The Abyss in the Middle of my Living Room

I don’t have hobbies.

Well, none that would please anybody else. I have ditched games of soccer, baking and drawing for reality television. My eyes gleam for hours. My schedule is rigorous.

In the afternoon, I begin with Intervention—a show hyper-focused on people at rock bottom. The addictions come in various forms and range in specifics from alcohol, ketamine, inhalants and hand sanitizer. The goal remains the same for each participant across all twenty one seasons —to get out. Each episode contains black out footage. There is incoherent slurring, sometimes a lamp loses a lightbulb. These moments are spliced with talking head portions, a mournful take on the confessional interlude where, on a show like The Bachelor, would include someone talking shit or defending themselves from gossip. Here though, the confessions are weepy, often defeated portraits. The paint is still wet. Concerned loved ones describe what addiction does to the insides of a family unit, which is not too far from what Doctors say Coca-Cola does to our gut. Both of them rot you.

As I watch, I think of my older sister who lost her life to various addictions. In her diary she once noted: My first word was provoke. This thought was squished between paragraphs detailing her trips to the corner store and elaborate plans for an eleven chapter memoir.

Towards the end of the night, I switch over to My 600 Pound Life while sucking on a forty calorie, strawberry flavored Ringpop. This show is similar to Intervention in the deep, nearly exploitative exploration of rock bottom. The subjects are typically helpless, having to be cleaned and assisted by loved ones. Of course, I am attracted to the stories of prom queens gone wrong or murdered siblings, to the transformation that usually occurs. But more than anything, I watch for the amount of food they eat. Enormous, glorious fast food orders. Seven sides of greased up bacon. An entire birthday cake. Pepperoni pizza. Whole sleeves of Chips Ahoy cookies.

The amount of food doesn’t surprise me. Nothing does. In my own diary I’ve underlined the words: Do Not Binge. I live through the show instead. I lick the screen.

At the end of the night, my head feels like a leaking soda can.

Jasmine Ledesma lives in New York. Her work has appeared in places such as The Southampton Review, Gone Lawn, Crab Fat Magazine and [PANK] among others. She currently writes for NBGA.