Dangerous Obsessions

Hurrying along the streets she clutches her bag close, head held high with false bravado, her mistress rests under her arm. She hustles to her car, careful that she doesn’t harm her precious cargo. She debates on when she will indulge in the comfort of her secret friend. Just one glass she promises herself; before or after dinner. When she wakes up in the wee hours of the morning, her empty bottles surrounding her, evidence at attempts of eating upended on her carpet, she vows; tomorrow, it’ll be just one glass.

Tip-toeing to the fridge, she has practised the dance of avoiding the creaking floorboards over time; given her girth, it is amazing she makes no noise. With cat-like stealth, she swings open her cave of comfort, her eyes scanning its contents. She selects and creeps back to the safety of her bathroom, where she will stand watching herself in the mirror; all the better to watch her shame. As the tears collect between her double chins, self-hatred welling in her ever-fattening body, she’ll promise herself; tomorrow, I’ll begin my diet.

I need to pick up some cosmetics tomorrow, she thinks idly while he plunges insistently inside her, groaning her name, lost in his lust. Her hips move in the practised old waltz of coupling, her mind adrift. She drags her thoughts away from the nearly depleted shower gel, and watches him. She ekes out a measure of comfort from watching his abandoned state; at least right now, he belonged to her. As he reaches his climax she prepares her act, the gift she gives him for the gifts he gives her. He is happy, triumphant and sated. A beautiful girl gives herself to him, whenever he wants her; without asking much in return. As he leaves, the night still long, silent and lonely ahead of her.

She moves with assurance among the men in the high-ceilinged boardrooms of corporate conglomerates. Her womanly curves smothered by straight suits and severe hair. She hides behind her notebook, clutched protectively to her chest, she’s tough as nails, she’s the office bitch, and she’s one of the boys. Sacrificing her femininity for her career; she’s made it. Until she goes home and takes off the war paint, and in the flimsy material of her nightwear, she remembers she is a woman. She craves to laugh and be ditzy at work because that is what girls do! She wishes her guard was not such armour; an unfriendly barrier keeping both the good and the bad at bay.

We all know these women, we have either been them, or we have seen them. They are our friends; refusing to believe that they become monsters after a few drinks, holding on to the excuse that they need to unwind while they slowly unravel. They are without direction, lonely and smothering a world of hurt with a bottle.

They are our sisters; sleeping with married men, afraid they will never find someone to call their own. They hate themselves and use their bodies for comfort from the unworthy, never believing they deserve so much more than they settle for.

The binge-eater could be you; weary of judgemental glances from your work colleagues as you pull out your take-away lunch, tired of the pitying looks from the sales women who shake their heads sadly at you when you ask for a plus size on a skirt you liked. It’s the tactless taxi drivers who shout irritably, “no fat people in the front seat!” that drive you to jump off at your stop and head home to you Twinkies. It’s the feeling of failure and lack of self-discipline that leads you to fill your mouth bulging with food as you watch yourself with loathing in the bathroom mirror. You want to hide it, hide from others, hide from yourself, but you cannot.

I have no words of wisdom for these women, as salvation comes in different formse3 for everyone; but I have the promise that if you want to be saved, you will be.