"Forged From Fear & Fury:
One Mother's Fight"
The grocery store is my armory;
I must choose my weapons wisely,
for my enemy is mythical in her strength and tenacity
and defeat is not an option for either of us.
Cream and butter, of course.
Odwalla smoothies
swept off the shelf by the armful,
price tag be damned.
Nutrition facts are closely perused
(turning convention inside out,
I am looking for maximum calories and fat).
This is my life now:
I shop
I cook
I feed
I eat
I cajole
I coerce
I am steadfast
I wage war on my mortal enemy,
That Bitch Anorexia.
Food is my weapon
The toughest love and DBT skills my armor
My enemy is a wily one;
a master of disguise.
Her mask the face
of a girl I have been devoted to for 17 years
with the intensity and fervor
that marks a mother love.
Her body though
belongs to my enemy,
That Bitch Anorexia.
All
sharp angles
severe planes
jutting collar and hip bones.
The eyes are
still the window to the soul;
except it is not
the soul I know.
But rather a soul
that has no hope
no love
no joy
no future.
This dark and twisted soul
wants nothing,
needs nothing.
No person,
no thing.
Just
to be ever thinner,
to eat ever less.
To consume my daughter’s body
through the act of restriction
My daughter and the interloper
share a bizarre
inverse relationship
where not eating is what feeds the beast
(That Bitch Anorexia)
and destroys my girl’s true self.
In the kitchen
I marshal my resources
and deploy my weaponry.
I gird myself for the counterattack
and remind myself I am not
fighting my daughter,
but rather fighting for her
because she is too weak,
too malnourished,
to fight for herself.
Yet it is still a shock
when this dull-eyed,
lank-haired,
shell of her former self
roars to life
(or a rather a gross misrepresentation of life);
possessed.
It is almost shocking
when her head does not actually
spin around
as venom spews
and cutlery flies.
I tighten my breastplate
(woven tightly with strands of wisdom
I’ve collected from the finest professionals
and warriors that fought before me).
I catch missiles midair.
And so it goes, until the meal is consumed.
Until, at least for this moment,
That Bitch Anorexia knows who is in charge
and understands her opposition is
a Warrior Mama
who will die in battle
before she gives even one inch.
Because failure is an option
too grotesque to even contemplate.
JD Ouellette