revision of heavy things won't fly
The nurse walks next to me, guiding me gently by the arm. I keep pace with her unwillingly as we walk in silence towards a pair of blue double doors.
She pushes the doors open for me, and we walk into what could be considered a cafeteria, although it is different from the one at my high school in many ways. I see another nurse look up and register my face. Turning around, she uncaps the dry erase marker and makes a note on the board behind her next to my name: Abigail, 12:04. Very precise, but everything in this place has to be exact, with no room for error. Many of our lives, or at least our sanities, depend on their meticulous attention to details.
I walk to the far counter, right next to the kitchen, to pick up my lunch tray from the counter and carry it to my table. It is a rule, to show that I am getting better, that the weight and contents of the plate do not send my heart into overdrive, that I will not in fact throw my plate into the nearest garbage can and run screaming from the room. I have to pick it up, and feel the heat from it warm my hands. I cannot see what is under the fog that has gathered on the Saran Wrap, but it doesn’t matter. There isn’t much variation of food here. It’s a nice subtlety of theirs; food is stable, food is constant. You can trust the food.
I peel back the wrapper, slowly, and look down at the plate while keeping my face blank. Today, we have a breaded chicken breast, overcooked and tough on the teeth, a circular lump of grey mashed potatoes, and a hardened biscuit with a pack of full fat butter next to it. There is a medley of cooked asparagus and baby carrots as well, to complete all the food groups.
I must also choose my drinks. Not just one obscenely tall glass of something, but two. Water does not count, and skim milk does not exist here. I ask the nurse in a clear, somewhat bored voice for 2% milk that feels as thick as cream going down my throat, and orange juice so heavy that I do not know if the flakes floating around are pulp or just seeds of pure fat that will lodge themselves into the walls of my veins and never leave.
All of this, every bite of the chicken-300-and the mashed potatoes-110-and the veggies-60-and the two drinks that are, respectively, 130 and 110-I have to finish in forty minutes.
All I can think when I look at my plate is: I’m in hell.
But when the nurse brings my drinks, I thank her in my polite voice and do not say anything else. It’s pointless to talk to them, especially about the food. Complaining about the rules doesn’t get you anywhere in here. It’s better to just follow the rules, to roll over like a good puppy and perform whatever tricks they ask of you.
There are three other girls already at my table, and one other nurse. We are all mirrors of each other, more or less: we are dressed in T-shirts and tank tops so we cannot hide food up our sleeves, and we keep our napkins uncrumpled and next to our plates so we don’t sweep the food into our laps. Staff here is smart; they know all of our tricks.
We tremble slightly as we slowly cut into our meat and butter our biscuit, and we fight the urge to separate the asparagus from the carrots, or to make sure we chew each bite ten times before we swallow, or to cut everything into microscopic pieces. We resist taking the plastic knife and trying to dig it into the necks of the nurses, or our own.
Instead: we sit there and chew and drink and smile at the nurses and at each other and we watch the clock out of the corner of our eyes. We sit there and chew and drink and try not to think about how much we’re eating or how quickly or how we will not be allowed to use the bathroom for at least an hour afterwards. We sit there and chew and drink and try not to think how this cycle will repeat itself again in three hours, for the midafternoon snack, and three hours after that, with another fattening meal, or again for late night tea.
It’s a nightmare, this place is, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. No matter how much I hate it, I must go along with it if I ever want my freedom back. So: the food will end up in my stomach, and from there it will be distributed to my thighs, my arms, my boobs. Later, I will choose the best words to represent my dilemmas and try, for the millionth time, to explain to my therapist that my thighs are too round and that my double chin embarrasses me. I cannot stop these events because they are the reasons I am here. They are all part of the plan to help me become a normal human outside of these walls, where it will not scare me to eat three fulfilling meals a day and have my thighs touch and my collarbones hidden under my skin.
I do not believe this plan is possible for me, but I have no choice in the matter. To get out of here, I must do as they ask, and do it without complaining. I must put on the act that they wish to see, but I will not get a standing ovation for my efforts.
I shut off my brain, grip my plastic ware harder, and finish eating.
---
Overfield Treatment Center. Located just 30 miles outside of sunny Orlando, Florida. Run by watchful, overweight nurses and intrusive therapists. Occupied by distended stomachs and scarred thighs, skeletons and dying hearts. It could either be a place of refuge or a place of torture, depending on who you asked. And why you were asking.
I checked in three months ago, the week after my junior homecoming dance at my high school.
Edit: I was forced to come here three months ago by my parents, the week after I collapsed on the dance floor and my date panicked and called an ambulance because he couldn’t wake me up and I was barely breathing.
There were two nurses at the front desk. When I walked in with my parents, one of them grabbed a sheath of papers and came to explain to us what I should expect from my stay here. I listened and nodded but truthfully I didn’t pay attention. Couldn’t have really, even if I had wanted to. The meds they gave me from the hospital had wrapped smoke around my brain, blocking out words like clouds block out sunlight We stood up when she did, and she asked my parents to wait in the lobby while she took me down a hallway. Tired from everything, and weak from carrying my suitcase, I didn’t even have the energy to ask why.
I woke up a little when she opened the door of an examining room. The scale was hidden slightly behind the door, and a bed was pressed against the far wall. Locked cabinets ran around the top and bottom of the rest of the room. In the right hand corner was another door, slightly ajar. A bathroom.
“Why am I here?” A small part of my brain-the normal part, drug-free and awake-knew that I would end up in a room like this sooner or later, but I was still coming to terms with the fact that I was about to be locked up and force-fed until my stomach puffed out like an overinflated balloon.
“We need to get your stats, your vitals, so we can figure out the most effective treatment plan for you.”
Shivers, up and down my spine. “Just use the information from the hospital. They did all of that stuff.”
The nurse shook her head and held out a robe. “Those numbers are from a week ago, and don’t reflect your body anymore. We need to be as accurate as possible to help your body recover.”
Recover. Another word that caused my heart to race, and my fear of the situation made me want to put up a fight. It was the best defense mechanism, anger. In the real world, I found it worked rather effectively at getting people to back off when I didn’t want them looking too closely. Nobody likes having someone mad at them.
I knew that no matter how much I resisted though, she would still get her way. When I walked-was led, whatever-through those doors, my freedom and choices had disappeared. I snatched the robe from her and stalked to the bathroom. My intent was to slam the door as hard as I could manage, but about an inch away from closing it bounced back as if it had hit an invisible wall. I tried pulling it again, with the same result. No matter how hard I pulled, the door would not shut.
“It doesn’t close all the way,” the nurse said to me, leaning back on the counter, entirely too casually. My face must have reflected my horror, but she didn’t react, just watched as I tried once more to close it. When it still wouldn’t close, I lost it. I had accepted that my freedom was gone, but not having privacy, even in a bathroom, was too much.
“This is bullshit!” I screamed, throwing the robe towards the nurse. It didn’t come close to her, spreading open in the air before it went half a foot, and before I could find something else to throw two more nurses came into the room. “Don’t touch me!” I spat at them as they came towards me, flinching away from their outstretched hands. Their faces were blank, as if they did this all the time. “Don’t you dare touch me,” I said, but they didn’t stop. I let out a wordless, prolonged scream as they came closer to me, arms trying to hold me down, chain me forever.
I screamed continuously until the world tipped sideways, fuzzing around the edges.
Afterwards, I would realize it was impressive-I’d never screamed for that long before. But then that pissed me off because if I had had enough energy inside me to scream that long and loud, I should have used it to stay conscious at that stupid homecoming dance so I would never have ended up here.
Our bodies always choose the worst times to betray us.
---
Abigail Ellenora Frost, F. DOB 02-10-93
Height: 5’5”
Weight: 91 lbs
BMI: 15.2
Notes: Bradycardia, Orthostatic hypotension, Anemia, Osteopenia. Suspected laxative abuse, scars on inner left thigh.
Suggested treatment: 5-month stay. 2,500 calorie plan, starting with half-meals. 24-hour supervision until further notice.
---
The first few weeks didn’t go so well. I screamed, I cried, I lashed out. I did everything except for what they asked of me, so that I was always on 24-hour watch. I knew that my stubbornness was causing my stay to become longer, but I couldn’t let go. I didn’t want to get better, so I made Staff’s job exceedingly unpleasant for them.
My roommate, a 19-year-old bulimic named Crystal, sat with me at meals and during Group, but I didn’t talk to her much. Besides the fact that she had checked herself in-who wanted to be here voluntarily?-I had learned a long time ago not to trust anyone. I could go through the motions of friendship, but I never let anyone get close enough to see my real thoughts and ambitions and fears. I worried that if people saw the real me, they would either not like it and run away, or use it against me one day. So while I had people at school I surrounded myself with, I did not consider them friends. In Overfield, everyone knew my secrets so friendship should have been easier, but old habits die hard.
A couple weeks after I checked in, Crystal came to sit next to me while I was reading a book during my free time.
“Hey,” she said to me. I nodded at her but didn’t lift my eyes from my book, hoping she’d take the hint and leave me alone. But Crystal, for better or worse, was determined to be my friend. I couldn’t understand why, as I had hardly talked to her and done nothing but throw tantrums. This perseverance on her part made me trust her even less, because it made me wonder if she had an ulterior motive. As if maybe she wanted to use my secrets to earn credit with Staff as she told on me for various misdeeds. I had good reason to worry she would turn against me, as she was always someone who told on other people: not in a vindictive way, I don’t believe, but because she thought that in the long run, it would help us. Since most of us were here against our will though, and tried to conspire against Staff and the rules as much as possible, this didn’t exactly make her a prime candidate for friendship.
“Abigail, I want to talk to you,” she said to me, placing her hand on my arm. I stiffened and finally looked at her. At least this time she got the hint and withdrew her hand.
“What, Crystal?” I asked her in a monotone voice. I watched her hand out of the corner of my eye, worried she would try to touch me again.
She must have noticed, because she placed both hands in her lap, left folded over her right, and looked at me.
“I want-” she stopped for a second, looked down at her hands, before continuing. “I want to tell you why I think you should stop fighting so much.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “I already got this speech, Crystal, from Dr. Walden. I get it every time I go see him. If I just stop fighting, I would see that my body wants to recover. If I stop fighting, I’ll learn how to live properly.” I made quotations around this last part, showing how much I cared. “Thanks for the pep talk Crystal, but I’ll do things my way, if you don’t mind.”
She looked hurt, like I’d actually offended her. “What are you so afraid of?” she asked me.
What was I afraid of? Was she kidding? She, being checked into this center, should understand the answer to that question better than anyone. I was afraid of nothing-and everything. It was impossible to put into words, but I never thought I’d need to.
I was ready for this conversation to be over, and I knew she would keep pushing unless I pushed back, harder and stronger. My anger flared up, and I let the words come out before I fully thought about what I was going to say. “You know Crystal, for someone who’s already failed treatment twice before, you sure have a high opinion of yourself, trying to give me advice. What were you afraid of, that made you keep purging even after you got help?”
She stood up, and her eyes lost their pity. Good. I dug my nails into my palms.
“At least I don’t hide behind my anger,” she spat at me. “At least I know that what I’m doing is killing me, and I have enough self-respect to want to at least try to live.” I turned back to my book, letting her know she wasn’t affecting me in the slightest. I had control over myself, and it was going to take more than a self-righteous bulimic to coax me into eating and following the other rules willingly. I saw her legs come close to my chair, and I flinched away from her invasion of my personal space.
“Move back, Crystal. Go away. I don’t know if Staff is pushing you, or if you really are truly a hypocrite. I don’t care. Go fix someone else.”
She started to tremble. “They’re not telling me to talk to you. I thought I’d try and help you realize what you’re doing to yourself, but you’re too selfish to give a shit.” She paused while I turned a page noisily, licking my finger before the flip. “You may want to go back to our room. I’m sure Staff will have a few questions for you about the laxatives they found in your shoes.”
My head snapped up to look at her, looking for the bluff, but there was none. She stared at me, arms crossed over her chest tightly. I wanted to smack her.
“You’re a bitch,” I said instead.
She shook her head. “Eventually you’re going to realize that you shouldn’t fight. That being in here isn’t what’s going to kill you. That being out there,” she pointed to the window, “is your death sentence. Being angry isn’t going to change the fact that you’re in here. So maybe you should just stop fighting and actually give it a shot.”
I stood up, forcing her to take a step back, then turned and walked as fast as I was allowed towards my room, ignoring the sound of Crystal’s voice calling my name.
---
I sit in my favorite chair, waiting for the rest of the girls to trickle in for Group. My stomach is full, and I can feel the chicken and vegetables as they are digested. It’s an odd feeling, but I’ve gotten used to it.
It’s only after Dr. Walden and the rest of Staff comes in that I realize Crystal isn’t here. They start without saying anything, and I know if I ask they will ignore me, but I am worried.
Crystal, surprisingly, is one of the only girls in this place I would consider my friend. A week after our talk, she came to find me again. During this time, I had not given up on fighting the system completely, but I had thought-unwillingly-about what she told me. Or at least about one part: how no matter what, I couldn’t change the fact that I was in here. So I tried to play nice, and as a result was given more freedom. It was a relief to not have a nurse watching my every move, and in a way it was easier to go along with what was expected of me instead of fighting against it.
I hadn’t forgiven Crystal for telling on me, and tried to avoid her whenever I could-easier than you’d think, us being roommates. But she came into the room one day while I was trying to figure out what clothes to wear, and before I could leave she apologized. I wanted to make a snarky comment, but she explained to me that I reminded her of the roommate she had the first time she was in treatment. Both of them were young, did not want to recover, and they spent their unmonitored times breaking the no-exercising rule, or making fun of Staff. They promised to keep in touch after they both got out.
Four months after her roommate was released, she went into cardiac arrest and died.
I watched Crystal’s face as she told me this story, and realized this was why she kept trying to get better. She didn’t want to die, and she didn’t want any of us to die. I wanted to pretend that her story didn’t scare me, but it did, so I accepted the apology and tried to actually listen to her advice. It was true that I also didn’t want to die.
It was harder than I thought it would be to try and follow the rules here at Overfield. If I let go of my control, what would I have left? The thought of trying to survive without my eating disorder scared me just as much as the thought of dying, but Crystal had made a valid point: If I was dead, the eating disorder wouldn’t matter anyway, so why not give living a shot? I couldn’t argue, so I gave in and tried to follow her examples. When she saw me getting riled up in Group or at mealtimes, she would shake her head at me and I would take a deep breath instead of giving a classic sarcastic comment. When Dr. Walden pissed me off by bringing up trauma or problems from my past that I didn’t want to talk about or didn’t think were important, I would go to the room and she would sit on her bed and listen silently while I ranted about his idiocy. I had come to rely on her, in a way, which is why her missing from Group caused me some anxiety.
There is no time limit for Group, per se, because Staff does not want to rush us when we start to confess, or cry, or fight. They want to help us work past our walls we’ve all put in place over the years. So Group usually goes for an hour or two, with many girls either breaking down in hysterics or screaming at the top of their lungs. I do not participate much in Group, so today especially is excruciating. I just want to go find Crystal and make sure that everything’s okay.
Finally, everyone has worked past their Issues enough and Staff releases us. I want to jump up and run towards our room but do not feel like getting a timeout, so I use a leisurely but steady pace to walk down the hallway. I see our door open and hear music playing, and suddenly I think maybe I do not want to walk in the room after all.
But I do. I take that final step around the corner and the first thing I notice is that the wall above her bed, the wall that this morning had been completely covered with posters of movies and bands, is bare. I look for her and see her feet sticking out of her closet, where she is gathering her shoes in her arms.
“What’s going on?” I ask her.
She turns around a little too quick, dropping a couple of shoes. “Abigail, you scared me. How was Group?”
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. “You didn’t miss much. Why are you packing?”
“Because I’m leaving. It’s been almost five months, and Staff thinks I’m ready to go back home.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, no.” She dumps the shoes into a purple suitcase on her bed and sits down. “We’ve been discussing it for a while, and my parents gave them the okay last week. They’re coming to get me in a couple hours.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I am trying to control my voice, but this scares me. She had been granted a number of overnight visits the past month, but I didn’t realize that she was actually testing herself in the real world, so that she could leave here. “What am I supposed to do now?”
She gets up and starts to come towards me, but stops. She knows how I feel about being close to other people. “Don’t think like that,” she says to me. “You will be fine here. You’ve been doing great these past couple months, and it’s not because of me.”
I disagree with her, and she sees it in my eyes. “I helped you at first, but lately you’ve been doing things on your own. I haven’t seen you throw a fit at mealtimes in ages, and I don’t remember the last time I heard you start yelling about Staff.” I start to protest and she laughs. “I mean to their face.”
I shake my head, not listening to her words. Inside, I’m cursing myself. This is what happens when you trust people, I tell myself. They leave. They worm their way into your life and just when you finally let down your guard to accept them, they desert you. Stupid, Abigail, how stupid can you be?
“Stop shaking your head and listen to me!” Crystal exclaims in frustration. “Damnit, Abigail, stop wallowing. This is hard for me too, okay? I’m not ditching you, and you don’t need me to hold your hand throughout your entire stay. You’re strong. Don’t fall apart now just because I’m leaving. That just makes it even harder.”
Looking at her, I realize what she means, and she’s right. I’m being selfish. This is worse for her than it is for me. “Okay,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. I pause to make sure that I’m forgiven, then ask about how she’s feeling, reminding myself too much of Dr. Walden. I grimace inside but let the question hang.
She sighs. “I don’t know. I feel like I can do this, but how do I know? The last two times didn’t work for me, so I’m worried. Being home is going to bring back memories, and not the good ones.”
“You’ll be okay,” I tell her, and smile at her. “Third time’s the charm, right?”
She laughs, a shaky laugh, but it makes me happy. I am worried for her, but I hope she will be okay. I know I’m going to miss her.
She turns back to the closet, head bouncing a little to the music. Before I can talk myself out of it, I cross the room to where she is pulling a jacket off a hanger. I tap her shoulder and as she turns around, I hug her. I feel awkward doing it and my first instinct is to pull away, but I fight it. After a second, she hugs me back, gently, as if she is afraid to touch me. I squeeze tighter for a moment, but eventually I have to pull away. She smiles at me with tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Let me help you pack,” I tell her, arms still tingling.
---
On a Friday, two weeks after Crystal left, I am sitting in Dr. Walden’s office. I have always wanted to make a joke out of his name based off of Thoreau’s book, but I cannot remember much of what happened in it. We read it in March of my sophomore year. I do not remember the plot of the book, but I do remember wondering how many calories one would burn if they had to chop all that wood for a cabin. I remember my weight at the time: 104, and knowing that was too much. I remember the book solely in terms of how it pertained to my body. Most of my life has been like that, come to think of it.
I sit back on the couch and wait. Friday is not my day for therapy, so I do not know why I have been called in to talk to him. He looks through some papers on his desk for a moment, then finally looks at me.
“Abigail, I’m not quite sure how to say this to you, so I’m just going to go ahead and tell you.” He pauses for a bit while my heart speeds up.
“Your insurance company has informed us that your coverage has run out. We’re going to have to discharge you in a week. I’m sorry.”
I stare at him blankly, not quite sure how to respond. He is watching me closely, and I feel like this is some sort of test.
“Abigail?” he asks me. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? No, I want to scream at him, I don’t think I am. With Crystal gone, it was harder than I thought it would be to stick to the treatment. I no longer wanted to play nice, to sit down every three hours and eat food that no longer had any flavor, or create collages out of magazine ads, or to trace my body on paper and point out my flaws. I didn’t want to do it, but I had tried anyway, to not disappoint Crystal even though she wasn’t there, and now I find out I’m going to be released. I don’t feel okay in the slightest.
These thoughts, thoughts I didn’t realize I had, startle me. All I used to want was to get out of here, but now that it’s a reality, I don’t want to. I like being in here, despite how frustrating the rules are. I finally started to feel safe, and now they’re taking it away.
“I think maybe I’m in shock,” my mouth tells him the truth before I can stop it. “I kind of feel cheated.”
He raises his eyebrows, indicating that he wants me to go deeper into that thought, and I feel the anger start to boil down in the pit of my stomach.
“What do you want me to say, Dr. Walden? That I’m happy? I’m not. I don’t want to leave yet. I’m not ready.” Too much truth, too much. Shut up, I tell myself.
“I don’t necessarily agree with you about that, Abigail. You’ve made great strides these past couple of months.” He looks at my charts.
“You’ve been steadily gaining weight, you don’t complain at mealtimes. We haven’t had to search your room or take away your privileges in the past three weeks. Your vitals are stable. You seem to be recovering very well, and if you had been able to stay for your full term I would feel very confident about sending you home.”
“But I’m not staying for the full term, so you aren’t sure,” I say to him when he doesn’t continue. He nods at me.
“I think at this point, it’s up to you what happens when you leave here. You’ve been here long enough to understand what you need to do in order to be successful.” He smiles. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you are one of the more stubborn girls I’ve dealt with here. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, because stubbornness can destroy a person just as easily as it can help them. If you want to succeed when you’re at home, then I believe you can do it, but you have to make the choice.”
I understand what he’s saying, but I am still scared. I see both my options in my head: when I leave, I can go back to school, sit at the table during lunchtime, and eat my sandwich without cutting it into sixths, choosing two pieces, and chewing each bite ten times. I can also hide in the back of the library, using homework as an excuse, while I listen to my stomach growl and berate it for showing weakness as I count my ribs. I know which one is the right option, but I am also tempted by the second choice. They both sound good, and bad, and I do not know what I am going to do.
Dr. Walden hands me a manila folder with meal options, phone numbers in case I slip, and other miscellaneous info. I thank him for everything, and head back to my room to pack.
---
My mom pulls into the restaurant’s parking lot, turns off the car, and takes a breath. We have been driving in silence the entire way here. Not an awkward silence, more like a heightened silence, where you’re aware that no one’s talking but you don’t feel the need to blurt out the first thing that comes into your mind just to break it.
I get out of the back seat before she or my dad can say anything to me, because I don’t want to think about why we’re here. It worries me that they’ve chosen for my first meal to be at a restaurant. I would have been able to handle a home cooked meal, but restaurants have always been tricky. It’s impossible to calculate how many calories you’re eating, because you never know how much butter they used, or if the dressing is low-fat, or how much meat is really in your burger. Somehow restaurants can take a healthy meal and jack it up with calories and sodium until it’d be better to eat three Big Macs instead. But my parents wanted to take me somewhere nice, in a sort of celebration-why does our society always have to celebrate with food?-for my release. So we ended up here, where I don’t want to be. As the hostess leads us to our table I wipe my palms on my jeans.
The menu holds no surprises: burgers, chicken breast, pastas, salads, sandwiches. I find a turkey sandwich with avocado and tomatoes, and figure it’s the best I’ll find. I see my mom’s forehead scrunch when I place my order, and I can hear her worrying if it’s enough, should she make me get something greasy, shouldn’t I order a real drink instead of water? I know my dad has his hand resting on her leg even though I can’t see it, because his shoulder is subtly moving up and down in time with my mom’s leg. But neither of them says anything about my meal choice and I hand my menu over to my waitress.
We sit and make small talk about everything except the obvious, which doesn’t leave much else to talk about. Our family has never been particularly chatty. I find out my grandma broke her hip last week when she fell in her kitchen, and the neighbors across the street just bought a dog that never stops barking. I don’t have any stories to tell them, since we’re not talking about it.
The food comes and both my parents stare, and then try not to stare, as I pick up half of my sandwich and take a bite. I immediately start to count how many times I chew before I catch myself and try not to think about it. I do twelve just to mess with my brain, even though I’m not counting. They are so intent on trying not to watch me that they have not started on their own meals yet. If I wasn’t so annoyed, I would have laughed.
“It’s good,” I say to my mom, “how’s your pasta?” and she quickly picks up her fork. My dad takes a bite out of his burger, I shove more of my sandwich into my mouth-no I am not counting chews, I did not swallow that bite only after seven-and we all smile at each other without talking.
The waitress comes over when we look like we are full. My dad declines another beer, I decline more water, and then she asks the inevitable question of whether we’d like to try some dessert.
My parents look at me, and I look back. To show them that yes, I am fine, and no, leaving early did not stop my recovery, I ask them if they’d like to share the brownie platter. My mother lets out a breath I’m not quite sure she knew she was holding and nods at the waitress to bring it out.
“Are you cold, honey?” My mom asks me when the waitress leaves, and at first I am confused. Then I realize that I am shaking, trembling. I try to stop, but that only makes me shake harder. She watches me, and I realize I have to say something before she gets suspicious.
“A little,” I lie to her. “But I’m okay,” I say as my dad tries to hand me his coat. Under the table, I unclench my fists that I didn’t realize I had made. In my palms, little half moons appear, light in color. They throb for a second, and then disappear as if they were never there.
---
---
---
Where are they, where are they? The lights seem too bright for my panicked eyes and I squint to try and read the signs above the rows. I’m sweating, both from the walk here and from the fear that they are gone, that I will not be able to find them. I turn down Aisle 7, where they always were, but now I stare at body lotion and deodorant. Luckily, this late at night, I do not have to deal with friendly employees trying to help me, or other customers watching as I walk quickly up and down each aisle, head sweeping back and forth.
Finally, finally, I spot them. I grab a box, take two steps away, backtrack, and grab two more. Better safe than sorry.
I look for the line with a cashier that looks very old or very bored. Although sometimes the old ones are chatty, and I am not in the mood for conversation-I’m in too much of a hurry. I find one that has a man, maybe around 50, and slap the boxes face down on the strip along with a pack of gum. I throw in a candy bar for show.
Walking home, I can still feel the brownie sitting inside my stomach, slowly making its way outward into my veins, clogging up my heart. It expands like bread in the oven, until I feel like my stomach is going to burst inside of me. It chains me down to the ground, making it hard to lift one foot and place it in front of the other.
My phone beeps as I walk into my house and up the stairs as silently as I can, but I cannot think about it until after I have swallowed half of the box. When I feel the last pill go down my throat, I relax a bit and search for my phone.
It’s a message from Crystal. I had texted her when my parents picked me up, to let her know I was out. I asked her how it felt, being back home, and she had simply told me that it was challenging.
I purged :’(, her message says. I couldn’t take it anymore. I feel so horrible but better at the same time. How was the restaurant? Hope you’re okay.
I don’t respond, because I don’t know what to say. Or maybe I do, but I can’t say it. Her text makes me feel guilty, but I can’t undo it now, so I don’t tell her anything. Let her think that I’m sleeping, or that I’m still spending time with my family. She never has to know what happened. As they say, the best little secrets are kept.
I lie on my bed and read, waiting. Finally, I feel that first twinge in the lower part of my stomach that tells me to head towards the toilet, now please. I slide my feet into my slippers and open my door as slowly as possible. Quietly, I make my way down to the bathroom, book in my left hand, ready to let everything move through me until I am once again empty inside, light as air. I know this is not what I should be thinking, that I specifically have a sheet in the folder that Dr. Walden gave me on what to do when I start thinking these kinds of thoughts. I know this, but it doesn’t seem to matter right now. The brownie is messing with my brain. I sit down on the toilet and wait.
The laxatives grip my intestines, and I give a relieved sigh without quite meaning to.
I feel so horrible but better at the same time, Crystal had said.
My thoughts exactly.
She pushes the doors open for me, and we walk into what could be considered a cafeteria, although it is different from the one at my high school in many ways. I see another nurse look up and register my face. Turning around, she uncaps the dry erase marker and makes a note on the board behind her next to my name: Abigail, 12:04. Very precise, but everything in this place has to be exact, with no room for error. Many of our lives, or at least our sanities, depend on their meticulous attention to details.
I walk to the far counter, right next to the kitchen, to pick up my lunch tray from the counter and carry it to my table. It is a rule, to show that I am getting better, that the weight and contents of the plate do not send my heart into overdrive, that I will not in fact throw my plate into the nearest garbage can and run screaming from the room. I have to pick it up, and feel the heat from it warm my hands. I cannot see what is under the fog that has gathered on the Saran Wrap, but it doesn’t matter. There isn’t much variation of food here. It’s a nice subtlety of theirs; food is stable, food is constant. You can trust the food.
I peel back the wrapper, slowly, and look down at the plate while keeping my face blank. Today, we have a breaded chicken breast, overcooked and tough on the teeth, a circular lump of grey mashed potatoes, and a hardened biscuit with a pack of full fat butter next to it. There is a medley of cooked asparagus and baby carrots as well, to complete all the food groups.
I must also choose my drinks. Not just one obscenely tall glass of something, but two. Water does not count, and skim milk does not exist here. I ask the nurse in a clear, somewhat bored voice for 2% milk that feels as thick as cream going down my throat, and orange juice so heavy that I do not know if the flakes floating around are pulp or just seeds of pure fat that will lodge themselves into the walls of my veins and never leave.
All of this, every bite of the chicken-300-and the mashed potatoes-110-and the veggies-60-and the two drinks that are, respectively, 130 and 110-I have to finish in forty minutes.
All I can think when I look at my plate is: I’m in hell.
But when the nurse brings my drinks, I thank her in my polite voice and do not say anything else. It’s pointless to talk to them, especially about the food. Complaining about the rules doesn’t get you anywhere in here. It’s better to just follow the rules, to roll over like a good puppy and perform whatever tricks they ask of you.
There are three other girls already at my table, and one other nurse. We are all mirrors of each other, more or less: we are dressed in T-shirts and tank tops so we cannot hide food up our sleeves, and we keep our napkins uncrumpled and next to our plates so we don’t sweep the food into our laps. Staff here is smart; they know all of our tricks.
We tremble slightly as we slowly cut into our meat and butter our biscuit, and we fight the urge to separate the asparagus from the carrots, or to make sure we chew each bite ten times before we swallow, or to cut everything into microscopic pieces. We resist taking the plastic knife and trying to dig it into the necks of the nurses, or our own.
Instead: we sit there and chew and drink and smile at the nurses and at each other and we watch the clock out of the corner of our eyes. We sit there and chew and drink and try not to think about how much we’re eating or how quickly or how we will not be allowed to use the bathroom for at least an hour afterwards. We sit there and chew and drink and try not to think how this cycle will repeat itself again in three hours, for the midafternoon snack, and three hours after that, with another fattening meal, or again for late night tea.
It’s a nightmare, this place is, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. No matter how much I hate it, I must go along with it if I ever want my freedom back. So: the food will end up in my stomach, and from there it will be distributed to my thighs, my arms, my boobs. Later, I will choose the best words to represent my dilemmas and try, for the millionth time, to explain to my therapist that my thighs are too round and that my double chin embarrasses me. I cannot stop these events because they are the reasons I am here. They are all part of the plan to help me become a normal human outside of these walls, where it will not scare me to eat three fulfilling meals a day and have my thighs touch and my collarbones hidden under my skin.
I do not believe this plan is possible for me, but I have no choice in the matter. To get out of here, I must do as they ask, and do it without complaining. I must put on the act that they wish to see, but I will not get a standing ovation for my efforts.
I shut off my brain, grip my plastic ware harder, and finish eating.
---
Overfield Treatment Center. Located just 30 miles outside of sunny Orlando, Florida. Run by watchful, overweight nurses and intrusive therapists. Occupied by distended stomachs and scarred thighs, skeletons and dying hearts. It could either be a place of refuge or a place of torture, depending on who you asked. And why you were asking.
I checked in three months ago, the week after my junior homecoming dance at my high school.
Edit: I was forced to come here three months ago by my parents, the week after I collapsed on the dance floor and my date panicked and called an ambulance because he couldn’t wake me up and I was barely breathing.
There were two nurses at the front desk. When I walked in with my parents, one of them grabbed a sheath of papers and came to explain to us what I should expect from my stay here. I listened and nodded but truthfully I didn’t pay attention. Couldn’t have really, even if I had wanted to. The meds they gave me from the hospital had wrapped smoke around my brain, blocking out words like clouds block out sunlight We stood up when she did, and she asked my parents to wait in the lobby while she took me down a hallway. Tired from everything, and weak from carrying my suitcase, I didn’t even have the energy to ask why.
I woke up a little when she opened the door of an examining room. The scale was hidden slightly behind the door, and a bed was pressed against the far wall. Locked cabinets ran around the top and bottom of the rest of the room. In the right hand corner was another door, slightly ajar. A bathroom.
“Why am I here?” A small part of my brain-the normal part, drug-free and awake-knew that I would end up in a room like this sooner or later, but I was still coming to terms with the fact that I was about to be locked up and force-fed until my stomach puffed out like an overinflated balloon.
“We need to get your stats, your vitals, so we can figure out the most effective treatment plan for you.”
Shivers, up and down my spine. “Just use the information from the hospital. They did all of that stuff.”
The nurse shook her head and held out a robe. “Those numbers are from a week ago, and don’t reflect your body anymore. We need to be as accurate as possible to help your body recover.”
Recover. Another word that caused my heart to race, and my fear of the situation made me want to put up a fight. It was the best defense mechanism, anger. In the real world, I found it worked rather effectively at getting people to back off when I didn’t want them looking too closely. Nobody likes having someone mad at them.
I knew that no matter how much I resisted though, she would still get her way. When I walked-was led, whatever-through those doors, my freedom and choices had disappeared. I snatched the robe from her and stalked to the bathroom. My intent was to slam the door as hard as I could manage, but about an inch away from closing it bounced back as if it had hit an invisible wall. I tried pulling it again, with the same result. No matter how hard I pulled, the door would not shut.
“It doesn’t close all the way,” the nurse said to me, leaning back on the counter, entirely too casually. My face must have reflected my horror, but she didn’t react, just watched as I tried once more to close it. When it still wouldn’t close, I lost it. I had accepted that my freedom was gone, but not having privacy, even in a bathroom, was too much.
“This is bullshit!” I screamed, throwing the robe towards the nurse. It didn’t come close to her, spreading open in the air before it went half a foot, and before I could find something else to throw two more nurses came into the room. “Don’t touch me!” I spat at them as they came towards me, flinching away from their outstretched hands. Their faces were blank, as if they did this all the time. “Don’t you dare touch me,” I said, but they didn’t stop. I let out a wordless, prolonged scream as they came closer to me, arms trying to hold me down, chain me forever.
I screamed continuously until the world tipped sideways, fuzzing around the edges.
Afterwards, I would realize it was impressive-I’d never screamed for that long before. But then that pissed me off because if I had had enough energy inside me to scream that long and loud, I should have used it to stay conscious at that stupid homecoming dance so I would never have ended up here.
Our bodies always choose the worst times to betray us.
---
Abigail Ellenora Frost, F. DOB 02-10-93
Height: 5’5”
Weight: 91 lbs
BMI: 15.2
Notes: Bradycardia, Orthostatic hypotension, Anemia, Osteopenia. Suspected laxative abuse, scars on inner left thigh.
Suggested treatment: 5-month stay. 2,500 calorie plan, starting with half-meals. 24-hour supervision until further notice.
---
The first few weeks didn’t go so well. I screamed, I cried, I lashed out. I did everything except for what they asked of me, so that I was always on 24-hour watch. I knew that my stubbornness was causing my stay to become longer, but I couldn’t let go. I didn’t want to get better, so I made Staff’s job exceedingly unpleasant for them.
My roommate, a 19-year-old bulimic named Crystal, sat with me at meals and during Group, but I didn’t talk to her much. Besides the fact that she had checked herself in-who wanted to be here voluntarily?-I had learned a long time ago not to trust anyone. I could go through the motions of friendship, but I never let anyone get close enough to see my real thoughts and ambitions and fears. I worried that if people saw the real me, they would either not like it and run away, or use it against me one day. So while I had people at school I surrounded myself with, I did not consider them friends. In Overfield, everyone knew my secrets so friendship should have been easier, but old habits die hard.
A couple weeks after I checked in, Crystal came to sit next to me while I was reading a book during my free time.
“Hey,” she said to me. I nodded at her but didn’t lift my eyes from my book, hoping she’d take the hint and leave me alone. But Crystal, for better or worse, was determined to be my friend. I couldn’t understand why, as I had hardly talked to her and done nothing but throw tantrums. This perseverance on her part made me trust her even less, because it made me wonder if she had an ulterior motive. As if maybe she wanted to use my secrets to earn credit with Staff as she told on me for various misdeeds. I had good reason to worry she would turn against me, as she was always someone who told on other people: not in a vindictive way, I don’t believe, but because she thought that in the long run, it would help us. Since most of us were here against our will though, and tried to conspire against Staff and the rules as much as possible, this didn’t exactly make her a prime candidate for friendship.
“Abigail, I want to talk to you,” she said to me, placing her hand on my arm. I stiffened and finally looked at her. At least this time she got the hint and withdrew her hand.
“What, Crystal?” I asked her in a monotone voice. I watched her hand out of the corner of my eye, worried she would try to touch me again.
She must have noticed, because she placed both hands in her lap, left folded over her right, and looked at me.
“I want-” she stopped for a second, looked down at her hands, before continuing. “I want to tell you why I think you should stop fighting so much.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “I already got this speech, Crystal, from Dr. Walden. I get it every time I go see him. If I just stop fighting, I would see that my body wants to recover. If I stop fighting, I’ll learn how to live properly.” I made quotations around this last part, showing how much I cared. “Thanks for the pep talk Crystal, but I’ll do things my way, if you don’t mind.”
She looked hurt, like I’d actually offended her. “What are you so afraid of?” she asked me.
What was I afraid of? Was she kidding? She, being checked into this center, should understand the answer to that question better than anyone. I was afraid of nothing-and everything. It was impossible to put into words, but I never thought I’d need to.
I was ready for this conversation to be over, and I knew she would keep pushing unless I pushed back, harder and stronger. My anger flared up, and I let the words come out before I fully thought about what I was going to say. “You know Crystal, for someone who’s already failed treatment twice before, you sure have a high opinion of yourself, trying to give me advice. What were you afraid of, that made you keep purging even after you got help?”
She stood up, and her eyes lost their pity. Good. I dug my nails into my palms.
“At least I don’t hide behind my anger,” she spat at me. “At least I know that what I’m doing is killing me, and I have enough self-respect to want to at least try to live.” I turned back to my book, letting her know she wasn’t affecting me in the slightest. I had control over myself, and it was going to take more than a self-righteous bulimic to coax me into eating and following the other rules willingly. I saw her legs come close to my chair, and I flinched away from her invasion of my personal space.
“Move back, Crystal. Go away. I don’t know if Staff is pushing you, or if you really are truly a hypocrite. I don’t care. Go fix someone else.”
She started to tremble. “They’re not telling me to talk to you. I thought I’d try and help you realize what you’re doing to yourself, but you’re too selfish to give a shit.” She paused while I turned a page noisily, licking my finger before the flip. “You may want to go back to our room. I’m sure Staff will have a few questions for you about the laxatives they found in your shoes.”
My head snapped up to look at her, looking for the bluff, but there was none. She stared at me, arms crossed over her chest tightly. I wanted to smack her.
“You’re a bitch,” I said instead.
She shook her head. “Eventually you’re going to realize that you shouldn’t fight. That being in here isn’t what’s going to kill you. That being out there,” she pointed to the window, “is your death sentence. Being angry isn’t going to change the fact that you’re in here. So maybe you should just stop fighting and actually give it a shot.”
I stood up, forcing her to take a step back, then turned and walked as fast as I was allowed towards my room, ignoring the sound of Crystal’s voice calling my name.
---
I sit in my favorite chair, waiting for the rest of the girls to trickle in for Group. My stomach is full, and I can feel the chicken and vegetables as they are digested. It’s an odd feeling, but I’ve gotten used to it.
It’s only after Dr. Walden and the rest of Staff comes in that I realize Crystal isn’t here. They start without saying anything, and I know if I ask they will ignore me, but I am worried.
Crystal, surprisingly, is one of the only girls in this place I would consider my friend. A week after our talk, she came to find me again. During this time, I had not given up on fighting the system completely, but I had thought-unwillingly-about what she told me. Or at least about one part: how no matter what, I couldn’t change the fact that I was in here. So I tried to play nice, and as a result was given more freedom. It was a relief to not have a nurse watching my every move, and in a way it was easier to go along with what was expected of me instead of fighting against it.
I hadn’t forgiven Crystal for telling on me, and tried to avoid her whenever I could-easier than you’d think, us being roommates. But she came into the room one day while I was trying to figure out what clothes to wear, and before I could leave she apologized. I wanted to make a snarky comment, but she explained to me that I reminded her of the roommate she had the first time she was in treatment. Both of them were young, did not want to recover, and they spent their unmonitored times breaking the no-exercising rule, or making fun of Staff. They promised to keep in touch after they both got out.
Four months after her roommate was released, she went into cardiac arrest and died.
I watched Crystal’s face as she told me this story, and realized this was why she kept trying to get better. She didn’t want to die, and she didn’t want any of us to die. I wanted to pretend that her story didn’t scare me, but it did, so I accepted the apology and tried to actually listen to her advice. It was true that I also didn’t want to die.
It was harder than I thought it would be to try and follow the rules here at Overfield. If I let go of my control, what would I have left? The thought of trying to survive without my eating disorder scared me just as much as the thought of dying, but Crystal had made a valid point: If I was dead, the eating disorder wouldn’t matter anyway, so why not give living a shot? I couldn’t argue, so I gave in and tried to follow her examples. When she saw me getting riled up in Group or at mealtimes, she would shake her head at me and I would take a deep breath instead of giving a classic sarcastic comment. When Dr. Walden pissed me off by bringing up trauma or problems from my past that I didn’t want to talk about or didn’t think were important, I would go to the room and she would sit on her bed and listen silently while I ranted about his idiocy. I had come to rely on her, in a way, which is why her missing from Group caused me some anxiety.
There is no time limit for Group, per se, because Staff does not want to rush us when we start to confess, or cry, or fight. They want to help us work past our walls we’ve all put in place over the years. So Group usually goes for an hour or two, with many girls either breaking down in hysterics or screaming at the top of their lungs. I do not participate much in Group, so today especially is excruciating. I just want to go find Crystal and make sure that everything’s okay.
Finally, everyone has worked past their Issues enough and Staff releases us. I want to jump up and run towards our room but do not feel like getting a timeout, so I use a leisurely but steady pace to walk down the hallway. I see our door open and hear music playing, and suddenly I think maybe I do not want to walk in the room after all.
But I do. I take that final step around the corner and the first thing I notice is that the wall above her bed, the wall that this morning had been completely covered with posters of movies and bands, is bare. I look for her and see her feet sticking out of her closet, where she is gathering her shoes in her arms.
“What’s going on?” I ask her.
She turns around a little too quick, dropping a couple of shoes. “Abigail, you scared me. How was Group?”
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. “You didn’t miss much. Why are you packing?”
“Because I’m leaving. It’s been almost five months, and Staff thinks I’m ready to go back home.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, no.” She dumps the shoes into a purple suitcase on her bed and sits down. “We’ve been discussing it for a while, and my parents gave them the okay last week. They’re coming to get me in a couple hours.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I am trying to control my voice, but this scares me. She had been granted a number of overnight visits the past month, but I didn’t realize that she was actually testing herself in the real world, so that she could leave here. “What am I supposed to do now?”
She gets up and starts to come towards me, but stops. She knows how I feel about being close to other people. “Don’t think like that,” she says to me. “You will be fine here. You’ve been doing great these past couple months, and it’s not because of me.”
I disagree with her, and she sees it in my eyes. “I helped you at first, but lately you’ve been doing things on your own. I haven’t seen you throw a fit at mealtimes in ages, and I don’t remember the last time I heard you start yelling about Staff.” I start to protest and she laughs. “I mean to their face.”
I shake my head, not listening to her words. Inside, I’m cursing myself. This is what happens when you trust people, I tell myself. They leave. They worm their way into your life and just when you finally let down your guard to accept them, they desert you. Stupid, Abigail, how stupid can you be?
“Stop shaking your head and listen to me!” Crystal exclaims in frustration. “Damnit, Abigail, stop wallowing. This is hard for me too, okay? I’m not ditching you, and you don’t need me to hold your hand throughout your entire stay. You’re strong. Don’t fall apart now just because I’m leaving. That just makes it even harder.”
Looking at her, I realize what she means, and she’s right. I’m being selfish. This is worse for her than it is for me. “Okay,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. I pause to make sure that I’m forgiven, then ask about how she’s feeling, reminding myself too much of Dr. Walden. I grimace inside but let the question hang.
She sighs. “I don’t know. I feel like I can do this, but how do I know? The last two times didn’t work for me, so I’m worried. Being home is going to bring back memories, and not the good ones.”
“You’ll be okay,” I tell her, and smile at her. “Third time’s the charm, right?”
She laughs, a shaky laugh, but it makes me happy. I am worried for her, but I hope she will be okay. I know I’m going to miss her.
She turns back to the closet, head bouncing a little to the music. Before I can talk myself out of it, I cross the room to where she is pulling a jacket off a hanger. I tap her shoulder and as she turns around, I hug her. I feel awkward doing it and my first instinct is to pull away, but I fight it. After a second, she hugs me back, gently, as if she is afraid to touch me. I squeeze tighter for a moment, but eventually I have to pull away. She smiles at me with tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Let me help you pack,” I tell her, arms still tingling.
---
On a Friday, two weeks after Crystal left, I am sitting in Dr. Walden’s office. I have always wanted to make a joke out of his name based off of Thoreau’s book, but I cannot remember much of what happened in it. We read it in March of my sophomore year. I do not remember the plot of the book, but I do remember wondering how many calories one would burn if they had to chop all that wood for a cabin. I remember my weight at the time: 104, and knowing that was too much. I remember the book solely in terms of how it pertained to my body. Most of my life has been like that, come to think of it.
I sit back on the couch and wait. Friday is not my day for therapy, so I do not know why I have been called in to talk to him. He looks through some papers on his desk for a moment, then finally looks at me.
“Abigail, I’m not quite sure how to say this to you, so I’m just going to go ahead and tell you.” He pauses for a bit while my heart speeds up.
“Your insurance company has informed us that your coverage has run out. We’re going to have to discharge you in a week. I’m sorry.”
I stare at him blankly, not quite sure how to respond. He is watching me closely, and I feel like this is some sort of test.
“Abigail?” he asks me. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? No, I want to scream at him, I don’t think I am. With Crystal gone, it was harder than I thought it would be to stick to the treatment. I no longer wanted to play nice, to sit down every three hours and eat food that no longer had any flavor, or create collages out of magazine ads, or to trace my body on paper and point out my flaws. I didn’t want to do it, but I had tried anyway, to not disappoint Crystal even though she wasn’t there, and now I find out I’m going to be released. I don’t feel okay in the slightest.
These thoughts, thoughts I didn’t realize I had, startle me. All I used to want was to get out of here, but now that it’s a reality, I don’t want to. I like being in here, despite how frustrating the rules are. I finally started to feel safe, and now they’re taking it away.
“I think maybe I’m in shock,” my mouth tells him the truth before I can stop it. “I kind of feel cheated.”
He raises his eyebrows, indicating that he wants me to go deeper into that thought, and I feel the anger start to boil down in the pit of my stomach.
“What do you want me to say, Dr. Walden? That I’m happy? I’m not. I don’t want to leave yet. I’m not ready.” Too much truth, too much. Shut up, I tell myself.
“I don’t necessarily agree with you about that, Abigail. You’ve made great strides these past couple of months.” He looks at my charts.
“You’ve been steadily gaining weight, you don’t complain at mealtimes. We haven’t had to search your room or take away your privileges in the past three weeks. Your vitals are stable. You seem to be recovering very well, and if you had been able to stay for your full term I would feel very confident about sending you home.”
“But I’m not staying for the full term, so you aren’t sure,” I say to him when he doesn’t continue. He nods at me.
“I think at this point, it’s up to you what happens when you leave here. You’ve been here long enough to understand what you need to do in order to be successful.” He smiles. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you are one of the more stubborn girls I’ve dealt with here. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, because stubbornness can destroy a person just as easily as it can help them. If you want to succeed when you’re at home, then I believe you can do it, but you have to make the choice.”
I understand what he’s saying, but I am still scared. I see both my options in my head: when I leave, I can go back to school, sit at the table during lunchtime, and eat my sandwich without cutting it into sixths, choosing two pieces, and chewing each bite ten times. I can also hide in the back of the library, using homework as an excuse, while I listen to my stomach growl and berate it for showing weakness as I count my ribs. I know which one is the right option, but I am also tempted by the second choice. They both sound good, and bad, and I do not know what I am going to do.
Dr. Walden hands me a manila folder with meal options, phone numbers in case I slip, and other miscellaneous info. I thank him for everything, and head back to my room to pack.
---
My mom pulls into the restaurant’s parking lot, turns off the car, and takes a breath. We have been driving in silence the entire way here. Not an awkward silence, more like a heightened silence, where you’re aware that no one’s talking but you don’t feel the need to blurt out the first thing that comes into your mind just to break it.
I get out of the back seat before she or my dad can say anything to me, because I don’t want to think about why we’re here. It worries me that they’ve chosen for my first meal to be at a restaurant. I would have been able to handle a home cooked meal, but restaurants have always been tricky. It’s impossible to calculate how many calories you’re eating, because you never know how much butter they used, or if the dressing is low-fat, or how much meat is really in your burger. Somehow restaurants can take a healthy meal and jack it up with calories and sodium until it’d be better to eat three Big Macs instead. But my parents wanted to take me somewhere nice, in a sort of celebration-why does our society always have to celebrate with food?-for my release. So we ended up here, where I don’t want to be. As the hostess leads us to our table I wipe my palms on my jeans.
The menu holds no surprises: burgers, chicken breast, pastas, salads, sandwiches. I find a turkey sandwich with avocado and tomatoes, and figure it’s the best I’ll find. I see my mom’s forehead scrunch when I place my order, and I can hear her worrying if it’s enough, should she make me get something greasy, shouldn’t I order a real drink instead of water? I know my dad has his hand resting on her leg even though I can’t see it, because his shoulder is subtly moving up and down in time with my mom’s leg. But neither of them says anything about my meal choice and I hand my menu over to my waitress.
We sit and make small talk about everything except the obvious, which doesn’t leave much else to talk about. Our family has never been particularly chatty. I find out my grandma broke her hip last week when she fell in her kitchen, and the neighbors across the street just bought a dog that never stops barking. I don’t have any stories to tell them, since we’re not talking about it.
The food comes and both my parents stare, and then try not to stare, as I pick up half of my sandwich and take a bite. I immediately start to count how many times I chew before I catch myself and try not to think about it. I do twelve just to mess with my brain, even though I’m not counting. They are so intent on trying not to watch me that they have not started on their own meals yet. If I wasn’t so annoyed, I would have laughed.
“It’s good,” I say to my mom, “how’s your pasta?” and she quickly picks up her fork. My dad takes a bite out of his burger, I shove more of my sandwich into my mouth-no I am not counting chews, I did not swallow that bite only after seven-and we all smile at each other without talking.
The waitress comes over when we look like we are full. My dad declines another beer, I decline more water, and then she asks the inevitable question of whether we’d like to try some dessert.
My parents look at me, and I look back. To show them that yes, I am fine, and no, leaving early did not stop my recovery, I ask them if they’d like to share the brownie platter. My mother lets out a breath I’m not quite sure she knew she was holding and nods at the waitress to bring it out.
“Are you cold, honey?” My mom asks me when the waitress leaves, and at first I am confused. Then I realize that I am shaking, trembling. I try to stop, but that only makes me shake harder. She watches me, and I realize I have to say something before she gets suspicious.
“A little,” I lie to her. “But I’m okay,” I say as my dad tries to hand me his coat. Under the table, I unclench my fists that I didn’t realize I had made. In my palms, little half moons appear, light in color. They throb for a second, and then disappear as if they were never there.
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Where are they, where are they? The lights seem too bright for my panicked eyes and I squint to try and read the signs above the rows. I’m sweating, both from the walk here and from the fear that they are gone, that I will not be able to find them. I turn down Aisle 7, where they always were, but now I stare at body lotion and deodorant. Luckily, this late at night, I do not have to deal with friendly employees trying to help me, or other customers watching as I walk quickly up and down each aisle, head sweeping back and forth.
Finally, finally, I spot them. I grab a box, take two steps away, backtrack, and grab two more. Better safe than sorry.
I look for the line with a cashier that looks very old or very bored. Although sometimes the old ones are chatty, and I am not in the mood for conversation-I’m in too much of a hurry. I find one that has a man, maybe around 50, and slap the boxes face down on the strip along with a pack of gum. I throw in a candy bar for show.
Walking home, I can still feel the brownie sitting inside my stomach, slowly making its way outward into my veins, clogging up my heart. It expands like bread in the oven, until I feel like my stomach is going to burst inside of me. It chains me down to the ground, making it hard to lift one foot and place it in front of the other.
My phone beeps as I walk into my house and up the stairs as silently as I can, but I cannot think about it until after I have swallowed half of the box. When I feel the last pill go down my throat, I relax a bit and search for my phone.
It’s a message from Crystal. I had texted her when my parents picked me up, to let her know I was out. I asked her how it felt, being back home, and she had simply told me that it was challenging.
I purged :’(, her message says. I couldn’t take it anymore. I feel so horrible but better at the same time. How was the restaurant? Hope you’re okay.
I don’t respond, because I don’t know what to say. Or maybe I do, but I can’t say it. Her text makes me feel guilty, but I can’t undo it now, so I don’t tell her anything. Let her think that I’m sleeping, or that I’m still spending time with my family. She never has to know what happened. As they say, the best little secrets are kept.
I lie on my bed and read, waiting. Finally, I feel that first twinge in the lower part of my stomach that tells me to head towards the toilet, now please. I slide my feet into my slippers and open my door as slowly as possible. Quietly, I make my way down to the bathroom, book in my left hand, ready to let everything move through me until I am once again empty inside, light as air. I know this is not what I should be thinking, that I specifically have a sheet in the folder that Dr. Walden gave me on what to do when I start thinking these kinds of thoughts. I know this, but it doesn’t seem to matter right now. The brownie is messing with my brain. I sit down on the toilet and wait.
The laxatives grip my intestines, and I give a relieved sigh without quite meaning to.
I feel so horrible but better at the same time, Crystal had said.
My thoughts exactly.