Chapter Text
2025
It was his 41st birthday and he couldn’t believe he was still living at home with his parents. One would think he would have gotten used to it by now. Afterall, it’d been roughly two decades since he’d been a fuck up. Years since he’d achieved anything of note. Still, it stung to be in your forties and undeniably a disappointment; a disappointment to yourself and parents. It was especially painful when you were supposed to have made something of yourself. When you had so much potential.
If someone told him when he was 17 that he’d end up the loser in the family, he’d never have believed it. He was much smarter and more scholarly than either of his brothers and probably his parents too - with the exception maybe of his mom. Was more independent than his brothers, was more ambitious, was more charming. Was better looking too, though Brad would fight him on that one. Was .
He was a classic overachiever in his adolescence. Left home for Costa Rica at sixteen to study the effects of deforestation on rainforest habitats - one of just six kids in the state. Entered University of Michigan on a full scholarship. Had numerous essays, poems, and articles published in magazines, newspapers, journals, and editorials.
Yet here he was. Another birthday alone. Tim was golfing. Mom, in her seventies now and well into the age of retirement, was working. She partnered with another clinical psychologist about twenty years ago, and they owned their own clinic where Jill continued to work full time hours and didn’t seem to be interested in slowing down. Brad was down in Ohio with six daughters and was employed at the local middle school teaching social studies - a shock to everyone. Mark was truly the one he envied though. The little dork had a cute wife, and they both worked in the tech industry making the big bucks and living the DINK lifestyle.
He was single obviously, and couldn’t even remember the last time he had anything resembling a sex life. He didn’t have any real friends. He used to, but all of his peers have surpassed him in life by now, some lapping him multiple times. One or two might check on him every year or so, asking if he’s doing okay, or saying that “if he ever needs anyone to talk to, I’m here.” The only thing resembling friends he had now were inpatient and group therapy friends. One young woman he became particularly close to, but she was candid with him and expressed to him that she felt their friendship hindered her recovery; that was a punch in the gut.
Having a birthday alone was surely a classic sign of loneliness, yet at the same time it was welcomed. Being alone meant no people to pester him about cake and picking out a restaurant to eat at. No one to lecture him on some bullshit about “challenging himself” like he was twenty and just got released from his first round of inpatient treatment and still had some naive hope.
Last year when he turned forty, he was so depressed and stressed the weeks leading up to the day that he limited himself to 500 calories a day for fourteen days, losing nine pounds on his already gaunt frame which in turn lead to a massive binge on lemon blueberry cake from the local bakery that his mom picked up for his birthday. He only managed to purge about half the thing up, leading to a private mental breakdown and subsequent restriction with excessive exercising, ultimately leading to a short hospitalization after blacking out multiple times in one day. It was then discovered in the hospital that his potassium and magnesium were critically low. He stayed three overnights, getting pumped full of electrolytes and lectured to by residents younger than himself that he needed to gain weight, needed to eat, needed to take care of himself. Threatened with a feeding tube. He was ultimately released to go home, no feeding tube ever used, despite his low weight and less than stellar lab values. “He’s a chronic anorexic,” one of the doctors spoke into the room to everyone but Randy himself. “There’s not much he can do, and he can make his own decisions.”
This year on his birthday at least, he could eat vegetable soup with two saltines and a sugar free Klondike Bar and not be tempted to binge, purge, starve, rather, rinse, repeat. It may not be fun, but it was safer this way.
—
Part 1: Different
Up until he was 11, Randy felt like he belonged. He was just like dad and Brad: one of the guys. But suddenly, he started to realize that maybe he was a little different than his dad and brothers.
He was supposed to go to a monster truck show. He’d gone every year with dad and Brad and the last few years Mark started coming as well. But Randy found himself dreading it this year. He simply didn’t enjoy it. The last few years, he didn’t have much fun but never really came to terms with the fact that he didn’t like monster truck shows until now. The noise and the shouting, the smells, the waiting in lines. The three god damned hours watching trucks moving around in dirt; it was all so unappealing. He tried to like them for dad. He told himself he liked them. It felt wrong not to like the monster truck show. Like he was hurting dad. Like he wasn’t the guy’s guy he was supposed to be.
He couldn't bring himself to tell his father that he didn’t want to go. Instead he went anyway, sulking like a stormy rain cloud the whole time because he was so miserable and resentful. He and his dad got into a big fight during the show - something about Randy’s attitude - and they didn’t talk for a week.
A few months later, dad made plans to take Brad, Mark, and him ice fishing. Ice fishing; not as grating as monster trucks shows, but not something Randy was really thrilled to be dedicating a precious Saturday to. As the day approached, he decided he needed to get out of it. He wanted nothing more than to spend the day home alone reading Stephen King and listening to Led Zeppelin and Metallica.
“I’m sick,” he told his mother early Saturday morning, feigning a raspy voice. ‘I think I'm coming down with the flu or something.” His mother frowned and touched his forehead.
“Hmm,” she stated. “Sweetheart, why don’t you rest a little and see how you feel this evening?”
“But ice fishing,” he whined. “I don’t want to miss it.”
“Sweetheart, if you’re not feeling well you really shouldn’t be out there ice fishing.”
Randy got to stay at home alone while his father and brothers ice fished, and his mom ran errands. He read Stephen King and listened to music, and when his dad came home he brought him a slurpee from 7-11 and asked him if he was feeling better. Randy smiled. “Yeah, I’m feeling a little better. Thanks, dad.”
—--
Part 2: The Sick One
Brad was the athletic one, the eldest brother. The strong one. Mark was the baby, the troubled, sensitive soul who had mom and dad worried from an early age, and even more so as he reached his teens. He also happened to be the tallest one, by far. Not as bulky and muscular as Brad, but still pretty strong. Somehow, Randy ended up being the shortest. His behavior didn’t worry mom and dad like Mark’s behavior did, either. He followed the rules and was the only one who didn’t have a school counselor or teacher calling their parents wanting to talk about their son’s behavior or grades; and if they did, it was because he was doing so well. On top of that, he was the middle child too. Not the baby, nor the first born.
Between his size and good behavior at school, he would have slipped under the radar completely if it wasn’t for his asthma and allergies and the time they thought he almost had cancer but it was a thyroid problem, and all the other times he got sick. A bad cold would pass through the whole house, and inevitably Randy would be the one hit hardest. Twice he developed pneumonia severe enough that it required hospitalization. Typically though, bronchitis or some other infection would follow from a normal cold, and his parents would fuss over him until he was finally well enough to go back to school. Of course, he didn’t mind the lack of attention that feeling better typically brought. He liked to be left alone, generally. He spent sick days at home reading books, watching movies that Brad and Mark and dad never let him watch, listening to music that the rest of his family made fun of.
He never knew if his shitty immune system and overall health were the cause of his shorter stature, or if he was just unlucky, He accepted it eventually: his role as the “small one.” Luckily, he was also the “cute one,” so he didn’t have it too rough. Yeah, it hurt a little that he was shorter than even his mother, but soon enough he learned that also meant he wouldn’t be expected to play basketball or football, and he was happy about that. He never was a fan of athletics, unless you counted a short hike as sport.
He also felt, in a way, that he was able to get out of trouble and receive favor because of his smaller size and less than optimal health. His towering baby brother gives him a punch on the arm for taking the remote? Brother gets reprimanded by mom, and Randy gets the remote back. Brad wouldn’t give Randy a ride home from the library? It was cold and rainy, and Randy could have gotten sick; no driving privileges for a week. Tim and Jill didn’t mind Brad using Mark for wrestling practice, either; something that would never fly with Randy as the target.
It wasn’t just their parents who subconsciously protected Randy because of his size and perceived below average health. Often the target of bullies because of his size, “pretty” face, and unconventional thoughts and attitudes, Randy was regularly protected by Brad who did not offer Mark the same protection. Mark, also a target of bullies although less so as he got older, was perceived to be strong enough to take care of himself. Mark didn’t mind it either. He preferred it that way. Just the same, Randy was relieved that he had an older, bulkier brother who was willing to stand up for him.
—
Part 3: Food
There were a myriad of foods forbidden to Randy when he was a youngster. Eggs made him break out in hives. Lactose gave him tummy troubles. Strawberries, avocados, and bananas made his mouth itchy. He grew out of these allergies by the time he started elementary school, but by then he was already toying around with the idea of vegetarianism - much to his father’s dismay. First it was all meat - because no living creature should be hurt. Then it was no beef or pork or any other mammal: how could you eat something that cuddles their young? And then fish were okay to eat because apparently they couldn’t feel pain. And then, he went back to eating poultry too. Lather, rinse, repeat. He even went vegan a couple of times, too.
His choice garnered him some attention - negative and positive. Comments about how he had so much willpower; “I’ve always wanted to go vegetarian but never could do it.” Comments about how selfless he was. Comments about how he was missing out. Comments about how his efforts were in vain - that animals would suffer regardless of his vegetarianism and how humans were meant to eat meat. All of these comments just encouraged him more and more. At some point, it was no longer about the poor animals. He knew it. It was about how far he could go, how impressive he could be. It was about the power he felt by defying those who were so offended by his vegetarianism, defying those who said he couldn’t cut it as a vegan. It was also about the praise for having so much willpower.
He never actually gave calories a second thought though until he was fourteen. He knew he was short and his brothers were tall, but he never thought how it could affect his metabolism. Randy and Brad were playing video games while Brad stuffed his face full of Doritos. Jill came in and scoffed at the sight. Randy heard his mother, smiled, and shook his head in agreement. “You’re lucky you’re getting tall. Any shorter, and those Doritos would be going straight to your gut.” She smiled. “You’re lucky you can eat anything you want.”
Randy’s heart sank. Brad could eat whatever he wanted because he was tall. Duh. The taller you are, the higher your caloric needs. Randy was short. Shorter than mom who always watched what she ate and dieted; never had any fun. Never ate Doritos; reprimanded herself for eating a single Dorito. And Randy had at least ten Dorios - albeit at a more normal pace than his brother - before mom came in to register her disapproval. He felt shameful, like he did something bad and disgusting. Lucky Brad. He could eat as many Doritos as he wanted to.
A few days later, Randy stood in front of the bathroom mirror after a shower and frowned. Was that fat roll on his stomach there the other day? Was he gaining weight, or just now noticing how chubby he was? He was frozen to the spot. He gulped a lump in his throat and stifled a sob. No more Doritos for him. He needed to start watching what he ate. He was eating almost as much as Brad was and given his smaller size and more sedentary lifestyle, that was completely uncalled for. He was becoming piggish and lazy and simply needed to do better.
From that day on, calorie counting became a part of Randy’s daily life. And yet, it wouldn’t consume him for another few years. He cut out meat completely - that was an easy and familiar way to stay healthy. No soda, no snacking during TV or video games. He joined a gym, took up running while he listened to music. Everything that was supposed to be healthy . He still had sweets a few times per week, regular food during meals. He stayed a healthy, stable, slim weight.
It wasn’t until after Randy returned home from Costa Rica that it became apparent that he had a serious issue with food.