We
love writer Rachel
Shukert, and today we’re proud to publish this excerpt from her upcoming
novel, Have
You No Shame? Here, Rachel recounts her time spent in an out-patient
clinic, being treated for anorexia. Of course, that’s not the entire story. My
favorite line? “There was a demon in my vagina.”
Shukert
was also kind enough to give us some behind-the-scenes thoughts on this piece.
(“Dispersed
throughout this harrowing depiction of erection-murdering events are helpful
hints for the eating-disordered among you. Enjoy!")
I’ll
turn it over to the divine, comedic genius of Ms. Rachel Shukert:
"Before
developing the potentially lethal eating disorder, future sufferers of anorexia
nervosa often display the tell-tale signs of susceptibility: a controlling
nature, a desperate need to please, an uncompromising perfectionism in all
things. As I am lazy, contrary, and easy on myself to the point of
ludicrousness, no one was more surprised than me when I was diagnosed as
anorexic.
My tussle with anorexia lasted for approximately two years, not so
coincidentally coinciding with my first two years in New York
City, and more aptly, my first two years of drama school.
These years were also the first in which I truly discovered the immersive
joys of alcohol, and the confluence of the two resulted in all kinds of merry
and disgusting adventures, one of which is described here in extensive detail.
Like I said, it's pretty disgusting. How disgusting? Well, I don't
like to assume things, but it's fair to say that if you had ever considered
being even remotely sexually attracted to me prior to reading this excerpt
(like even in a drunk, end-of-the-night way), it will never occur to you again
by the time you finish reading.
Dispersed throughout this harrowing depiction of erection-murdering events are
helpful hints for the eating-disordered among you. Enjoy!"
And here’s a quick excerpt
(of, um, the excerpt):
He
paused to draw a small circle in the corner of my chart before asking,
"Have you been sexually active in the last few months?"
There
were vague flashes of memories of men at parties — a hand there, a mouth here,
a laundry room. I couldn't be sure how far things had gotten, but given my
demographic — a perpetually drunk twenty-year-old student of experimental theater
living in New York City with self-esteem issues and
no particular religious or moral convictions — a gambler would have no trouble
calling the odds.
"I think so," I said.
Read
the entire tale here. Enjoy!
