People only have the power over you that you give them.
Unless you’re locked up. Or somebody’s ward. Or you live under a dictatorship. But even then, their power is a legal fiction. It possesses your body but not your mind.
DAY: -79
TOTAL CALORIES, APPROX.: 2100
“Good session?” Tariq asked when he picked me up outside the therapist’s office.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think it was.”
Something loud and angry and beautiful and punk was thumping from his speakers. We sat like that for only a second before he put his truck in drive and we started moving.
“Got us lunch while I was waiting,” he said, and reached into the backseat for a bulging McDonald’s sack.
“Is this a test?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he said. “Do you need to be tested?”
“Want to see my food tracker?” I dug out my cell phone, tapped open the app.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”
I handed it over. He hmmphed a couple times then handed it back. “And are you being honest with all of those entries?”
“Of course I am. I’m only hurting myself if I lie.”
“You’ve hurt yourself before.”
“Touché, asshole.”
Food was still a fight. I cupped a medium french fries in my hands and wanted so badly not to eat them. And then I ate them, one at a time, and I felt fine, because eating was not an enemy to be conquered or sign a peace treaty with, it was a thing human beings had to do to live.
Tariq ate as he drove. I watched him shovel fries into his mouth, marveled at the strong line of his throat when he tilted his head back. His greasy lips were magnificent.
“I still love you,” I said without meaning to.
He didn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was jerkish of me to say. I don’t want to make things awkward. I’m really happy we can be friends, after everything that happened.”
“Me too,” he said.
“But . . . maybe . . . friends with benefits?”
He snort-laughed, his mouth full. “Shut up,” he said when he’d swallowed.
“I wasn’t kidding.”
“I know. But still. Shut up.”
“Why? I thought we were good . . . together.”
“That’s why we can’t, idiot. Because I care about you, a lot, and it’s been really hard for me wondering if you were going to die at any moment. And I could never just hook up with you without . . . feeling it. Falling back in.”
“But I’m better now,” I said. “I’m not going to keel over and collapse.”
“I know. And I’m happy for you. And I really hope you can stay better.”
I nodded. I felt full, sleepy.
“How’s your dad?”
“He may be Syrian, but he’s still acting pretty Egyptian. You know, because he’s in denial. Get it? De Nile?”
“If we’re not together anymore, I’m under no obligation to laugh at your stupid jokes,” I said, although I was, in fact, laughing.
“. . . because he’s in denial about my being gay,” he said after too long a pause.
“Yeah . . . no . . . I got it.”
“I got into Wesleyan,” he said.
“Holy shit, dude! Congratulations!”
“It’s pretty great. Still waiting on a bunch of other applications, but it’s nice to have at least one yes.”
“You’ll get nothing but yeses. You’re a goddamn genius.”
“Thanks, Matt.”
And it was there, then, that it truly set in: we were over. Something about the way he said my name. With warmth, with friendliness, but not with love. We were buddies. That was all.
“My senior year is going to suck without you,” I said.
“Naah. You’ll be a god to these kids. And it’s amazing how little the Hudson High bullshit will bother you once you have one foot out the door.”
“I hope so.”
On our right, hanging from the sturdy branch of an oak tree, was a pig. With a gunshot wound in its side. Some asshole had lassoed it, thrown the rope over a branch, tied the other end to the hitch of their truck, and drove until the poor terrified thing was hanging ten feet in the air, and then used it for target practice. I shut my eyes and could see it as clearly as if it were happening, this animal dying because of me. I could imagine its fear, its screaming. I practically smelled it. My eyes burned with sudden wetness, and suddenly it felt very hard to breathe.
There goes that autonomic regulation again, I thought, but knew it was just guilt.
“Chicken McNugget?” Tariq asked, extending the container to me.
I took one, held it up, sniffed it. Tore it open. Felt the hot grease scald my fingers. Looked at the weird soft puffy pockmarked texture of the off-white highly processed flesh inside. Thought about the animal it had been. Apologized to it, and to the dead pig hanging from a tree.
“No thanks,” I said, putting it back, and something settled inside me, a decision I’d been mulling over without realizing it. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“Since when?”
“Since . . .” I looked at my wrist to consult the watch I was not wearing. “Since five seconds ago.”
And I was. As simple as saying it. How had I not thought of this before? A way to make smart healthy food decisions and act out my desire to diminish suffering. It felt like the tip of a beautiful iceberg, this decision. How many more ways were there, for me to act to right the wrongs I saw in the world? Millions, probably. Not with hate, not with violence or anger. With love.
Tariq said, “So . . . what? I’m supposed to just eat that nugget? After you ripped it up with your grubby fingers?”
“You didn’t have a problem with my fingers when they were—”
“Shut up, Jew.”
“Whatever, Muslim.”
We drove. We talked, the light jokey tone staying with us, but I didn’t feel light and jokey. I felt sad. I had screwed up so badly. I had messed up so much. Hurt so many people. Earned my broken heart.
“Let me out down here,” I said when we got to the turnoff to the narrow woodland road where my house was.
“Why?” he said. “Your mom knows all about us. And anyway, there’s nothing to know.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I just want to walk a little bit. Stretch my legs. You know?”
“Okay,” he said.
“I never had a friend before,” I said, getting out, because I was feeling melodramatic. “Not a grown-up one.”
“You’re going to have lots of friends, Matt. And boyfriends. Way better ones than me. You’re awesome, and once you actually start believing that, so will everyone else.”
So I wouldn’t get every little thing I wanted, just because I wanted it. My desires did not make a difference to the world outside of me. I could not, in fact, bend the fabric of space and time and reality to get what I wanted.
“Later,” I said and took the McDonald’s bag out of his hand.
“Hey!” he said. “I still have half a thing of french fries!”
“I’m a recovering anorexic, I need these to live, sorry,” I said, shutting the door, getting it right on the first slam.
I wanted to be mad at him. Wanted to hate him for rejecting me, for not believing in my getting better, for not reciprocating my emotions. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. He was fighting a battle just as hard as mine. He had his family damage and self-doubt and whole universes of other struggles I knew nothing about.