This Notebook Belongs To: Jake Stacey Grade: 8 Year: 1996 Favorite Subject: Language Arts Favorite Book: The Giver by Lois Lowry Favorite Movie: Home Alone Favorite Sport: Rollerblading Favorite Food: A Goal: To see a musical on Broadway with Grandma Writing My Name I write Jake in cursive over and over and over. It's calming. Filling page after page in my notebooks with signatures. Using different colors. Purple. Green. Blue. It's soothing. Trying out different styles. Fancy. Plain. Bold. Experimenting with markers, highlighters, pastels. Why is it calming? Why is it soothing? Maybe because I'm hoping by writing my name over and over, I'll figure out who I am. Jake Jake Jake Jake Jake Jake Jake Nobody? My stomach G-R-O-W-L-S. The Voice tells it to S T O P. I toss the markers inside the top drawer of my desk. I tear out the page and rip it up into little bits, dropping each piece into the garbage can. I look at a photo of Emily Dickinson taped to my desk. I know her poem "I'm Nobody! Who are you?" by heart. So I run in place, burning as many calories as I can, repeating the opening lines I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you--Nobody--too? as FAST as I can. I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you--Nobody--too? I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you--Nobody--too? The Voice says, YOU--ARE--REPULSIVE! Am I Nobody, Too? When I can't run anymore I sit down again at my big brown desk. Mom knocks, knocks, knocks on my bedroom door. I ignore her. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. I don't have enough energy to tell her to GO AWAY-- to leave me alone. I wish everyone would leave me alone-- forever. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. Worry enters the room. She brings it wherever she goes. You can feel it. Smell it. Mom puts a plate of pretzels and pepperoni on my desk next to me. My stomach G-R-O-W-L-S again. The Voice says, DON'T EAT THAT GARBAGE! YOU ALREADY ATE AN APPLE TODAY! YOU DIDN'T EXERCISE ENOUGH! She says, Why haven't you started your homework? This isn't like you . What's going on? I want to say, This isn't like you. You don't usually care. I glare at math problems, wishing X and Y would run away. I imagine feeding the garbage disposal pretzels, pepperoni, and these wretched worksheets, watching it grind everything into tiny bits. The Voice The negative Voice inside my head talks nonstop. It has since the middle of seventh grade. It's louder than the hunger in my stomach. I weigh myself 10 times per day. Then 15 times per day. Then 20 times per day. The lower the number on the scale goes, the bigger I feel. The bigger I feel, the less I eat. The less I eat, the less I feel. I make my body smaller and smaller and smaller. I punish myself day after day. Why? For taking up too much space. For being me. For breathing. Clothes I own two pairs of overalls: one denim, one corduroy. I wear a pair every day to school Sometimes I wear a big sweatshirt over the overalls. Most people think it's strange. But waistbands, seams, fabrics make me feel itchy, gross. Aware of every inch of my body, every movement. Aware of how the denim touches my collarbone. Aware of how the corduroy rubs against my thigh. Aware of how my body feels at every moment: itchy, gross, growing. Excerpted from Louder Than Hunger by John Schu All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
