Strangely Hungry
In this frank conversation with God about the persistence of anorexia, I am bewildered by the even more stubborn nature of mercy.
Angela Townsend
God, I am the most singular mutant who ever toddled out of your workshop. Before you try to comfort me, you should know this is worse than it sounds. I am wearing sequins, not sackcloth. There is not one dandelion of humility on my astroturf. I am proud to be your prestigious oddball.
I am not talking about being unique. Every old urchin does that. I am polishing each syllable of the word peculiar, stretching it out like string cheese. You gave me a head start when you made me write with my left hand. You know your folks in Italy call that sinistra, right? Then you let my pancreas get peckish, and diabetes typecast me at age nine. But there are plenty of sugar-free southpaws living lives less strange.
You have to understand, God. I have this thing where I don’t eat with people. You see me push the leaves around at Christmas, right? Then I toast my muffin after everyone goes to bed, just me and the plastic Santa Claus. My therapist blames my diabetes, but she doesn’t understand. There is nothing medical about this. It is some wrinkled decree of rebellion. I eat alone and flip through cookbooks written by women whose legal name is MeeMaw. I pretend I am eating things I will not eat, and I feel good about it, and I feel terrible about it.
Surely you don’t expect me to believe I am the same species as MeeMaw?
I am a childless beanpole who does not want to get better. I will never be fruitful and multiply. MeeMaw is in your image. MeeMaw will not sit down until she has served the gauntlet of grandchildren. Bread is just a garnish for butter. They level gingerbread houses like kindergarten Yetis. They all kiss each other’s cheeks, add leaves to the table, and toast the Carpenter who made loaves. I wait until everyone goes to bed and gnaw crusts.
Like I said. Sinistra.
Or more formally, “disordered.” I drive around the suburb at dinner time to make sure other people are at the Olive Garden. I am happy to spot them in there, marking someone’s thirteenth birthday or just an ordinary Thursday in need of endless breadsticks. I am proud and ashamed that I am not like the celebrants.
Listen, God, I don’t understand why I do this, but that is supposed to be your job. I have done “right” since pigtails. I finished my homework early. I sent birthday cards to my Sunday School teacher through college. I would keep sending them, except she doesn’t have a zip code anymore. I have never consumed one beer, nor any sort of festive mushroom. I sometimes leave my shopping wagon unattended in the parking lot, but then I go back and get it while apologising out loud. So, this thing, this eating thing, is my one bad thing. And since food is such a God thing, mine is a bad thing indeed, isn’t it?
You keep saying everyone throngs with things.
But what happens if I don’t change, God? What if I run my finger around the rim of “recovery” but never take a sip? Will you keep a place for me at your table if the best I can do is sit under it and sneak cheese sticks to the dog? I hear a giant whooshing sound as all the therapists dating back to St. Eusebius gnash their teeth.
You can’t be serious.
You’re telling me there are two of us under here, and you’re not counting the Labradoodle. You know this is just a dinette, right, God? Not much room between all those legs. But there you are. Someone spilled the salt, and you are writing in it with your left index finger. Nobody is throwing dinner rolls at me. No one. MeeMaw’s second husband just belched, and they all laughed out loud, and you laughed the loudest.
Jesus, I’m strange. I might not get better, if I ever figure out what that means. I am left-handed. I can’t even write the first line of my redemption. I am here between the legs, trying to make sure you know what you got into this time. And you mean to tell me you will stay on the floor?
Angela Townsend
Angela Townsend works for a cat sanctuary. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Blackbird, The Iowa Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, and Witness, among others. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar College. Her poet mother is her best friend.