Még mindig szakdolgozatot írok (de már egészen a finish-ben!), úgyhogy az egyetlen novella, amit az elmúlt időszakra fel tudok mutatni, az egy angol nyelvű fanfic. Szóval ja, ezt fogjátok a tovább mögött találni.
Némi infó előtte: a fanfic, ami egy novella, a Skam című norvég sorozathoz íródott, egy olyan lány szemszögéből, aki a sorozat alatt étkezési zavarral küzdött. A fanfic felépítése megdöbbentően hasonlít a blogon található másik fanficemre, ami a Mercy Falls farkasai sorozathoz íródott és a Nem fogadott hívások (35) címet viseli. Komolyan, teljesen lekopiztam a formátumot, amit egyébként nem szoktam csinálni, viszont hónapok óta próbáltam ezt a novellát megírni és sehogy sem találtam fogást rajta, aztán jött ennek a felépítésnek az ötlete meg egy Carrie Fisher interjú, és bumm, végre csak megszületett ez a valami.
Ha valaki érzékeny az étkezési zavaros témára (akár mert szenved, szenvedett tőle, akár más okból), az óvatosan közelítsen a sztori felé. Nincs benne semmi grafikus, de azért na.
Ó, röviden a tartalom (innentől angolul minden, bocsi):
AU where Noora doesn't move back from Madrid but she writes articles to a Norwegian online magazine. Vilde is an avid reader.
This is a story told in e-mail drafts and telephone notes and snapshots taken only by the blink of an eye. Vilde battles with her too many thoughts and the temptation to simplify them to only this one: "Am I thin enough?".
The Weight Lifted
From: elleville@hotmail.com
To: loglady99@gmail.com
Subject: Another girl from Oslo
Dear Noora,
You don’t know me, but—
Carrie Fisher was asked to lose weight for Star Wars. I know Star Wars from Chris, but I know this particular story from a girl named Noora Amalie Sætre who lives in Madrid. She shared in an article of hers that Carrie Fisher put the studio’s wish like this: „They wanted to hire a part of me, not all of me.” Noora says that it’s the same way with eating disorders. They take control of our head and chew away the thoughts they don’t need. They destroy everything that used to hold importance to us, until all is left is this: “Am I thin enough?” And this: “Not yet.”
I like reading Noora’s articles. She writes for a Norwegian online magazine called Ung og Vill. Her stories cover a lot of topics, but my favorites are when she talks about her struggles with anorexia. Not that I have any experience with— Anyway. I like her style.
From: elleville@hotmail.com
To: loglady99@gmail.com
Subject: Another girl from Oslo
Dear Noora,
I’ve read your last piece in Ung og Vill, and I just wanted to—
When I was little and we couldn’t afford— and we didn’t have a camera, mum told me that only people who weren’t special needed cameras to take pictures. We were special. We just had to concentrate, really, really hard (no faking it!), stare at the scene we wanted to capture, imagine its contours, then— blink. And just like that, the moment is glued into our mind forever.
Now I know the truth. Still, sometimes I catch myself taking a mental snapshot. (I don’t tell anyone about it, though.)
Imagine this particular snapshot looking like this: it’s a party.
Side note: we are invited to the party thanks to Chris, my Chris, who bonded over her name (or I don’t know, it might have been something else, too, that I didn’t get) with this other Chris. He is a guy, and hot, and in the third year, and friends with— yeah. Anyway, Chris rocks!
So it’s a party. I’m wearing this dark-blue dress and heels, and my hair is twisted back into a princess-like, little braid. I stand between Eva and Chris, chin up, smile on. Around us some guests are swaying to the music, others sipping wine or gulping down their beer. In the space among the bodies (there is just enough space), a glance happens over the edge of a wine glass and a head tilt in return. I organize the moment into a simple rectangle, I concentrate, then I blink.
It’s later in the night (almost dawn) when I compile all the snapshots into a single collage. I’m sitting on my bed at home. My thighs are a bit sore, my eyes a bit red because I blinked my mascara in them, and there is a bruise on my upper arm where I bumped it into the nightstand. But otherwise? I feel pretty fantastic.
So the collage. It goes like this.
There is the rectangle with the glance and head tilt. A touch on a shoulder is trapped in another. There is a circle that’s not much more than a blur, faces swimming around me while William twirls me. Then there is one with the kiss, it’s shaped like a smile. A lock of my hair tickles William’s neck, so he smoothes it behind my ear. A hand grips my knee, a finger easies into me, grey sheets crumble under us. There is an eyebrow rising, it’s a question, my nervous nod is the answer. Every motion is captured. Blink, blink, blink. (I also headbutt William, but I’m trying to forget about that part.) All of it makes this one giant collage that is my first night with a boy. It looks like happiness, no, I squint, it looks like an achievement.
William said I had a pretty stomach.
I find myself coughing up— no, down, down, champagne. Eva giggles, Chris snorts and I laugh (as soon as I manage not to choke). We are at another party, a Halloween one. Eva asks if I dressed up as a cat, Chris jokes that I could be a chipmunk, too, the other Chris (we call him Penetrator Chris) points at me and calls me “sexy mouse”. I nod each time. (This girl, Sara, we used to be— we have Norwegian together, points out that black cats bring bad luck. I ignore her.)
I search William with my eyes, not too obviously, of course.
He is at the “bar” (it’s a table with glasses of champagne and a bowl of sad-looking Mexican fiesta chips on it).
He is chatting with Penetrator Chris and a guy named Borkis.
He is inspecting the bottle of beer someone handed to him. He takes a sip. He grimaces.
He is doing shots with Borkis.
He is on the dance floor.
He whispers something into Sara’s ear.
They kiss into each other’s neck.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
The edges of my snapshots are all blurred.
From: elleville@hotmail.com
To: loglady99@gmail.com
Subject: Another girl from Oslo
Dear Noora,
What do you think about compliments? Are your feelings positive, negative or neutral towards them? Do you believe them? Do—
Did you know that if you type notes into your phone, people will just assume you are busy texting? “Or fake texting”, supplies Chris when I share my theory with her. But I don’t care, it’s still better than just standing awkwardly. Eva agrees. Sana (she is hanging with us in the corridor, because she and Chris are having German together in the next period) suggests I read a book instead. It’s not a very helpful comment.
The AA coordinator says we shouldn’t be disheartened because mum’s recovery, just like any other, isn’t a straight line. There will be ups and downs, progresses sure, but also relapses. I don’t find that particular thought too comforting. Because then how will you know if you have recovered at all? (Dad’s voice echoes in my head, it says that you won’t, recovery is a lie. I ignore him.)
From: elleville@hotmail.com
To: loglady99@gmail.com
Subject: Another girl from Oslo
Dear Noora,
I really thought I was fine. No, I should start at the beginning. I think I had— have something like an eating disorder. It’s not very serious or anything, because I’m not skinny like that, but still.
It first started when my mum forgot to give me money for lunch in a week. This was back in middle school, like two years ago. You know, she usually gave me the money for the whole week on Sunday evening, enough so I’m set until Friday, but this time she must’ve forgotten. She was busy and a bit stressed and— anyway, I didn’t want to bother her, so I just didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that bad, Chris (she is my bestest friend) shared her yogurt with me one day, on the other her chips, and I had breakfast and dinner like normally, well, not so much cooked meal, because like I said, my mum was busy and back then I couldn’t make too many things, but it was fine, really. I wasn’t too hungry. And then the next Sunday evening came, and mum gave me lunch money again. And then Monday morning came, and I fit into my old jeans. I bought them at the end of elementary school, before the summer break, when I basically lived on pizzas and fries. They’re really cute jeans, by the way. I felt myself better and thought this really didn’t take much. So I didn’t use the lunch money and just skipped lunch altogether.
At first I didn’t think much of this, because it’s normal to go on a diet, and like I said I’m not even skinny... but then uhm, it’s got a bit bad and— anyway, I thought this was all behind me. I mean sometimes I do think about my weight and my size and things like that, and— like I really connect to your articles about ED. But now, it’s starting to be properly bad again and I—
Today we talk about first times with the girls. (Well, not Sana, she sits among us in the cafeteria but reads, and occasionally rolls her eyes at us.) Eva says hers was awkward but nice, Chris supposes hers was nice, too (“but at least okay”), but she was too drunk when it happened to tell. They ask about mine, and I try to remember that collage. But the only thing I can recall in that moment is William’s compliment on my stomach.
I don’t say that.
Instead, I shrug with a smile plastered to my face. “It was great.”
Imagine this. All of my mental snapshots tossed up in the air. The sight could go both ways: it could look freeing, but also frightening, like angry (although colorful) birds snapping at me from above. Now, it definitely feels like the latter.
Welcome in my head.
“You like math?” Eva asks one day. Her voice is not full of wonder, but it’s not judgmental either.
I decide to tell the truth. “I like the practical portion of math.”
She looks at me (very) skeptically. “Because it has one? Like a portion that you actually use in your everyday life?”
I wouldn’t even know where to start. Yet, I say nothing.
I angry-write on a piece of paper. I write so fast that I get cramps in my hands. I write so fast that I run out of paper that’s not needed for school. I write so fast that when I’m done and look down, I see how one word blends into the next and after a while the sentence stops making sense.
Don’t eat cornflakes. Donteatcornflakes. Donattnflakeontatcofladontcornflakesnteacolakesdontcornflakes.
Dad liked to point out that I preferred obsessing over one thing to worrying about too many at once. (Maybe he was obsessing over telling me this.) Like, imagine my brain looking like the Instagram feed. It’s all based on an algorithm, I see the thing I’m most interested in at the front. No matter when or how often I open the app up, that thing will be there, staring at me, unavoidable. (Isak, Eva’s friend, explained this to me one afternoon in an exasperated tone, but not as exasperated as Sana’s would have been, so it was easy to shrug it off.)
I rarely pay any mind to dad, but I’m pretty sure he nailed this one.
From: elleville@hotmail.com
To: loglady99@gmail.com
Subject: Another girl from Oslo
Dear Noora,
I didn’t get my period this month. I haven’t slept with anyone since William, and although we didn’t use protection, that was a while ago. But it could be, couldn’t it?
I know from your articles that this can also be a side-effect of ED, well, not ED, just the general lack of eating, so maybe it’s that? I don’t really—
From: elleville@hotmail.com
To: loglady99@gmail.com
Subject: Another girl from Oslo
Dear Noora,
I’m not pregnant (Sana, she is sort of a friend of mine, bought me a quick test)… which is good. I don’t know what I’d have done if I had been. (Sana says she’d have smacked me. I’m not sure I believe her though.) Anyway, not pregnant, yay.
But uhm, I still don’t have my period. Is this— does this mean that I can never get pregnant? Because that makes me a bit—
Scared. I am.
I read the comment section under Noora’s article, the one where she wrote about how eating disorders do not need your other thoughts. A lot of people have mistaken her saying that someone with ED literally only cares about their weight and how much they eat or exercise. But I don’t think Noora meant it like that. It’s not that you don’t care about anything else. (For example, I care about my mum and Chris and Eva and Sana, and I care about school, my homework and that handbag I saw in H&M the other day.) It’s just that you care a lot less.
It’s like how Isak said.
As long as ED is there, that will be at the top of your Instagram feed. It will always be the snapshot landing in your lap while the others remain swirling around your head, not quite out of reach, but you have to make an effort to catch them. You need to scroll down.
I ask William about our night together. He stands alone in the parking lot, smoothing a speeding ticket out before he stuffs it into his front pocket. He looks more bored than angry, so I decide to approach him. Then I simply ask him. (All of my preamble is a ‘hello’.)
Maybe it’s the directness of the question, maybe it’s due to the surprise element, maybe he really is bored, but he answers.
“It was nothing more than a hook-up.”
So that’s that.
I also ask him about the compliment on my stomach. He doesn’t remember it.
“Many people think that the first step towards recovery is realizing your eating disorder as a problem”, Noora writes in another article. “I don’t agree with that. At least, in my case that didn’t help. I was always aware it was a problem, I knew all the possible consequences to starving myself, all the facts, all the percentages. I knew I was slipping. I didn’t care. […] What did help was telling someone. I don’t care, but they might, you see.”
From: elleville@hotmail.com
To: loglady99@gmail.com
Subject: Another girl from Oslo
Dear Noora,
I’ve been trying to write this e-mail for weeks now. There are like— well, a lot of different versions of it in my drafts. But this one, I’ll send. Really. I will.
So.
I like to think of life as a collection of moments. I crop out the insignificant details and only keep in the frame the ones that I deem important. Then I organize them further. I don’t know if it’s a byproduct of the responsibilities I always had at home, or I was destined to be like this, but the fact is a fact, I like to dissect everything, then compiling them into lists and pictures and numbers and priorities. I do with events, dreams and anxieties. Even people.
For example, Chris. Sucks at science. Excels at English (if she attends). Can keep a secret. Can’t hold a laugh in. Literally the best.
Eva. Newly single. Can pull off a messy bun. Always has a sympathy smile, also wonderful shoulders to cry on. Owns up to her mistakes. My moral compass that does not pass judgement.
Sana. My moral compass that passes judgement. Quite often and firmly. Has a heart of gold, though.
Me. Can make decent-looking braids. Fast at doing calculations without a calculator. Said to give good hugs. Anorexic.
I said it, didn’t I?
Huh.
Uhm— you don’t have to reply or anything, but if you do, I’d be happy to hear from you. If not, then I just want to say thank you. Thank you for writing those articles and sharing your experiences with us, well, with me, and uhm, I’m really glad you’re okay now.
With much gratitude and love,
Vilde (from Oslo)
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