I like to call: Dodging Dining Disasters. A fictitious game show, in which I must do my very best to act normal , and appear to be eating adequate amounts of food, as to not cause alarm from my family. The rules are very simple - if you aren’t heavily watched, judged, examined, or questioned, you win the game, and let’s just say I haven’t been a grand prize winner, lately. That’s the trouble with family - they watch, they listen, and they’re attentive. Most would consider that to be a blessing, but when the stakes are this high, it’s assuredly a curse.

I peer into the mirror, one last time, to examine myself, thoroughly, before I head down the tan, carpeted staircase, that wraps around to the living room. When I reach the bottom, I’m immediately caught by my mother’s gaze, as she parts her lips and says, “Ready?”, I answer, “As I’ll ever be” but I already know that’s blatantly a lie. I’m not mentally prepared for this, in the slightest, but I have the car ride to get my checklist in order, and I find solace in that. A great deal of mandatory planning goes into family outings for me, such as: our choice of restaurant, food items on the menu, searching the plethora of the internet for exact calories - right down to the decimal - then I have punch the numbers, and finally, execute the plan, successfully. I suppose you could say, as of recently, that I am a woman of many talents. They may be unorthodox, but they’re talents, nonetheless.

As I open the front door, I am seized by the California air. It smells of mixed emotion, this unmistakable scent of unmapped potential, defeat, monumental promise, and debilitating self doubt wafting amidst the air. I take this unadulterated moment, alone, to collect myself, and gather my thoughts, once more. One last breath, of semi breathable air, before the evening commences. I enter the car, and find myself lodged between my two sisters - one is 16, the other 13. For a brief moment, my attention is fixed on them - these two wide eyed, inexperienced, naive girls, who genuinely have no idea what awaits them in real world. In this very moment, they are untroubled, entirely unaware of how cruel, heartless, and relentless it can all be, and I envy them for that. I envy their ignorance. I begin compiling my checklist for the do’s and don’ts at dinner, as we enter and exit the Los Angeles freeways, until we reach our destination. BeforeI know it, we’ve arrived, and my fate is inescapable.

I regain my focus and gather my surroundings. I realize we’ve reached our table, and I have no recollection of our journey there, and I swiftly come to the conclusion that it must be the mix of adrenaline, and overwhelming anxiety shifting within me. Our waitress waltzes towards us, and places the menus upon the table. I take one, from my uncle, and grasp it firmly, and tightly in my trembling hands.

I peruse through the pages, flipping continuously, acting as if I’m oblivious to the content held inside. I mutter to myself, “just try to stick with steamed rice, there’s 200 calories in a cup. We can do half. You can make that work. You’ve only ate one banana today, and that 1/4 cup of grapes. That’s 30, plus 110, and another 100. 240 for the whole day.” I lift my head from the menu, and peer out towards my family, I do my best to speak nonchalantly, and suggest, “Hey, why don’t we all just share, so, we can get a variety of stuff?” My family nods and smiles in agreement. My plan to persuade my family is working, just as I knew it would, considering we’re at a Chinese restaurant. So far so good. My uncle and mother begin ordering an array of various items - steamed rice included- and before I know it, it’s arrived. An abundance of all the foods on my shit list, lain directly before me. Without hesitation, everyone begins assembling their plates. I sit back for a moment, and continue to listen to the clanking of forks to dishes, the continuous chatter that fills, and echoes within the restaurant. I try to sit with myself, briefly, and think strategically, imagining exactly what, where, and how I’ll place each item on my plate. I can’t draw attention to myself. Remember, that’s the game.

I do my best to accurately portion out each item. I start with the restricted foods. The honey glazed shrimp, on the upper left corner, accompanied with the chicken low mien, to the lower left, just small amounts, as to not arouse suspicion. My rice explicitly filling up the right side. The dos and the don’ts on separate ends, untouched by one another. I keep my eyes and fork glued to the plate, altogether keeping to myself. The way I eat is systematic on outings. I start by lightly picking at the others food, placing it on my fork, and taking it off, but never taking a bite. The illusion is to appear as if I’m eating without ever doing so. I then, like clockwork, eat my rice, slowly, about every 2 minutes. Generally, dinners last us about 45, and that should be plenty of time to maintain this level of deception, but of course, all at once, there’s a problem. “Lex, you’re not eating your shrimp... Do you not like it? Try some, it’s really good, baby!” My uncle says. My mother, without a moments hesitation, chimes in, “And you didn’t even get any of the Kung pow. Please, eat some more. C’mon.” They’re all staring at me. Their eyes are completely fixed one every move I make. My uncle, my grandfather, my mother, and my two sisters. The five of them assembled in a pack. They are the wolves and I am the outlier. I try to appease them, moving steadily, taking one single bite of shrimp, but they continue clutching my gaze. Another bite.Their mouthes are salivating. “Try some chicken.” With immense caution, I hesitate. I stare at my fork, the chicken’s sauce oozing down the handle; a succulent, dripping poison, that could end my very existence, at any moment. My hands quiver, as I press the chicken to my lips, and place it upon my tongue. All at once, my tastebuds go into hysteria. A feverish mania takes holds as I taste the peanuts, chicken, and chili stir within the comfort of my mouth. Now, we have a colossal problem. I don’t want to stop eating, in fact, I can’t. That’s the dilemma, when you continuously tell your body it’s cut off from its life source. When you finally eat normally, again, you’re ravenous,and I am. Copious amounts of shrimp, egg rolls, rice, and orange chicken are heaped upon my plate. Anything that catches my gaze is immediately devoured. My primitive side is domineering, and every thought that passes is consumed with an insatiable need to be fed. At this moment, I don’t even dare think of the ghastly fate that awaits me, once I return home. I glance across the table and see my mother beaming with delight. I know for a fact she hasn’t seen me eat this way in at least 6 weeks. My gluttonous spree has concluded, and all I’m left with is this excruciating pain. My stomach is filled to the absolute brim. I’m finally coming down from the euphoric event that’s just ensued, and my mind is beginning to set back into normalcy. Panic is also setting in. I excuse myself immediately, and head to the bathroom. I burst into the stall, latching the red door behind me, straight away, and abruptly drop to both my knees. I’m desperate and praying for a mere moment of alone time to do what needs to be done. I hear the main door open, and I pause, nervously. “Lex, will you wait for me?” It’s my sister. My conscious is emerging, and I know I can’t do this. Not with her. Admittedly, I ponder it, for just a second - wondering if she could really hear the reoccurring splashes, and know what’s truly taking place. Would she be able to place the pieces together, or remain entirely oblivious. I sit on the toilet, and silently allow all my frustrations to unfold in the form of tears. I flail my hands to the heavens, or whatever awaits me on the other side, and beg for a single moment of solace. I plead for it to take me anywhere. Anywhere but here.

I hear the toilet flush, in the next stall over. She’s finished. I grab some toilet paper and lightly pat the tears from my eyes. I flush my toilet, too, just because. We stand next to one another, each peering over our own individual sink, looking at ourselves in the mirror. I wonder what she sees. Does she know how beautiful she is? How capable, how worthy? Does she know she’ll never have to throw up a single meal, in her life, and still be the very essence of perfection. She washes her hands, and so do I. We exit the way we came. When we arrive back at the table, the bill has been paid, and my family is walking toward the main entrance to venture back home. Just like that, once again, I am sitting betwixt my two sisters, as we weave our way in and out of traffic, entering and exiting the Los Angeles freeways.

As we arrive home, everyone settles into their nightly routine. I have an immediate urge to rush to the bathroom, and empty my insides, but I have to be much more cunning than that, so, I bide my time. My uncle jaunts up to his room to go change, whilst my mother heads to the office to find a movie for the two of them, and my sisters are downstairs bickering and arguing over nonsensical bullshit, as usual. Altogether, a typical Friday. I begin my journey up the winding stairs to my uncle’s room, and b-line for the bathroom, as he comes out, I go in. “I’m gonna take a shower”, I tell him. He hands me a cream colored towel, smiles, and exits to meet my mother in the office. And just like that, we pick up right where we left off. I’m back in the bathroom, a vicious infinite cycle. I lock the door behind me, turn the water on, and set the dial to cold. I kneel slowly, onto the hard tile flooring, and once again, begin repeatedly upchucking the contents of dinner into the toilet. I can see every fragment of shrimp, chicken, peanuts, noodles, strewn about. Voices begin incessantly filling my head, with their negative rhetoric. They talk, and I, foolishly, always hang onto their every word. “Do you always want to be a loser. Is this how you pictured your life? God, you are so pathetic, but that doesn’t surprise me” I wipe the vomit that’s beginning to encrust itself on my lips, and start undressing myself. I stare down at my god given body, that’s as far from divine as you can get. I pinch and examine every inch. My stomach soft and supple. Perhaps supple enough to bend and twist right off, or at least, that’s what I often hope. This body feel foreign, feeble, and powerless. I feel powerless. I’m tempted to take a much more detailed and thorough examination, in the mirror, but I know rage and self mutilation will only follow. I abruptly stop myself. The physical abuse may have ceased for now, but the mental abuse is never ending. I shut the toilet’s lid, turn the dial to the right, step into the scolding water, and feel it pouring over me. For a split second I feel human again, normal. The water continues to flow, and I’m growing weary, exhausted, and fatigued. I turn off the water, as I feel I am about to faint, and sit on the sopping wet floor, and lie in my own puddle. I can almost hear my heart pounding within my chest. My skin is bright red, inflamed from the immense amount of heat. I lay on the ground for about 5 minutes. I stare at the white ceiling, and imagine a world where I wouldn’t have to do this anymore. A world where I was beautiful, valued, and mattered, just like everyone else. A world that desired me, as I am, and only wished to shower me with its love, endlessly. A single tear trickles down my cheek, and I think to myself, “what a fucking joke.”

I rise from the floor, put on my clothes, brush my teeth, wash my face, and think about venturing over to the office, to watch a movie with my family. I open the door, and head that way. I sit down next to my mother, My sisters, sit directly below me on the carpet, and my uncle wanders downstairs to prepare popcorn. I try to keep my mind preoccupied, on others things, but that only lasts approximately 10 minutes, and it’s at this moment, that an idea strikes me. I think about texting all my exes in record time; I am yearning for validation. This unwavering itch for somebody to call me all the adjectives that I absolutely lust for. A human being to crave me, the way I could never crave myself. I’m convinced. This is an ingenious plan. I search for my phone, and realize I must have left it in the bathroom. I proceed to walk that way.

I’m caught off guard, as I see my uncle standing directly in the bathroom doorway. An unsettling, worrisome look sits atop his face. “Are you okay?” I ask him. He pauses just briefly and mutters, “Are you?”. Confusion strikes me, and I begin to sense an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah, of course. Why, what’s up?” My uncle is staring at me. His eyes unmoved, like a sniper fixed upon me, and any minute shots will be fired. “You didn’t flush.” Time is at a stand still, the oxygen is depleting, and my lungs feel as if they’ll collapse. Truthfully, there’s no excuse I can conjure up because I’m tired of running. I’ve been doing that for years. I am aware he’s not one to remain oblivious, and that he’s quietly done his best to put the pieces together. The expedited weight loss, the infinite trips to the bathroom, the endless mood swings, and constant fatigue. I shudder and all that will escape my mouth is these three words, “Don’t tell her.” He mutters, “Okay.” And proceeds to walks away. No monotonous questions, no grandiose scene made, - at least for now - just distinct disappointment and boundless sadness, which is unquestionably worse. I’m grateful for him abiding by my promise; I can’t bare my mother’s disappoint, or adverse looks. My dad just died, and I couldn’t bare the thought of her having another tragedy amidst her, one more dilemma to deal with. I am distressed, and fearful of what happens next. I don’t know where to go from here.

So, I go to the safest place I know, back into the bathroom, and allow my eyes to fill , as every emotions pours itself out of me. I am a soul endlessly overflowing. I kneel down, placing my fingers together, tilting them all the way to the back of my throat. Nothing is happening. No witnessing of all my hopes and dreams scattered amongst this porcelain bowl. The toilet remains empty, just as I do, but right now, today, I feel as if I have choices. A choice to not remain an empty human being, with an insatiable appetite to be whole, but remains unaware how to be. An alternative to starving myself at a real chance at life. Today, I begin again.

Alexis Amezquita Borrego is a writer, based in Portland, who’s an immense advocate for mental health, body positivity, eating disorder awareness, and the LGBTQ+ community. She is passionate about connecting with others, hearing their stories, and all voices being unequivocally valued.