Myself.
All my life, I attempted to fill the large, gaping void inside me with food.
Problem was, it didn’t work. Because no matter how great I felt when I was in the middle of a binge, I always felt like shit after.
Which in turn would only make the void grow bigger.
Deep down I was miserable…but only because I was continuously choosing to be.
Learning to build a better relationship with food was a lot of hard work and took some deep soul searching.
I didn’t force myself to go on a crash diet, nor did I starve myself in order to be thin. I simply made some healthier choices and stopped eating once I became full. Well, that and I cut out soda because that crap isn’t good for anyone. Especially the excessive amount I was drinking.
I’m still not what society would consider skinny given I’m a size ten on a good day and a twelve on a PMS day, but screw society. The only thing that matters is that I like what I see when I look in the mirror.
Because I didn’t conquer my demons for some stupid guy or because I wanted acceptance.
I did it for me.
The guy’s eyeballs finally travel back up to my face. Thanks to Mrs. Palma, I finally learned how to do my own makeup. I also grew my shoulder-length hair out and dyed it jet black, something I’ve always wanted to do but was too afraid to try.
“You in college?” the guy asks.
His question makes me inwardly flinch, so I distract myself by grabbing a rag and wiping down the bar.
Despite my first few months at Dartmouth being lonely, once I started working on myself and stopped letting fear hold me back, I flourished. I made friends, maintained good grades, enjoyed a few hookups and a couple of one-night stands.
I even had a boyfriend named Harry for six months during my second year.
Then everything changed.
“No,” I tell the guy. “I’m not.”
I’m thankful he doesn’t pry and hands me a twenty instead. “Have a good night, beautiful.”
“You too.”
It’s just after three by the time I walk in the door. As I toe my shoes off, I say a silent prayer before heading into the living room.
Mrs. Palma’s sitting on the couch watching old sitcom reruns on the television, but she smiles when she sees me. “Tonight was a good night.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
I honestly don’t know what I’d do without this woman. She’s proof angels really do exist and some are right here on earth.
“Always.” Standing, she gives my hand a small squeeze. “I put some leftovers in the fridge for you. Richard wasn’t a fan of tonight’s meatloaf, but your dad seemed to like it.”
I follow close behind her as she walks to the front door. “I’m sure it’s amazing. Thank you again, Mrs. Palma.”
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Sue?” She gives me a quick hug. “And you don’t have to thank me, Lennon. I’m happy to help however I can. I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie.”
After she leaves, I head up the stairs so I can check on my dad. He’s sleeping soundly, for which I’m grateful.
Three weeks before the end of my second year at Dartmouth, I received a call from Mrs. Palma.
A few days before said phone call, she was awoken by a loud sound in the middle of the night. Given her husband Richard was in bed next to her and no one else lives in the house, she was understandably spooked.
However, when Richard grabbed his gun and went downstairs to investigate, it wasn’t an intruder like they thought.
It was my father rummaging through their refrigerator…naked.
When Mr. Palma asked what he was doing, my father mumbled something about keeping the party going. Figuring he must have had too much to drink at a get-together he attended, he walked my dad back to his house and told him to sleep it off.
Though strange, both Mr. and Mrs. Palma decided it was best not to make a big deal out of it because they didn’t want to embarrass him.
But he came back three nights later.
Only this time…he crawled into their bed.
Mr. Palma was ready to kick his ass, but my dad freaked out and asked Richard what he was doing in bed with his wife. Realizing something wasn’t right, they brought him to the hospital and called me.
Although he was better by the time I got there, they ran a bunch of tests anyway.
I remember the exact moment they diagnosed him with early-onset dementia…
Because it was the moment my entire world stopped.
I left Dartmouth and started my summer break early so I could be with him. I figured with medication and rehabilitation, things would get better, and I’d be able to go back for my third year in the fall.
However, life had other plans because despite the treatment a dementia specialist prescribed…my dad declined much sooner than anyone anticipated and there was no way I could return to school.
Harry tried to be supportive, but ultimately, the distance and him not being able to handle all my focus being on the most important man in my life had him calling things off.
His doctor suggested I place my father in an assisted living facility and go back to college, but while that might be a good solution for others, I couldn’t bear the thought of doing that.
He was so lost and confused already, it felt wrong to add to it by taking him out of the home he loved.
The only thing I could do was figure out how to make our new normal work.
My dad had done well financially, but being a freelancer meant he didn’t have traditional benefits and required him to pay for most of his medical costs out of pocket, which put a huge dent in his savings. Given he had just turned fifty, there wasn’t much in his retirement fund, but I used that to pay off the house.
I still had to cover daily living expenses and support us, though, so I briefly took a job as a bartender at a restaurant. Unfortunately, I was barely making enough to get by. Plus, most of my shifts were during the day, which is when my dad is the happiest and active.
Being a bartender at Obsidian kind of fell into my lap thanks to a coworker knowing a girl who stripped there.
I was hesitant at first, but it worked out for the best. Things are still tight, but I make better money than I did at the restaurant, and because I work nights, I’m able to spend my days with him.
“I love you,” I whisper before heading back downstairs.
While the world is full of horrible illnesses, dementia is by far one of the worst.
The disease is a heartless, cruel trick because even though physically my dad still looks like my dad…he’s a mere shell of the man he once was.
With every passing day, dementia steals another piece of him from me.
The first time he forgot who I was, I cried myself to sleep for a week straight.
But there are still times—albeit few and far between now—where I get flashes of the dad I remember.
I live and breathe for those moments.
After microwaving some of the meatloaf Mrs. Palma left in the fridge, I head into the living room.
Bringing the fork to my mouth, I plop down on the couch.
I’m about to change the channel because watching the news can be depressing, but the next words out of the reporter’s mouth make me choke.
“There’s been a fatal accident involving members of the popular Grammy award-winning band Sharp Objects.”