Just Marry Me

While studying in Chicago, I used to cry myself to sleep. I couldn’t understand why I felt this overwhelming vulnerability, a feeling that was far too familiar from when I was bulimic in high school. Attached to this helplessness was an overbearing feeling of guilt. Moving away from New York City could help me discover myself, establish some sense of identity. Instead, though, I was simply running away from my problems.

I reassured myself that no one in Chicago knew about my past, which offered me some consolation. Promising myself that I would never fall back into bulimia, a renewed sense of hope cultivated within me, and there was no better time to explore myself than in college.

However, as weeks transitioned into months, I grew indifferent about many things as fast at the weather grew colder in the Windy City. My urges returned and I remember impulsively rushing to the bathroom to throw up the pizza I had just eaten. The following day, I woke up, already two hours late for class, and felt an intense apathy. Not a care in the world, until I remembered all the loans I had taken out to pay for this so-called prestigious school, the only ounce of motivation left within me. Passionately ignoring the hunger pains, I got up and trudged to class.
The class had already been dismissed to lunch. The students who took their lunch in class informed me of what I had missed. Apparently, I had to buy one hundred dollars worth of supplies. My indifferent mood was still in full effect, which led me to simply approach the exit and leave the building.

I crossed the street, headed towards the bakery, and ended up charging a substantial amount of money, towards baked goods, on my “emergency only” credit card. The rest of my day was spent munching on pastries of all sorts, chain smoking, and doodling in my sketchbook.

It felt all right to indulge for a few hours, but I felt sick of myself once I returned to my dorm. I entered the bathroom with hopes of feeling better once I regurgitated all that was making me feel disgusted. Instead, I walked out of the bathroom feeling frail. I sat by my desk, with moistened cheeks, and contemplated to myself “How much longer will I continue living like this?”

No one understood me as much as my mother, but she wasn’t a train ride away. She was in an entirely different state. Everything was falling apart. That night, I dug my face into my pillow and cried. Clutching it, as if though it offered some form of comfort, I came to the realization that I was an inanimate body who was wandering around a town that was incomparable to home.

An absent figure reflected from the mirror. It was time to return home. I found my cell phone and proceeded to dial the number labeled home. She picked up the phone and I immediately began sobbing. The desperation in my tone made it evident to my mother that I needed help. A weight was soon lifted off of my shoulders once I told her that I returning.

The pilot announced “Twenty minutes until landing.” I had left a majority of my belongings behind, but at least I felt the comfort of knowing that I was returning to a familiar place. It was then that I realized I had already established an identity in New York City, and it was simply time for me to nurture it.

Roberto Bermejo - Cause and Effect

Very old shet going on there.