Hemorrhage.

The text messages were a daily occurrence.

Some were mean: you need to eat, you anorexic whoreand no one can stand to look at you.

Others were just truthful, I guess: you’re too thinand you’re not healthy.

Of course, in my mind, I didn’t believe them. The words “too” and “thin” could not come right after each other in a sentence for me. There was no such thing as too thin. Thin was beautiful, thin was sexy. Thin was all I ever wanted to be in life.

Nothing had changed. None of the boys had contacted me. I think, maybe, there was a part of me that knew that I was supposed to be the one to reach out, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want to do it.

It was Tuesday now, and I waited in Dr. Meyer’s waiting room for my session. It was the first of many, apparently. I wasn’t excited in the least.

I didn’t see the point; she knew that I wasn’t going to talk to her. My loathing had not been hidden well a few years ago, and I’m sure she didn’t forget the harsh words exchanged at my last session. I hated that woman, in the harshest sense of the word. She had changed my entire life upside down, all because she thought I was “unhealthy.” She was unhealthy too, binging in McDonalds fries and Starbucks every day.

I was convinced that the only reason she said I was unhealthy was because in reality, she was.

Five minutes passed before Dr. Meyer peeked her head out of her door, motioning me inside with her chubby index finger. I set the Woman’s Health magazine down on the end table and slide my purse higher up on my shoulder. My feet slapped against the hardwood floor but my thighs didn’t touch. I felt so much pride knowing that my thighs didn’t touch.

Dr. Meyer’s office had that artificial sense of security. It had light hardwood floors, olive paint, and a modern looking sofa across from a leather recliner. There was a coffee table separating the chair and the sofa, and the table was scattered with mental health brochures. There was a bowl full of peppermints, and a vase of fake flowers in the corner.

The office was made to look warm, homey, but normally it just gave me the chills. Maybe it was because I didn’t like being in a room were some people expressed their deepest, darkest secrets. Maybe it was because I hated being in a room that an evil woman spent so much time in.

“Sit, sit,” Dr. Meyers urged as I shut the door behind me. I said nothing as I sat down lightly on the left end of the sofa. The cushions sunk down underneath me, making me feel self conscious about my weight.

Was I so fat that the cushions couldn’t even stand to hold me up?

I tried my hardest not to get overly upset about the situation, knowing that Dr. Meyers could read distress from a few miles away. She could smell fear, distress, and anxiety like they were floral scents. Or the smell of French fries.

Dr. Meyers situated herself on her recliner, tucking her feet ladylike in her skirt. She had a notebook perched on the arm of the chair, with a ink pen poised in her hand, ready to take notes.

It was a wasted effort, I thought, because I wasn’t going to be saying much.

“So, Emelie,” Dr. Meyers started. “How have you been lately?”

I stared straight ahead. I blinked at her twice before answering, in a deadpan voice, “Fine.”

Dr. Meyers didn’t seem phased by my lack of participation. That only made me hate her more. “Fine? That’s it? I find that hard to believe, considering…”

She trailed off, and my eyes narrowed. “Considering what?”

The words flew out of my mouth before I had time to think. I had to tell myself to calm down; this was all a part of her plan. All she wanted to do was get a rise out of me, so she could make me loose control of my emotions. I couldn’t let that happen.

Letting that happen was like eating chocolate or processed cheese - bad, bad, bad.

“Considering your state, Emelie.” She was like my mother, with that annoying way of saying my name too much, as if she had to constantly remind herself whom she was talking to. “Your mother is worried about you.”

She wouldn’t be if you hadn’t pushed that radical idea inside of her head, I thought in response. I kept my mouth firmly shut.

“She doesn’t know what to do, Emelie.”

Leaving me alone would be nice. Maybe stop pestering me every fifty-two seconds on if I’ve shoved some calorie infested piece of food into my mouth.

“She’s afraid you’re going to die, Emelie.” She put all of her emphasis on the words ‘die’ and my name.

I tired to bite my tongue - I pressed it against the side of my cheek, keeping my teeth planted firmly over it so I wouldn’t spit out the retort I was thinking off. All my restraint didn’t work.

“A cow died for your chair, but you don’t seem to mind much. What’s the difference between a cow and me?”

Dr. Meyers looked taken back for a second, before she comfortably regained her composure. She was a therapist, so of course she had to regain her composure.

“Emelie, you know that there is a significant difference between you and a cow.” Her voice sounded like a mixture between disbelief and faked indifference.

“Really?” I asked her skeptically, raising an arched eye brow. “What might that be?”

“A cow is an animal, Emelie, and you’re a human being. There is a significant difference between the two, mainly the intelligence level and the spot on the food chain.”

I wanted to scream at her so badly. I wanted to shout at her for her condescending tone, even though it was clear that she was ignorant in the issues that really mattered in the world. She had this smug look on her face, and I wanted nothing more than to smack it off of her face.

I refrained.

I bit my tongue and I clenched my fists. I didn’t want to hit her - that would cause a lot of trouble. I didn’t think I could, quite honestly. She was a big woman, and my muscles were weak.

“Emelie, all I want for you to do is talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling, why you’re doing this to yourself. Just give me something to work with here.” Her voice was firm, her tone thick with authority. She always acted like she was the one in charge - she was the one sitting in the animal skin chair, with her expensive glasses and manicure. She was the one with the degree, and the fine ball-point pen.

She had it all wrong, though. She wasn’t in control, I was.

If I didn’t cooperate, she couldn’t be in control. She could make all of the assumptions that she wanted to, but she couldn’t do anything about it if I didn’t cooperate.

It was then, sitting in the overly expensive sofa, that I made the promise to myself that I would never cooperate.

I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing how my mind worked. She didn’t deserve that. She deserved to fish around, to spend an hour making implications and shooting questions, but never getting a response back.

“Emelie, this doesn’t have to be so hard. This could be quite easy, actually. All you have to do is talk.”

All I had to do was talk. Talk to her. That was impossible, without an acerbic tone or harsh, biting words.

She spent the next fifteen minutes staring at me as I stared back at her. I blinked, she wrote down some scribbled word on her expensive note paper.

I hope she got all the words right - uncooperative, rude.

All I hoped for was that she used the correct adjectives.

She dismissed me early, after an hour rather than two. All she said was, “You can go now.”

I honestly expected more from her, but maybe she was too busy trying to figure out some other way to ruin my life. I said nothing, just stood up, hooked my purse around my shoulder, and left the room.

The receptionist shot me a smile as I fished my keys out of my bag, but I didn’t smile back at her. I simply nodded, pulling my keys out and hooking them around my finger.

The entire ride home I thought about the conversation, over and over again. I felt victorious, in a way, like I had won today’s battle. There was always Thursday’s, but I would think about when the time came.

I pulled into the driveway cautiously, trying to get the car as straight as possible. I was trying to distract my mind, with thoughts of the argument and parking the car correctly, from thinking about how hungry I was.

I hadn’t eaten in a day and a half, and even then all I had were two saltine crackers and some water, to make myself feel bloated. I was cheating my stomach into thinking that I was full.

I shut off the car, got out, and locked the door behind me. I lazily made my way up the driveway, heading towards the walkway. I was tired already, from walking and driving. My body couldn’t handle much activity because it wasn’t getting a big energy source. I was burning more than I was taking in.

I was stepping on the first piece of flattened rock that made up the walkway when I heard someone call my name from behind me.

“Emelie!”

I turned around slowly, my eyes closing in disbelief, because I knew that voice. Oh, I knew that voice.

He was standing behind my car, his hands shoved in his too-tight pockets. He looked taller, somehow, and skinnier.

“John?” His name came out as a question, even though I knew he was there. I could see him. I could almost feel his presence.

“Emelie,” he forced a smile out at me as he stood there awkwardly. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, trying to force down a yawn. I didn’t have the energy for this. I had already been interrogated by a therapist, I didn’t need awkward conversation with John.

“How have you been?” He asked, his voice sounding strained.

His mother must have wanted him to come over, I concluded. He didn’t want to talk to me; John was the person most pissed off by my leaving abruptly, so I knew that he was still probably holding a grudge.

“Fine.” My voice was tired, and that was always my default answer when someone asked me that question. What else was I supposed to say?

I think I’m dying from starvation and I can’t stand to look you in the eye without fearing that I’ll break down?

Didn’t think it’d go over well.

“That’s good.” He said with a nod. Then, with a sigh, he started talking again. “Look, Emelie, I just…” He trailed off, and he looked like he was struggling to find the right word.

Was he sorry? Angry? Indifferent? Did he not care? Did he care too much?

“I think we need to talk.” He finally struggled out, and he sounded so nervous. He looked nervous.

John was shy. I knew that, but I would have figured that he’d be over it by now. We used to be really good friends.

I guess time and space changes people.

“You do?” I asked him, my voice probably sounding my surprise. What could we possibly have to talk about?

He nodded. “Yeah. Do you want to go out to dinner or something?”

I visibly flinched.

He shifted back and forth. “Or coffee?” He offered, when he saw the scared look on my face.

I shrugged. “I guess.” I agreed, even though I really didn’t want to. I could feel the anxiety start to creep up my spine, seizing all of my functions. This was going to be a hard conversation.

“When?” I asked.

“Is now good?” He asked.

No, I wanted to say. I don’t have the energy to deal with this right now.

Instead, I nodded.