Sophie
55 kg and falling

The stretch marks covering my stomach taunted me, each morning glowing like cattle brands against the soft lumpiness of my skin, a reminder of all the things I'd done wrong with my life. I pulled at the folds covered in lightning-strike scars and felt that today had brought a slight improvement – the skin above my belt had returned to a version of its former suppleness. Maybe the redness was part of the healing, I tried to convince myself. My nipples had finally returned to their former size and I was reveling in the comfort of wearing a padded bra again, not having to constantly adjust the under-wire and wiggle myself into comfort every few minutes. I couldn't go without a bra, my poky boobs got too much attention at college.

Doctor D. scribbled something in his leather-bound notebook while I sat back in the oversized leather chair and thought about his leathery-voiced question. If I moved even an inch the chair would squelch out a sound, so the game was to sit as inert as possible to avoid him glaring at me from behind his notepad every time I changed position. These silences built up into a screaming tension, a hidden violent game, the loser the one who spoke first. Today he was leading me down the path of self image and make-up and why I felt I had to prove my face to the world. I imagined him drawing stick figures of his patients to ease the boredom instead of writing meaningful notes. I was dying to rip away his pad and expose him for the fraud he was, he in turn ripping away my face to expose my fraud.
"I don't wear make-up to look sexy. I wear it for me."
"Do you?" The gravel of his voice crunched against his big leathery tongue that flapped out occasionally to wet his lips.
And now once more the silence game. The second half of our concerto in B diminished. I decided to let him wait for this one. The old clock on his wall had stopped at three fifteen and not been replaced in two months and three days, the ticking that drove me crazy last time no longer a convenient escape to change the subject. The inevitable bookshelves crammed with psychology textbooks in leather covers gave the room a weight, a presence, but something was wrong with the way the books didn't lean. The line under and between each book was too light, too plastique.
"Are those real?" I pointed to the books without turning my head. Now it was my turn to observe Doctor D, to see if I could catch him off guard. The shuffle in his seat. The eye jerk of creative memory that professors said was no indication of anything like a lie, but we all looked for the minutiae anyway, convinced we could see into the minds of others while we ourselves remained immutable.
"Do you think they are not real?"
"Stop doing that!" And at once realized I had lost the game. Well played, sir, well played. I wanted to reach out and slap some normalcy into his neat powder blue shirt and pressed tan pants, wanted to grab him by his obvious toupee and shake him. "Stop turning everything into a question. Just tell me what to do."
He paused for effect, obviously to control the moment. "That is your job, Sophie. Only you can tell you what to do. My job is to help you figure that out. Help you overcome your body image disparagement on your terms, not mine." Another excruciating pause. "Tell me why do you need such explicit guidance... how is your relationship with you father?"
I clenched my fists under the sleeves of my white sweater at the audacity of him mixing those two unrelated questions into his little cocktail of judgment.
"It's fine. I don't have daddy issues. I don't need explicit guidance, but you must have seen a thousand people like me, just tell me what they did to feel better."
"No," he said, rebellion thick in his voice. "Each person has a different resolution, really. They do them, you do you."
A stack of old CDs lay forlorn on a tired brown shelf behind him. Ella Fitzgerald. The Cure. The Pixies. The Cult. A strange mix for a middle-aged man in his position. Either they were fake, designed to make people feel at ease, or he was. Every nuance in this room there was for a reason, I reminded myself. I was conscious that I was perhaps over-analyzing every little thing, just looking for a reason to run away. "I think you are just stringing me along to make money from me."
"Is that what you think?” Doctor D. put his notepad down with aggravating slowness. “You think I am desperate for patients and don't want you to find peace within yourself. I see.” For once he didn't scribble. He steepled his fingers in front of his bearded chin.
My mom had wanted me to see Judy de Marcelier, because she was 'brilliant', but I had wanted Doctor D. To study him.
"I am not short of patients, Sophie." His eyes darted off to one side. I had rattled him, got under his skin. A small victory in our battle of minds.
"I am trying to feel good about myself with less make-up on, okay? Every day I try to go with a little less, I don't look like a badly painted mannequin any more."
"So go out with no make-up."
"What? Why?" His first real instruction had taken me a little by surprise.
"Go without it. Go to some new part of town and walk around without any make-up. Naked, as it were."
Oh, he'd been dying to say that. Every session he wove the words nude or naked into the conversation, peppering questions with how I felt about my naked body. Describe yourself when nude, Sophie. What do you feel when you take a bath, Sophie. Give me more detail, Sophie. The doctor was more transparent than he realized.
"It's actually not the worst idea," I admitted. "If I panic I could just drive away, right? Or stay in my car."
"Exactly. But try to confront that feeling head on. Stand up to it. Take your place in society, walk around. Own yourself." He glanced up at the broken clock. "Time's up."
Liar. I still had ten minutes thirty eight seconds, but he had won a victory and wanted to end on his own high note.
"Fine. I'll try it. But if I go psychotic I will be coming after you."
"Well you know where to find me." He smiled as he stood up, obligating me to do the same. "We're making progress, Sophie."
"I guess." I hated that I always left his office feeling better, I wanted to hate him so much but couldn’t find a reason that didn't make me look like a complete hypocrite.

And here I was in my car, naked, so to speak, from the neck up. I had returned from Doctor D's secret mission, gone undercover in full view, and survived. I looked so different, so alien and strange without my face that if someone I knew saw me they may not even recognize me. My heart raced, my grip white against the wheel. Out of habit I looked around to see if anyone was around who would recognize me, but the street was empty at this time of night. I had been sitting in the car for over two hours. I got out, took a deep breath, and went up to our apartment.
"Hey babe," I sang out, high from triumph, dumping my keys on the kitchen counter as a signal of my return. Clinking, Doctor D called it. Like clinking the side of a tea cup extra loudly with a spoon when one is happy, or angry, or something.
I heard rustling from the bedroom. "Sophie, fuck." I heard him get out of bed, sigh under his breath. His late shift at the gym must have run into overtime again.
"Sorry." I opened the fridge and pulled out last night's eggplant casserole and green bean leftovers Luke stumbled into the kitchen as I spooned a hefty mouthful.
"Feeding your face again?" Luke sauntered to the fridge holding our blanket around his waist, the tip trailing on the floor behind him, the contour of his back a Dutch portrait in light and shade illuminated by the dim light of the fridge.
"Yup. Feeling great," I said, ignoring his sarcasm, shoving the dish into the microwave and punching reheat. He would not be getting to me today, my mojo was too juiced up.
"What the fuck is wrong wrong with your face?" He took out his steel water bottle from the fridge and chugged long and messy.
"Nothing the fuck is wrong with my face, babe. My face is just fine."
"Put some make-up on. Those freckles are giving me cancer."
"I think I'll go without make-up for a while," I challenged him. I felt a cool breeze against my face every time I moved, felt like I was, as Doctor D. would enjoy hearing about, walking naked in public. I was standing up for myself and not feeling like it would end our relationship. Doctor D, is this your doing or mine?
"Whatever." Luke shuffled back to the bedroom, dragging the blanket on the floor behind him, his ass rolling back and forth like a steam engine. I walked behind him, feeling thick and sugary with lust.
"Let's play." I smacked his butt.
"Not now, I'm tired."
He always told me he had to work long hours because his boss was a slave driver. He would come home with the scent of multiple deodorants clinging to his sports vest (That's from the other people I train, baby) and freshly showered hair.
"You're always tired these days. Are they working you too hard at the gym? You need to tell them to ease up on you because..."
"Can I get some sleep, please?" His words didn't hurt, it was just how he was, direct, to the point. One of the reasons I liked him.
"Make love to me first."
"Jeez, Sophie, not now." He closed the door of the bedroom behind him. It was not a problem. I would wait until he was rested, make him a protein-rich salad for supper, pour a glass of wine, play some music. But first I wanted to go out for a jog, naked from the neck up, streak the neighborhood, so to speak. Not wearing make-up was like being a different person, a disguise that opened up new possibilities of anonymity.