Some Have Called The Ritual A Religion

When I was nine, I bit down on something hard in a McDonald’s hamburger and convinced myself it was a piece of bone (more likely a piece of fat, but that’s gross, too). That day, I decided never to eat a hamburger again. And I haven’t.

Throughout middle and high school, I’d walk to the library and then home with as many books as I could carry. Then spend hours “putting them in order” – a careful practice based on the summary written on the back and an evaluation of the book’s first page. That decided the sequence I’d read them in, and I’d stack them in order, next to my bed. (Okay, I still do that)

When I got to college, I stopped eating. I adjusted to a brand new schedule, set of rules, and social circle by regimenting each day around laffy taffy, a half-bowl of cereal and a pack of cigarettes. I weighed 87 pounds and didn’t understand why my parents wanted me to go talk to some therapist named Misty, who said I was having trouble with the transition.

When I left for study abroad, I had to eat. There was no cereal, no sugar candy. The family I lived with got mad if I didn't eat their cheese, quiche, fat sandwiches. For awhile, I fought that change by throwing up in the bathroom after dinner. Around the same time, I broke up with Shasta, my roommate and scarily intimate best friend. She met a guy in Spain. I replaced her with Kate, a sassier and lower maintenance version of best friend. I marked the change by dying my hair black and piercing my nose.

When I decided to move to Chicago, my boyfriend Craig wanted to come along. I let him, knowing we wouldn’t end up together but not wanting to go alone. When I met L, I dropped Craig and moved out. A few weeks later, I lost my job. I marked those changes by developing a sunshine attitude. L said I was so happy all the time. I didn’t mind that there were rats in my laundry room and that I spent entire days alone in my apartment, waiting for L to get home from work.

I loved him right away, just because. Actually, I can’t remember why. I pardoned stupid things he said. I made excuses for his first marriage, which ended when he cheated with a colleague. I let it go when he cheated on me just after we got engaged. I overlooked mistakes, laziness, ignorance I wouldn’t tolerate in other people. We were in love. I was loyal.

A few years later, I stopped smiling all the time. He started telling me not to think so much about everything. I started worrying about how to keep things the same between us. How to keep him from straying. How to keep everything the same.

I’m only just now getting used to days that aren’t structured around making sure everything is going okay.