Hear Me Roar Page 9

  My own declaration echoed in my mind.

  You don’t deserve to be happy.

  No. That wasn’t true. No matter how much I thought I believed it, I didn’t really think that. Or did I? And if I did, which was worse?

  Daniel swallowed, dropping his gaze.

  “Bitsy, I messed up. I have and will admit that to this day. But nothing I do will ever convince you to forgive me. That’s on you. So, you can keep living this way, but you’re only destroying yourself.” He looked to the hallway. “And, if you keep it up, your relationship with your daughter.”

  My tears blurred him, but I fought them back. It seemed easier when he wasn’t angles and lines but smudges of color without judgment or pity. I could almost believe he was a different man entirely.

  “Please,” I said. “Please go.”

  The shame was nearly intolerable. How could I live with the horror of what I’d done? Of what Lizzy had seen?

  She’d never see me the same way again. I’d never see me the same way again. I’d feared that Daniel would take the girls away from me, but now I was bringing this fate upon myself.

  Daniel stepped out of the doorway, then paused and turned back.

  “I’ll talk to Lizzy. I’ll tell her that you’re not feeling well and you’ll sleep it off. But she’s smart. We can’t convince her that you have the stomach flu when she saw the kitchen. If you can’t get this under control, I … I’m sorry, Bitsy. But I have to do what’s best for the girls. Fix this. Prove that you have, or I’m going to sue for full custody.”

  His threat lingered in the air. If I had any strength left, I would have slugged him. But I didn’t. Because he was right. I’d lost control, and Lizzy had seen it.

  I wasn’t good for them.

  I stayed there, a trembling pillar about to collapse, until the front door closed behind him. Then I waited several minutes more, until I knew they’d left for sure. My arms gave out. I sank to the floor and pressed my cheek to the cool tile. I closed my eyes and forced back the tears that had been building behind my eyes. Back into my mind. Back to where they’d been hiding since Daniel resurfaced.

  With my cheek pressed to the floor, I fell asleep.

  “I had a feeling you needed me.”

  The familiar voice cut through my groggy mind and into the waves of sleep I was riding. Slowly, it eased me from hazy dreams and back into chilling reality.

  Mira.

  My hips ached. My neck had kinked. Ridges filled my cheek where I’d been laying against the tile—all night long. When I blinked and looked up, a familiar set of eyes rimmed with neon-green eyeshadow stared at me.

  Mira.

  She reached over me and flushed the toilet. Then she ran the sink, reached for something nearby, and draped a cool rag over my forehead. A shock of cold rippled over my skin. The heady smell of vomit still lay thick on the air. Gentle morning sunlight warmed the house from outside.

  “I already have a pot of water on the stove for tea,” she said softly. “C’mon, honey. You need to change your clothes and brush your teeth. It’s amazing what a toothbrush can do to restore a sense of humanity.”

  I closed my eyes, relishing the cool cloth on my skin and the feeling of someone taking care of me. When was the last time?

  When I was twelve.

  When Mom still had strength, and Dad could still smile. Before the burdens of the house, of my siblings, became my own.

  With a heavy sigh, I pushed off the floor and followed her gentle but insistent tugs. Glimpses of Lizzy’s horror-filled face had haunted my dreams. Daniel’s firm gaze. Tense lips.

  Half an hour, a hot shower, a fresh pair of comfortable clothes, and two good teeth-brushings later, I sat at the island in my kitchen and stared at a fresh cup of tea. While I was showering, Mira had attacked the carnage I’d left behind. The kitchen sparkled.

  My empty stomach felt as if it had been filled with lead beads in the night. All I could see was Lizzy’s frightened face, and all I could hear were Daniel’s words.

  I have to do what’s best for the girls.

  Mira ran a towel over the freshly washed dishes while eyeing me. She put them away one by one, in the exact places I always kept them, without needing to ask where they went. The sound of their gentle clink reassured me in the quiet.

  Oh, the healing power of a good friend.

  Tears filled my eyes again. I swallowed them back. No more losing control. No more.

  “You wanna talk about it?” she asked, one eyebrow raised. She set aside a plastic cup.

  I shook my head, sipping at the tea. “No.”

  “But you will.”

  With a sigh, I nodded. “Yes. I will.”

  Then I told her everything. From the trigger, to the feeling of calm resolution when I knew I was about to binge, to the boiling pot of shame still simmering in my chest. Then the horror of purging—again. I’d sworn it off. I’d promised I would never torture myself with it again. Lizzy’s expression haunted me afresh.

  Mira’s compassionate eyes filled with tears. She reached over the counter and put a heavy hand on mine.

  “It’s okay, Bitsy. It’s going to be okay. Lizzy is a tough girl. You’ll find a way out of this. You haven’t damaged anything that can’t be fixed. Moms don’t have to be perfect, you know.”

  “Mira,” I whispered, staring at the rippling surface of the tea. “Why is this so hard? I don’t think I can do this anymore. I can’t be a mom and run a business and deal with Daniel and dinner every night and cope with all of … these changes. Not Daniel. Not the PTA. Not Jade. Not the girls loving Jade and their father and the sheer number of gifts he gives them.” My head dropped onto the counter with a light thud. “I’m just so tired.”

  “Life’s a rollercoaster, honey. You can’t have the highs without the lows. You’re going to make it through this. You’re going to survive. You always have. Don’t you see what you’ve already been through?”

  I saw it. I hated every minute of it. Could I go through it again?

  I didn’t think so.

  “You’re going to heal,” she said with a warm hand on my shoulder. “I promise. You’re not alone. You never will be. You already know what you need to do.”

  Mira crouched next to me and wrapped me in her arms. I pressed my forehead into her warm shoulder, imagining it was my mom. I knew what I needed to do.

  Oh, how it was going to hurt.

  Chapter 6

  Slippery Foothold

  That afternoon, I sat in the sunshine in my backyard.

  The air was a little chilly with a threat of rain, which gave an excuse for the coat that encapsulated me. The feel of it wrapped around my body calmed the wild flailing of my heart. Like I could hide.

  Or be invisible for a while.

  Despite the sinking sun, I wore my sunglasses. Jim bustled in his backyard, his presence betrayed by the occasional creak of a gate or a muttered expletive. He was the last person I wanted to see my swollen, red eyes, so I stayed low in the deck chair. I’d come outside to give myself a few minutes to sit and breathe and think. Finding that quiet place inside me, filled with white, soothing light, helped ease the nervousness in my chest. Still, breathing felt like a chore. I just wanted to sleep for the rest of the week.

  My hands trembled against my coffee cup—black, no cream or sugar, and gritty raw. Not even the soothing yoga music coming from inside calmed my tension. Every time I closed my eyes, Lizzy’s face stared at me. I opened them again and sucked in a sharp breath. Already, the time was passing too quickly. I longed for, and dreaded, the moment I’d see Lizzy again.

  With fumbling hands, I reached for my phone, which chimed with a new text.

  Unknown number.

  Curious despite myself, I opened it.

  Bitsy, this is Jade. I got your number from Lizzy.

  Several more messages followed immediately after.

  I just heard from Daniel what happened with his lawyer, and I’m sorry. I intended to make sure it
happened differently. Neither of us meant for this to happen. We’ve already fired the lawyer.

  I navigated away from the text and pulled up my calorie counter. As best I could, I’d attempted to track the calories from the binge last night. Even though I’d thrown it all back up, forcing myself to see the grim truth felt better. Like a form of self-punishment. Shame that should be motivational. Instead, I felt sicker to my stomach.

  Why did so much of this involve torturing myself?

  The front door opened, and a voice called out.

  “Bitsy?”

  I set aside my coffee cup and peered over my shoulder with a tremor of fear. Janine. Why had she come here? I’d called to see if I could talk to her next week.

  “Uh … yeah,” I called. “I’m out here.”

  A heavy pit filled my stomach, but for an entirely different reason. One that told me I wasn’t really surprised to see her. When she sat in the chair across from me, I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. Not yet.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I whispered.

  Janine, a professional therapist who currently worked with Rachelle, had helped me through the divorce—and my eating disorder—when both spiraled out of control. She had been my mother’s best friend since childhood. Mom’s death had hit Janine almost as hard as it had hit me.

  “So.” Janine leaned back in her chair. “Sounds like it’s been quite the weekend. You must be feeling pretty stressed out.”

  Like a slippery foothold. Like dangling over a precipice. Like I can’t breathe. Like everything is going to fall apart, and I have to keep it together. But I absolutely can’t anymore.

  “You came here on purpose,” I muttered. “I wanted to talk next week.”

  “I was worried about you after I heard your message about what had happened. You’re not my client, Bitsy. You’re my friend. Practically my daughter. You don’t have to schedule time with me.”

  Not a hint of apology lingered in her gaze. She met me eye-to-eye. Seeing the truth there, I looked away. I’d avoided her after things with the divorce had settled down, and I’d started calorie counting. That’s when things had changed. Last I saw her, I’d introduced her to Rachelle when she was falling apart.

  As if I had so much room to preach to Rachelle.

  “Are you upset because you didn’t control the timing of this meeting, or the outcome?” she asked, sitting back.

  I fought off a scowl. Less than one minute, and she was already diving in.

  “I wasn’t prepared for a visitor today,” I said. “That’s all. Are you testing my need for control?”

  “Yes. And no. I’m checking on someone I care about.”

  “Well, I don’t have to control everything. I know that’s insane. I mean, I have two little girls.”

  “No? Why are you logging your calories right now?”

  My cheeks flared hot as I shoved my phone into my pocket. I hadn’t even realized I’d opened my phone and navigated back to the screen.

  “I’m aware, not obsessed.”

  Janine tilted her head. “Then why are you angry and defensive? Defensiveness is a sign that we sense the truth in what someone else has said. Truth we don’t want to face.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like them.”

  “But why?”

  A flurry of pain tore through my chest. I almost couldn’t feel past it to know why I hated surprises … until I saw a flash of Mom’s face in her casket. Dad weeping in his room when I showed up to find out that Mark, my younger brother, was dead from an overdose. The weight of the divorce papers in my hands—delivered so unexpectedly.

  The shock of the truth was a heavy burden.

  I dropped my gaze.

  How could everything still hurt? How could my heart still squeeze with such tender, exquisite pain? No, I didn’t like surprises. Surprises had cost me my childhood. My marriage. My family. My happily-ever-after.

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” I said. “You already know why I hate surprises.”

  “But you don’t seem to know, which is precisely why you just had a bulimic episode in front of your daughter. Bitsy, you know I’ll do anything I can to help you.” Her gaze narrowed. ”You look like hell, by the way.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes again. “I really messed up this time,” I whispered. “It’s bad, Janine. Really bad. The worst thing that’s ever happened.”

  “You binged.”

  “And purged.”

  “Okay.”

  My eyes met hers. “I thought you’d be calm about this, but this is a little extreme.”

  She smiled gently. “It’s hard to surprise me anymore. Talk to me. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I do. But normally I can feel things building up. I can sense the triggers and prevent the lapse, but this time … it snuck up on me. I…”

  “Lost control?”

  “Yeah.”

  I swallowed back the lump of pride in my throat and looked down. I’m supposed to be in control. I’m supposed to be the one everyone looks to. I’m not supposed to be on this side of the table ever again.

  But I was.

  And I had to deal with it. Because I couldn’t survive seeing that same look of horror on Lizzy’s face again.

  Her gaze softened as my explanation poured out of me, rolling on faster and faster. By the time I finished, all sense of emotion had drained away. This time, I could face it with a ragged, dirty determination. But it was just as grim and raw as before.

  “I need to prove to my ex-husband that I’m getting help,” I said. “That I’m not going to teach my daughters how to be bulimic. If I don’t, I could lose them. I-I think I need to talk to someone. A professional. Someone that I can use to prove to Daniel that I’m getting help.”

  “That’s an option, of course,” she said. “I have many friends I could refer you to for deeper counseling work than we’ve done. There are always things we can work on and talk about … but I have a feeling that’s not exactly what you need.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me about your job.”

  “My business?”

  “Yep. Lay out your day and your week for me.”

  I straightened up. Where was this going? Normally, I could anticipate what direction she’d take a conversation, or what she’d ask of me. This time, I felt blind.

  “Uh … okay. I get the girls off to school, then go to my clients’ houses. Sometimes I have to clean in the evening, and they come with me. Then I come home, clean our house, help them with their homework, get dinner, work out, shower, go to bed. Sometimes I’m able to do a little online work I found, but that’s only twice a week, and only two or three hours on the weekends, so that’s not that bad.”

  Although, as I said it out loud, it did sound bad.

  “How many hours a week are you working?” she asked.

  My heart crinkled like wax paper. Ah. This was where she was going. Already I felt a sense of reluctance. Maybe shame. These days, it was hard to tell which I felt more.

  “Ah … a lot.”

  “More than forty, it sounds like.”

  “Probably, all told.”

  “And when Daniel came back into your life, how did you deal with it?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “What did you do when he popped back in and announced his intent to be around permanently?”

  “I guess … I didn’t do anything.”

  She nodded, peering at me with a deeply intent gaze. “We’ve spoken about self-care before, when the divorce started, and your girls were much smaller.”

  “Briefly.”

  That lunch with Janine flickered through my mind, nestled amidst the other discussions we’d had about raising emotionally healthy children, not defining ourselves by the roles we have, and learning to release control and have compassion. Sandwiched somewhere in there had been self-care, but I didn�
��t remember much.

  “It was more than briefly, but I suspect you’re not remembering it on purpose. It was the subject you pushed back against the most.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tell me about your self-care regimen.”

  I blinked. Regimen? It was hard enough to find time to brush my teeth some days. Sure, self-care made sense when I was in the middle of a major trauma—like my husband cheating on me. But now I was just living life. Bills had to be paid. What did self-care have to do with everyday life?

  “Define self-care,” I said.

  “I don’t believe you really need me to define it.”

  My nostrils flared. “Ah … I work out. That takes stress off. And I’ve always enjoyed cleaning and organizing.”

  “But that doesn’t make it self-care. What do you do for exercise?”

  “Mostly speed walking.”

  “Do you look forward to it?”

  My mouth opened and then closed. She waited, but I couldn’t formulate a response.

  “I see,” she murmured. “And you clean and organize for your job. Do you feel energized and excited after work?”

  “No.”

  “So those don’t count as self-care.”

  “Then I guess I don’t have a self-care regimen.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Let’s start there. What happens when you stop taking care of yourself?”

  The hair on the back of my neck rose like ruffled post-it notes. I already knew the answer. We’d discussed this before. But my life had been different then.

  “I’m less present,” I mumbled.

  “Among other things.”

  It was bad enough that she was right, but worse because we’d talked about it before. Still … self-care seemed selfish with all the things in my day. Caring for the girls. Working to provide food, a roof, and clothes for them. Paying bills. Getting dinner ready.

  Feeding hungry mouths was no joke.

  I leaned forward. “Listen, Janine, this was a major binge. Major. It lasted well over an hour, which is a new record for me. It wasn’t caused by my lack of self-care. This was Daniel’s fault.”