Home Truths

Throwing up the cinnamon-raisin bagels was always the hardest. The big, dry chunks I’d torn off and gobbled down minutes before would stick at the bend in my throat as I heaved to bring them back up. I almost choked once.

The mint chip ice cream was the easiest.

I didn’t have to stick my finger down my throat anymore. I could open the valve in my esophagus at will and play my meal in reverse.

I’ll never forget the day I hit bottom.

I was a sophomore at UC Santa Barbara. Peddling my red beach cruiser home after calculus, I defied winter in cotton shorts and rubber-soled Vans on my bare feet. The marine layer hung heavy that day, shrouding daylight like gray swirls of cotton candy.

My mood matched the weather. My best friend, Susan, had abandoned me for a new boyfriend. I was struggling with a fateful choice, whether to major in P.E. or business. Hibernating under my down comforter until summer sounded good right then.

Instead, I dragged myself up two flights of stairs to my apartment and tossed my backpack on the couch. I snatched the phone and let the 30-foot cord snake behind me as I retreated to my bedroom. I plopped down on my bed and dialed my parents’ house 300 miles north.

“Hi Dad, it’s Jess.”

“Hi honey. Good to hear from you. How’re you doing?”

“Great, how ‘bout you?”

“Oh, we’re all fine here.”

We gravitate to the usual topics: school and finances. Yes, all my classes are going fine. Yes, he’ll mail me a check for registration fees. Then, an awkward silence. Dad jumps in first, “Hang on. I’ll see if Mom wants to say anything.”

He returns, “Well, she says she doesn’t have much new to tell you.”

Another awkward silence. This time, I rush in, “Well, I guess that’s all, Dad. Thanks for sending the money.”

“You’re welcome honey. Take care of yourself. We love you.”

“OK, bye Dad.”

Start to finish, five minutes have ticked by. I hadn’t talked to my parents in two weeks and we have nothing to say. We are strangers.

I hang up, clutching the phone to my chest, trying to embrace the echo of my dad’s voice. I feel like a runaway for whom no one has filed a missing persons report. I’m locked up so tight inside myself, I can’t even find the key to cry.

I head for the kitchen and begin eating: leftover Domino’s pizza, knifefuls of Skippy peanut butter on flour tortillas, handfuls of Honey Nut Cheerios, stacks of Ritz crackers. I eat but don’t taste. For two hours, it’s an endless cycle: eat, throw up, eat, throw up. Finally, exhausted, I brush the sour taste from my mouth with Crest and crawl into bed, my eyes still red and watering. I curl into the fetal position, pull the comforter over my head and pray for sleep.

*

I’m not sure how, or exactly when, the bulimia began. But the day after that phone call was when it began to end.

Recovering from my dehydration hangover, I rode my bike to the beach. I sat on a weathered, wooden bench overlooking the Pacific and wrote a five-page letter to my parents. The paper was white bond with a purple iris stenciled in the corner. I printed in black ballpoint, all lower case.

“dear mom and dad, i was writing in my journal last night when tears started streaming down my face. i realized that whatever is making me so sad must be really important to me. by god, i didn’t realize it until this second--but being on my own scares me to death. the last few years, i didn’t think i needed this family much, that i could do fine on my own. but i was dead wrong. i do need this family!”

As I wrote, I thought back on my life, trying to pinpoint where I’d veered off the road. As far as I could tell, it was my junior year in high school when I began distancing myself from my family: Mom, Dad, Zana, Lisa, Andi and Steffan. I sequestered myself in my bedroom reading Sidney Sheldon novels and felt imposed upon when Mom insisted I join the family for dinner. I groaned when she asked me to clean the bathroom on Saturday. And when I passed someone in the hallway, I said hi, but nothing more. I was a polite boarder in a house of acquaintances.

I didn’t cry on any of their shoulders when Jay, the first boy I said “I love you” to, dumped me so he could start college with a fresh slate. Instead, I cried alone in my car. I didn’t ask any of them to cheer me on in the cross-country championships. I crossed the finish line with only my teammates and their families to congratulate me. I didn’t let my family be a part of my life, and it never dawned on me that they might need me to be a part of theirs.

I couldn’t wait to start college. I thought I’d be free. Now, I wondered if my family would give me a second chance.

Thick envelopes carrying my parents’ separate replies arrived in my Santa Barbara mailbox a week later. Mom’s was four typed pages, single-spaced, on crisp, white parchment paper: “Dear Jessa, Let me introduce myself. My name is Linda Fox Vartanian. You only think of me as Mom, but I was Linda long before your 3 pound, 13 ounce body emerged from mine.” As I read, I got to know a woman I’d never met and began to understand that my mother was just a person. And that, like me, she didn’t have all the answers.

Dad’s reply was handwritten, three pages. He defined “family” as a group of individuals with total concern for each other’s well-being, who can confide in each other without fear of judgment or censure. He said if I wanted to be a part of this family, I’d have to find a way to build the bridges with each member: “You’ve already taken the toughest step, Jess. Congratulations. Now go for it!”

In the next months, I started sharing my life with my family again. I called Dad when I got an A on my anatomy final, and my older sister, Lisa, when the cute guy I’d been eyeing in my English class asked me out to dinner.

What took much more practice was calling to share my desperation. Like when I was convinced I’d never discover what I wanted to be when I grew up. And when the first man I slept with decided to go back to his old girlfriend.

At the same time, I started taking an interest in my family members’ lives. I called Zan to find out how she did in her 100-yard backstroke race, and Lisa to hear all about her trip to Italy. I wrote to Mom to find out how her guitar lessons were going, and helped Andi decide which colleges to apply to.

With each call, each letter, each visit, the bridges extended a little further. And as the bridges got stronger, I threw up less, until one day, I just stopped.

*

Twelve years later, the bridges are still sturdy. I drive to the house, now just 20 miles north, and let myself in the back door. I head down the hall to my parents’ bedroom, past the one I used to retreat into, and peek in their doorway.

Dad sits on the left side of the king-size bed, Mom on the right. They’re propped up by big, plump, blue-and-white checked pillows, legs buried in the warmth of a creamy white comforter. Books and magazines strewn everywhere, Dad peers down at Forbes through his drugstore reading glasses.

Not wanting to cause heart attacks with my unexpected arrival, I peep, “Hi.”

“Jess! Honey! What a nice surprise! How are you?”

“Well, actually, I’m not doing so well tonight.”

The instant my words escape, my parents’ eyes flood with love and worry. It’s all I need. I break down into deep heaving sobs. I just broke up with a man I still love. I need a commitment; he can’t make one.

Mom pulls me onto the bed and holds me. She strokes my hair and says motherly things. “It’s gonna be OK.”

Soon I sit sandwiched between the two people who created me, where I stay for the next two hours, sharing my struggles, my fears, my hopes, even some laughter. We watch a video, hug goodbye and I drive back to my home, feeling the firmness of the family foundation beneath me once again.

I still struggle to fill little voids each day, and big ones each year. And some days, when I’m lonely or depressed, I still go foraging in the kitchen. But now, before I polish off all the contents of my refrigerator, I pick up the phone and dial.

I’m never hungry when I hang up.