What Happened to Gracefully Marching Forward, Motherfucker?

I had to do probably the worst thing I've ever done in my life today.

I had to narc out an old, old friend to her mom.
Not about drugs, but about her eating disorder, still. The principle remains the same, the childhood code of silence is officially over, and I feel sick and old.

I just keep telling myself that I had to do it. It wasn't a unilateral decision. All the people who know what's up agreed that it had to be done. No amount of reasonable discussion on our part is shaking the incredibly unhealthy view she has of her body.

My friend has the same little potbelly a starving kid in Africa gets, when her body starts desperately dumping all the fat it can muster there. Her pelvis creaks when she sits. She is sick and her husband, who I've known longer than her, is on the other side of the damned world thanks to Mr. Bush, hearing about his wife's total absence of periods and 900-calorie regimen over AIM.

It's pathetic and sad and it makes me sick, but I did it. I emailed her mom, the only person in this country who has the ability to make her stop procrastinating and actually see a doctor. If there had been any other way, I would have taken it. We have already let this drag on for far too long. I should have done this six months ago, but I couldn't justify it then. Apparently, I am never going to be able to justify it to myself, so best it's done now. If I lose a friend to save her, I guess that's all right, and I know enough to know that's where we're at right now.

But I'm five years old sometimes, and I've tattled to the grown-ups, and somehow I just can't feel good about any of this. I had better numbers at work tonight than I've had in a month, I cleaned out the car with the Artist's help, I'm laughing at my beloved Edward Norton in Death to Smoochy -- despite Robin Williams having confused the scenery for the pork sandwiches currently being prepared -- but the vibe is just nasty while I wait to see what, if anything, is going to happen.

Ten years and more, and...it's entirely possible she'll never talk to me again.
Ah well. It's what's right. But what's right doesn't make you sleep easy.
Now back to Worchestershire pork and people in funny suits.