"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