By the end of August 1990, I weighed 110 pounds. Clearly, for my 5 foot 4 inch frame, I was now officially underweight. After that fateful Sunday, I had lost my appetite and ability to sleep. I could not focus nor concentrate on any task. I walked around in a zombie-like state. I neglected my chores at home and many nights there would be no dinner prepared. When my friends called the house, my father would ask me to pick up the phone but I would pretend to be busy. After weeks of not returning their calls, they knew something was wrong.
Although I had made up my mind to let things work themselves out on their own, I could not help but feel like I was losing control. I did not speak to my father for three weeks. I gave him mumbled replies but for the most part, I eluded his company. I had just completed a summer course and my mark was worst than what I expected. My father was the type that when I brought home a 97%, he would ask about the other 3%. I walked around feeling whatever I did was not good enough.
I stopped accompanying him on grocery trips, sitting with him during 60 Minutes, eating at the table with the family and discontinued our long walks in the evening. The more I distanced myself, the more I lost weight. I didn't plan for it. I knew I was slipping into the depressive state I was in after my mother passed away the summer before.
And he was worried.
When I sat in the backyard, for days, in my mom's favorite chair, he realized he needed to do damage control.
You see, for those who know me, I do not stop talking. I talk when I am excited, nervous, mad and happy. I just do not shut up. Of course, I know the social mores. I know when to be politically correct and quiet in some scenarios, but when I am sad, I bottle up my feelings and remove myself from the world. My brother and sister knew that when I was silent, the storm was brewing.
I had spoken to my fiancee the next night after our unannounced visit. He was not upset at all. He viewed the whole visit in a different light. An attempt for my father to get close to him, to get to know him and the public outing was a sign of acceptance. I verbally agreed with his assumption but physically, my body was rejecting his theory. The more he spoke, the more I felt sick.
I know about the notion of mind over body, but here's the thing: my mind accepted the situation. I was going to be engaged in three months. We were planning for it, preparing for it. At the same time, my body did its own thing. For one, I turned into a vegetarian. This flabbergasted our carnivorous community when we were invited over for dinners and I refused even to look at the meat. I stopped eating breakfast all together and only nibbled at lunch and dinner. As I looked down at my body one day in the shower, I was struck by the vision of my ribs sticking out and the concaved-shape of my stomach. The measurements of my engagement dress would be altered another three times.
In an attempt to lift my spirits, my father would ask me to go out with him to several events. He was an extreme social butterfly, mixing with the different figures in high society at political and social soirees. Each time I would turn him down, he would lecture me about withdrawal. My attitude had to change, he insisted. But I turned the other cheek. Finally, he sat me down one day to talk. He wanted to let me know that taking me to the mall that day was done for my own good. That he meant no harm by it and all he wanted me to do was re-evaluate the situation. He was not forbidding me from marrying. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me that he accepted my choice and was backing my decision. As he rubbed my back, he was shocked by my frailty. I looked past him with hollow eyes. Too bad, I thought. The damage was done. The acceptance was two months too late.
One day, in an attempt to uplift my spirits, the entire family approached me to go to the city for a Pakistani fashion show. I rolled my eyes and curled up in my mom's chair in the backyard. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in September and I sat with my tea in hand enraptured by Nature. My brother leaned over and whispered in my ear.
"He is really worried about you. Just come with us this once. It will do you some good to get out," he implored.
I looked at him. My baby brother. He was only 15 when she died. And he shocked me with his independance. I never saw him cry the day of her funeral. The next week, it seemed he had moved on with his life. I accused him of not caring, not mourning. But he had his own way of coping. And instead of me caring for him, he stayed strong during my disillusionment. So I quietly agreed to go.
Little did I know, fate would bite me in the a** again...
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