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June 2005
On the morning of my wedding, I stepped on the bathroom scale just like I did every morning—after peeing to make sure I was as light as possible—and the number that blinked up at me was almost more exciting than the fact that I was about to become Mrs. Brooke Bradley Easton.
Eighty-nine.
Eighty-fucking-nine.
The time between when Ken had asked me to marry him and when he actually did just so happened to coincide with the most stressful year of my entire life. I knew my parents couldn’t afford a wedding, and I knew my fiancé would rather sing the national anthem on live TV than shell out thousands of dollars for a party, so I took it upon myself to plan and pay for the whole damn thing.
In order to raise the money, I’d exchanged my part-time retail job for a full-time gig, teaching a special education class for preschoolers with autism spectrum disorders. I did not have any training. I didn’t even have a teaching degree. But I knew enough about autism from my psychology coursework that I was able to pass the state exams, and the county was so desperate for someone to fill the position that I got the job…
And immediately found out why no one else wanted it.
Every morning, I would get up and put on a full face of makeup, and every morning, I would cry it all off on my way to work, knowing that I was going to be hit, kicked, scratched, spat on, sneezed on, screamed at, resisted, run away from, and/or flat-out ignored for the next six hours. I was given nine beautiful, adorable, significantly developmentally delayed little boys and was told I needed to teach them to speak. I needed to teach them basic academic concepts. I needed to teach them to use scissors, write their names, eat with utensils, use the toilet, wash their own hands, initiate social interactions, and sit at a table for more than five minutes. And I’d had to do it all in spite of their aggression, their various perseverations and aversions, and my own complete lack of experience.
Then, after each exhausting, soul-sucking yet life-affirming day, I would fight rush-hour traffic all the way downtown to spend the rest of the day in class, working on my master’s degree in school psychology.
And, as if that wasn’t enough, I’d lost my last two living grandparents, the Irish ones, and an uncle I’d been very close to, all within a few months of the wedding.
My wedding dress was a size zero, and at my final fitting, they had to make it tighter. The forty-pound tulle ballgown bruised my jutting hip bones and clung desperately to my rib cage because those were the only things I had left to hold it up. But I was happy despite my appearance. I was happy in my relationship and happy with my grades and happy that all nine of my preschoolers had made tremendous progress by the end of the school year and happy that I was so skinny and happy that it was finally my wedding day. Sure, I was stressed out beyond belief and cried in my car every day and fainted from hunger sometimes and was constantly shivering and my hair was falling out and my feet would occasionally turn purple and go numb, but that was the price I paid for my success.
Totally worth it, I told myself. Just look at all the goals I’m accomplishing!
I was so sick. I was so sick, and nobody knew. Whenever the subject of my weight came up, I would write it off as stress. Whenever I had to eat in front of other people, I would. Then, I’d disappear as soon as I could to go throw it up. I’d never told Ken about my past hospitalization for anorexia. Because I was totally fine. I had everything under control.
Riiiiiight.
I arrived at the wedding venue—the same old mansion with the gorgeous gardens that Amy and Allen had rented for their engagement party—with my bridesmaids by my side, my hair curled, my tiara on, and a skip in my step. It was going to be the best day of my life. I had planned everything to a T. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
Then, I stepped through the door.
The florist was a no-show.
The wedding cake looked like a pyramid instead of the Eiffel Tower.
It was beginning to rain, and our ceremony was supposed to be outside.
The wedding officiant was lost.
The DJ was having technical difficulties.
And my stoner parents were completely MIA.
When people weren’t busy presenting me with new problems or asking for solutions to existing ones, I would run outside in my tulle ballgown to hide and hyperventilate until the urge to scream went away.
Sensing my impending panic attack, my sweet, sweet photographer—a plump, balding man in his forties who kept all of his camera equipment in the pockets of an army-green fishing vest—brought me a gift.
Peeking his rosy, round face out the side door where I was smoking, he said, “I know you’re not supposed to see the groom before the wedding, but I thought it might be nice to snap a few photos of you two before the ceremony.”
Then, he pushed the door open, revealing my future husband in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit—black with a white silk tie to match my dress.
Ken was coiffed, clean-shaven, and looked like a natural-born formalwear model. But better than that, he looked really, really happy. I beamed at him and lifted my arms in the air like a child wanting to be held. Ken closed the gap between us in two long strides, pulling me into his arms. I rested my cheek on his chest and felt all my stress and worry and self-punishing perfectionism roll off my shoulders and land in a puddle. I no longer cared if my flowers arrived or if the sound system worked or if my parents showed up or if the sky opened up or if the cake looked like we were going to Egypt on our honeymoon instead of Paris. I didn’t give a single, solitary fuck about any of it. Because I was about to marry my very best friend.
“Hi,” I said, probably getting blush all over his jacket.
“Hi.” Ken wrapped his arms tighter around my shoulders.
I could hear the photographer’s camera snapping off photos, but I didn’t even bother to look up. I just stood there, in Ken’s warm, buzzing bubble, and decided that everybody else could fuck right off.
