This is the thirteenth excerpt of my book “Shattered Image”. Shattered Image is the story of my struggle with, and recovery from, a compulsive behavior clinically known as Body Dysmorphic Disorder (BDD). That struggle has included recovery from bulimia, anorexia, alcoholism, and addiction to cocaine and steroids. I also suffer from clinical depression. For decades, I engaged in self-destructive behavior with the single goal of correcting a terribly distorted sense of self-image, a self-image rooted in early life experiences. Release date is July -August 2013 See what people are saying about Shattered Image!
September 1987, 2:00 am. Just hit my one year anniversary in Dallas. It still feels like 100 degrees. The lack of breeze is stifling. I am sweating like I have stepped out of the shower. Not sure if it’s the humidity or the three huge lines of cocaine I just did. Cocaine is my lunch and breakfast with tequila on the side. Have not eaten all day. Did get in my twelve mile run. That familiar dehydration and heart palpitation feeling. Dabbling in Drunkorexia. Feeling a little bit like a bad high. Edgy. Lockjaw. Maybe I bought some bad shit. Have to find a new dealer. Then again, maybe the next lines will be better. The rational of a developing addict. Five Bacon, Egg And Cheese McMuffins from Mickey D’s to be scarfed down followed by a knuckle scraping, tension cleansing, purge. It’s easier both mentally and physically to toss my binge after I’ve been drinking. I’ve learned all the little tricks of the long time off and on bulimic. It’s not throwing up. It’s just life.
Four hours earlier. Night out at the new local sports bar, Legends. A boxing ring in the middle of the room with the table’s surrounding the ring. Televisions ringing the room. Yuppies, pool sharks and sports team groupies. Pretty waitresses dressed as ring girls carrying around the latest knockout potions. There is she. Tall, pretty, curly blond hair. My mind starts working its developing BDD thoughts. You want to sit down at our table? You’re too pretty to want anything to do with me. Maybe it’s the eight-dollar, diamond stud, zircon earring I purchased at Target, dangling from my ear. Waiting for her to laugh at me and tell me I’m ugly. Memories of the freshman Penn State redhead who did the same. I feel like an idiot, but I am desperate to try anything to draw the interest to me. I am a frightened child at twenty-six. Trying so hard to be noticed when I can’t look at myself in the mirror. It’s the only way I can socialize.
The alcohol and cocaine make me the person I want to be. The bulimia releases the pain when it doesn’t happen. The image in the mirror never changes. In this moment however, I am talkative, aggressive and confident until the coke wears off. A conversation of lies. To tell the truth is to face the truth about myself. I am a eleven years old. What is that dribbling down the side of my mouth? The cocaine has frozen my throat muscles. With every lie I tell, spit either drools out of my mouth or like a projectile finds it’s way onto her arm. I can see my reflection on the glossy marble table top. I have rabies. “Are you ok” she asks? Yes, , why are you asking? I don’t even know I am doing it. “Well you keep spitting on me! I’m sorry, I did not realize I was doing that.
“Do You like Billy Joel? We should go see him in concert the next time he’s in Dallas.” Had to get that out before the cocaine wore off. “Here’s my number, just please stop spitting on me”. I sense that I may be hitting critical mass of revulsion with her. I have McDonald’s on the brain.
Pulling up in front of my apartment. Door opens. Stepping out of the passenger side. I am airborne! Feet taken out from under me. I am propelled into a full somersault. A death grip on my McDonald’s bag. Boom! Slamming back down on the windshield of the car that hit me with the bone jarring force. What the hell happened? Where did this car come from? The windshield shatters like I am looking into a mirror. It releases from its frame and drops into the vehicle. I never saw it coming. I never looked up. I have a McMuffin in my mouth. My buddy is driving on down the road, oblivious to my street acrobatics. I roll off the car and into the street face up. A male is now standing over me. He is screaming at me. I am laughing. My sweat drenched, bar smelling, white polo shirt is soaked in blood. The blue horse is now red. A female is now screaming at me. “YOU WALKED IN FRONT OF US! CALL THE POLICE! I am still laughing at my airborne somersault. Maybe it’s the cocaine. “GET IN THE CAR BITCH!” They are gone.
I am still laying in the street amid the broken windshield glass. Where are my Egg McMuffins?. A lot of blood coming from somewhere. Into the apartment Lots of cuts and bruises. Some cocaine left in my pocket. No biggie. Still have my McMuffins. Shower, change, sniff, shot, binge, puke. Just another night in Dallas Texas. Add in three broken ribs. Another line. Calling the blonde. She gave me a number for a local pizza joint. Next.
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