Mess by Molly

Drenched in sweat I round the back corner of the track, jogging at a nice clip for someone not accustomed to running more than 20 minutes consecutively.  Escondido, California is scorching hot in late May; it’s a dry heat, an arid 90 degrees.  The sun beats down on my pale freckled skin which is now pink.  I don’t dare stop for a sip of water because if I do, I may not start back up again.  I’m on lap 36 or is it 37?  There are four laps to a mile.  I’m in the zone now; I can’t feel anything, think anything, I just am, breathing. 

Yesterday, this same field was a blue and gold stadium filled with friends, family, flowers, and balloons.  An arena of smiles, most real but some surely forced by family dynamics, as my senior class including me, accepted our high school diplomas.   Ready to be done with high school, I ‘officially’ graduated a semester early last December.  I became more “hippy’ish, smoking pot and listening to the Grateful Dead. I didn’t feel I belonged anymore. Typical teen angst I suppose, but I dealt with it later than most because my successful high school tennis career made me uncommonly popular with jocks as a freshman. 

In January, I flew to Mexico with my mom and grandmother to try my hand at a few pro tennis tournaments (a fancy way of saying losing in the early rounds).  Motivated 14-year-old statuesque blond Russian tennis stars bizarrely accompanied by their older male coaches whooped my butt.  Quite frankly, tennis has served its purpose.  I earned a college scholarship to compete at a top notch academic and athletic institution and have no intentions of going pro.  My parents are thrilled, ultimate bragging rights and no debt.   Me, I’m tired.

I have other priorities.  Other priorities than celebrating high school sober as we did last night.  I did though and that’s why I’m here today, determined to finish 10 miles. 

Shortly after the ceremony, students reunited for one last hurrah at Grad Night, an all-night alcohol and drug free extravaganza parents spent months planning to keep us safe, and off the roads.  Hypnotists, dancing, art stations, games of giant jenga, twister and scavenger hunts transformed the campus into a fantasy world.  Everything was specially designed for us to bond with one another.  Except that connecting sober is hard for people with social anxiety and few close friends.

Last night my best mate was the buffet.  I ate an unlimited number of delectable homemade chocolate brownies.  I couldn’t stop myself.  They were the best part of the night: savory, satisfying and soothing. As I bit into them, unsurpassed chocolate tenderness melted divinely into my mouth yet with a precise ratio of crust and crunchy sea salt balancing out the softness. I kept going back, and back for more.   Challenges with compulsive eating are not new to me.  My father has long been shamed for sneaking jars of peanut butter in the middle of the night.  Last night I succumbed. 

Afterwards, I was mentally and physically disgusted.  It ruined my night. Keeled over in physical pain, my stomach nearly bursting, I laid down on the soft tan mats in the corner of the gym, pretending I was asleep until dawn. 

Yet my nightmare hasn’t ended because today the number on the ancient hospital style scale in my mom’s elegant walk-in closet increased from 120 to 124.  I knew my weight would be much higher than yesterday, but a 4-pound differential was devastating.  My uncle Mike’s US Naval Officer retirement ceremony in Coronado was this morning, so I couldn’t do anything about it except wear a flowy dress until this afternoon.    So here I am, now, all alone on the track. 

I told my mom I was heading out as usual for my training.  Cardio is a part of my 3-hour regime in addition to on court and weightlifting; typically, I go to the 24-hour air-conditioned gym and ride the Stairmaster for 45 minutes.   Today I need extra punishment for last night’s bingeing.  Maybe if the consequences are severe enough, the behavior won’t happen again.  I am a disciplined person having trained since I was seven to be a world class athlete so surely, I can teach myself to control food and the scale.   

But I couldn’t control my thoughts and emotions last night. Uncomfortable because I didn’t have a side kick to hang out with at the party, I sat on the sidelines, lonely and despondent.  My current closest friend is a year younger and many of my confidants are through tennis and not school, where we share a witty repartee of competitiveness and fun.  While I know people enjoy my company, I am introverted so I hope others will seek me out.  When I’m not included, I am hard on myself.  The only thing that made me feel better were those exquisite brownies.  So, I kept eating.     

My feet pound the track, four more laps, maybe five just to be sure. Numb, I keep running.