The Mirage of the Hourglass

I suppose I should start at the beginning, given this is where we are, but I'm at my end. Or at least I think I am...

Time is a funny thing. It always seems to stretch on for ages when you're young. Days at school last for an eternity, but recess lasts for merely a millisecond. A blink, and it's gone. I remember I used to come home from school with wishes for milk and cookies, only to remember that those were the dreams of other children. Dreams weren't meant for me. If I was lucky, I’d fumble with a can opener for a few minutes before seeking repreive. The plight of the left-handed.

I would find solace in a dull dinner knife, and the same resolute can of SPAM. It wouldn't be worth the stitches I would need, after finding my way in through brute force, but who were we kidding? There would be no doctor. But there would be SPAM. And that was enough.

But cans in the pantry? Those were the good days. The bad ones would find me scrounging empty shelves. What crumbs remained were picked over by the roaches and what I could swear were rodents. The ones our cat didn't capture in his clutches.

I learned to surpress my hunger pangs. They were messengers for the weak. But on the rare occasions there was food, I would eat like Mount Vesuvius was erupting, ready for my last meal. With Pompeii in my sights, my stomach would relax, and my jaw would unhinge like an anaconda eager for its prey. For someone with such a small mouth, my capacity for fitting in large sums of food was Herculean. But it was life or death. All the food now, lest I become ash.

Did you know some of the best soap is made from ash? I didn't. Ironic, given something we spend so much time cleaning away actually helps us get clean. Maybe I didn’t know because bathing was a rare ritual. Not by choice, but necessity. I was told it was because I had dry skin and the moisture would dry it further. That never made sense to me. Water was wet… how could it dry you? But alas, it was never about the dry skin, anyway. It was the utility bill. And rationing our showers was just easier.

I thought this was normal, of course. The rationing of water, food, hand-me-down clothes. But children can be so cruel. In school, their taunts were merciless. Their reminders that I was insufficient were incessant.

This was one of my first flirtations with Shame. Her siren’s song was seductive. The coupling was swift, and we have been paired ever since.

Cans of SPAM have since been swapped for foie gras, but the fear of never having enough remains. Scarcity was swapped for excess in a cruel pendulum swing. Through it all, Shame was my constant companion, so subtle at times that I almost forgot she was there.

Almost.

She would whisper each morning when I would greet the mirror, with her running dialogue. The commentary was almost always the same.

“You should lose a few pounds.”

“Don’t you know that real women have curves? But not too many. I should still see your ribs and backbone. If you have one.”

It got old after a while, but I suppose after you hear something enough, you start to believe it.

Over the years, the voice of Shame and myself became indistinguishable. She became more bold, directing not just my thoughts but my actions.

It was little things at first. Smaller portions at meal times and skipped desserts. But she soon directed my hands, and I was merely her marionette.

She was particularly fond of my fingers. They could prove quite useful. One, two, or three if I fancied, was all that stood between a meal digested and a meal divested. I could have my cake and eat it too.

I learned to hone her craft quite well. It quieted her voice. I could eat without fear, knowing the crushing weight of Shame could be swiftly flushed, so long as I was quick enough.

At first, our ritual was reserved for the privacy of my home. But I learned to be more discreet. When I was with friends, I’d casually excuse myself from the table, and they were none the wiser. Funnily enough, the better I got at this little secret, the more friends appeared. The positive reinforcement was positively addictive.

My abundance wasn’t limited to new friends. The more I lost, the more I gained. More clients, more dates, more promotions.

One day, I pinched myself to see if this was all real. The next, there wasn’t enough left to pinch.

Shame had fully taken over. She sliced out my tongue and left me for dead, desperate for my soul to be quenched in an arid landscape of aspiration.

Turns out the hourglass was a mirage after all.

Engulfed in the desert’s parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.