When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

"We have already discussed this with the individual bands, but we would like to address you as a group," Tim Kirch says to the huddle of bands in the center of the venue.

It's been about ten minutes into our stop at the venue, and the managers have already decided to herd us into a group. I don't know what we've done. It's quite possible we're in trouble for something, or that they're giving us a warning before we somehow manage to get in trouble for something. Each group here has at least one member that has the potential to blow up the venue on accident.

Ours happens to be Dalton.

He's capable of a great deal of destruction, and I honestly don't think he tries.

"It's about the Halloween party and how it will take place," Matt elaborates.

That works, too.

"Last night, we got everyone's costumes, and they are as follows," Ross clears his throat and glances at the clipboard in his hands, "So, from All Time Low we have The Legend of Zelda cosplaying, as requested by Elina. Alex will be Link, of course. Jack is Skull Kid, Zack is Ganon, and Rian is Tael."

That's cute. Jack would make a great Skull Kid. I'm sure he'll embrace the part of annoying trouble maker without a problem.

But Skull Kid is a little punk.

I don't even play that many video games, but I know that it is completely outrageous for a villain to make you start over after three days. Fucking Majora's Mask and its stupid time frame.

"For The Maine," Ross continues, "we have Final Fantasy VII cosplaying, as requested by Dalton."

Dalton and Elina high-five, possibly excited by the fact that they managed to get the two headliners to dress up as something so nerdy.

I'll admit, I kind of like it.

"John will be Zack Fair," Matt starts, "Jared is Cid Highwind, Kennedy is Sephiroth, and Pat is Vincent Valentine. Garret will be going as Cloud. Is that right?"

The members of All Time Low and The Maine nod. From the corner of my eye, I can see Elina studying Pat. She has this thing for Vincent Valentine, which I don't completely understand. She's about as obsessed with him as Dalton is with Jack Barakat.

Intense drooling included.

How someone can drool over a video game character is beyond me. They're not real. It doesn't seem plausible to have a crush on them.

But I suppose it’s the same as having a crush on a celebrity you've never met.

I'm not a big video game player, so I don't think I'll ever completely understand. It's not that I don't like video games. There are things I prefer doing over playing video games, things that are a little more important.

Like working at the ice cream shop, playing my guitar, and vomiting.

"Now for You First," Tim sighs, looking down at his clip board, "You guys are so random and... weird."

In unison, we smile. Big, toothy smiles that seem rehearsed. We've heard it all before and embrace it.

"Anyhow," he dismisses, "Riley will be an angel, Holland a fairy, Dalton and Ross will be Ash Ketchem and Brock from Pokemon, RJ will be a Panda Bear, and Elina and Calvin are," he pauses, squinting. He puts his glasses on, mouthing words to himself.

Can he really not read what he wrote?

Someone needs to go back to preschool to practice their penmanship.

Finally, he says, "Calvin and Elina will go as Batman and Catwoman." Before Elina can recover from her obvious shock, he says, "The details on the party are still being worked out. We just wanted to let you know who was dressing up as who."

Somehow, I don't think she's getting into the body suit.

Arms slither around my waist, arms I know quite well. His body presses to my back, his head resting against the top of mine.

Jack really isn't that much taller than me. He's a little over six foot, I assume, and my height is somewhere around five feet eight inches. I come from a family of giants, the tallest being my father at six foot four.

My sister is five foot nine.

I think she would be taller if she hadn't turned to anorexia. It stunts growth, after all. She's still taller than me, but she was five foot nine when she started starving herself three years ago.

"A fairy, huh? That's kind of sexy," Jack says.

"Is it now?"

"Well, it depends on the costume." Jack removes his head from against mine and looks down at me. I meet his gaze. "You should wear blue underwear and wings."

"Not in your life time."

My body is too big to be exposed like that. I like Jack, but I'm not flaunting my fat. I'm pretty sure we're performing in costume close to Halloween. The fans don't need to see my body jiggling.

"But I bought you a set of matching blue bras and panties from Victoria's Secret. You wouldn't have to buy a costume. Think of all the money you would save and how happy you'd make me."

"As tempting as that sounds, I think I'll pass."

"No castration threats?"

"I think we're beyond that, don't you?"

The smile on his face is warm, joy radiating from the expression. My heart thumps hard against my ribcage. I can't stop the smile tugging on my lips. He's adorable.

"I'm glad," he says.

Me, too.

"Sound check," RJ yells from the stage, where he's setting up our equipment.

"I need to get up there," I say.

"Okay," Jack sighs, releasing my waist.

Jack's eyes follow me as I walk away from him and get onto the stage. Like always, they stay on me while I play my guitar. I've gotten used to having Jack's eyes glued to my form while I play. It was awkward during the first performances, unnerving even, but I'm okay with it now.

It's not as creepy anymore.

Sound check only takes a few minutes, thankfully. I still haven't gotten over the dehydration that has been plaguing me. I haven't given my body the chance to hydrate. Purging uses up every once of liquid I have. It's only gotten worse from the last performance. My muscles are cramping, in so much pain I don't really want to move. I've been having headaches and major dizziness, even when lying down. I'm tired, but I can't sleep. And when I can't sleep, I vomit, which only makes it worse. I feel like my body is making a rapid decent into death.

But I'm managing to hide it.

That's one of those things I'm good at.

When I'm done, I hand RJ my guitar and return to Jack's side. He smiles at me and clasps my hand in his.

"You want to go get something to eat?" he asks.

Why is he so set on going out to eat with me? Can't we just sit somewhere and cuddle or something? I understand we can't go to the movie theater and any other time consuming date, but isn't there something we can do other than eat? There has to be a date that's a little less anxiety filled.

What do normal couples do?

"After you sound check," I reply.

I'll just eat something small. I don't think I can stomach much food. Not because I don't want to. I always want to eat, but I constrict that urge until I can't constrict it any longer and eat till I'm so full I have to throw up. It’s a cycle of starvation, binging, and purging.

But I'm not hungry, which is probably caused by the dehydration attacking my system.

"Will you stay and watch me, then? I don't want you disappearing before I can take you out," Jack says.

"Jack, I won't disappear. Promise."

"You better not."

"And why not?"

"Because I'll be upset, and I'll have to pout until you come back, like this." He proceeds to pout, jutting out his lower lip in the most exaggerated fashion, forcing sadness to his Labrador brown eyes.

I think my heart melted.

"You have really pretty eyes," I blurt.

My free hand flies to cover my mouth the moment the statement is in the air, my cheeks heating up. I can't believe I said that.

Stupid, Holland.

Jack's fake pout morphs into a real smile. He pulls my hand from my mouth with his unoccupied hand, keeping it from hiding my face.

"You think my eyes are pretty?" he asks, amusement in his tone.

I nod, not trusting myself to talk. Who knows what other stupid thing will spew from my mouth. It's like word vomit. Once it starts, you can't stop it, and it keeps going until you make yourself look like a complete freak in front of a guy you actually like.

"That's cute."

"You don't think it's weird?"

"Nothing you do is weird."

If only he knew.

I should tell him, I know I should. Keeping this a secret isn't fair to him. He wants to be with me, he deserves to know.

But I'm scared. What if he hates me? What if he thinks I'm freak? What if he never talks to me again?

I can't handle that.

"Jack, sound check," Matt calls.

"I hate sound check," Jack grumbles, letting go of my hands and shuffling to the stage.

Thoughts of telling Jack fill my head while he sound checks. I'm torn about what I should do, afraid that I'm considering telling someone about my problem. More importantly, I'm afraid of how Jack will react.

I don't know if I'm going to tell him.

Jack bounds offstage after his sound check and grabs my hand. "Let's go," he says, tugging me out of the building through one of the side exits.

The black dots begin flooding my vision due to the sudden movement. I close my eyes while we walk toward the vans, trying to make the spots go away. They don't disappear when I open my eyes. They multiply. Though Jack's pace has slowed down drastically, the dots still remain and multiply.

"So, I think we should go to Burger King. I want a Happy Meal," Jack says, "What do you think?"

His voice is fuzzy. My brain doesn't interpret it the way it should, clear and crisp. I can hear the words and process them to the best of my ability, but everything sounds strange.

"I," I stop, unable to complete the strand of words.

I halt in my tracks, forcing Jack to cease walking. Jack asks something that I can't interpret. The spots cloud my vision, thrusting me into blackness, and my body gives out.

The world comes back into view, my senses reawakening. Jack's concerned face is the first thing I become aware of, the second being that Jack is the only thing keeping my body from hitting pavement.

I don't recall falling against him.

"Are you okay?" Jack asks.

"Was I out long?"

My tongue is heavy, my head pounding even more intensely than it was. I think I'm shaking.

"Only a second," Jack responds, "What happened?"

"I'm not feeling well still. I'll be fine," I push myself out of Jack's arms onto wobbly legs, "Let's go eat."

"You're still not feeling well? Holland, you need to see a doctor." He latches an arm around my waist to keep me stable and leads me to the vans.

"No, I don't."

Like hell I'm going to go see a doctor. I haven't gone to a doctor in almost two and half years. I can't go see a doctor. They can spot bulimia from a mile away. For the sake of my sanity, I can't go see one.

"If you're blacking out, yes, you do."

"I don't have time to see a doctor."

"We'll go now."

What?

I don't think so.

"Jack, we don't have time."

"Its twelve thirty. The concert doesn't start till six. We have time." He stops us at one of the vans and opens the passenger door.

"But we don't have an appointment."

"We'll explain the situation to the receptionist. They'll understand. Just because you don't have an appointment doesn't mean they'll turn you away if you have a problem."

"It's not a major problem. I'm just a little dehydrated."

"A little dehydrated is being extremely thirsty, not passing out."

"Jack—"

He cuts me off, "I don't want to see you get hurt, okay? Let me take you to a doctor."

I take a shaky breath. He's not going to budge on this, and I'm too tired to fight further.

"Okay."

Smiling in triumph, he helps me into the passenger seat. He closes the door and rushes around to the driver's seat, climbing in and turning on the car. I rest my head against the window. It cools the ache in my head a bit.

"I won't let the doctor hurt you, alright?" Jack asks, propelling the car into motion.

That's not what I'm worried about, but I nod anyway.

The rest of the ride is quiet. Jack is trying to let me relax, and I'm trying to keep my heart from giving out due to nervousness. We stop at a hospital less than ten minutes later.

I don't know if I can do this.

I don't have a choice, though.

Jack gets out of the car first, comes around to the other side and eases me out. The walk into the hospital, check in, and the wait are a blur. My mind is too busy whirling with dizziness to take in everything. It seems like it only takes seconds to get me into an examining room. I vaguely remember Jack rattling off the insurance information provided by the label, watching him leaf through magazines, the nurse taking my weight and height.

What did the scale say?

One hundred ten.

I'm five foot eight and weigh one hundred ten pounds.

I don't think that's healthy, but it's not small enough.

The doctor walks into the room. He's an older man with purpose flaring in his eyes despite his pleasant smile. In his hand is a folder, my folder no doubt. It's small, almost empty.

"Holland Kingston?" he asks.

"Yes," I respond.

"I'm Doctor Matthews."

"Nice to meet you," I say.

It really isn't.

Jack stays quiet in the chair next to the examining room table. He eyes the doctor, seems to decide he's decent, and throws a smile in my direction.

I think he's trying to reassure me that this will be okay.

The doctor opens the folder and glances over it. Placing the open folder on the counter, he looks at me.

"Holland, are you aware you're underweight?" Doctor Matthews asks.

"No, sir."

He takes a breath, stares at me for a moment from behind his glasses. I stare back, daring him to call me out, because I know he will.

"We're going to something called an eating-disorder evaluation," he says.

"Do I have a say in this?"

"No."

"Well, have at it, doctor."

Jack's eyes are burning into me, curious. I'm sure he expected me to deny it. That's what most people would do. I don't see a point.

That doesn't mean I'll admit to having an eating disorder yet. There's a slim chance my body can fake healthy throughout these tests.

An extremely slim chance.

The doctor puts his hands on my throat first, feeling the swelling below my jaw. Its clear to me, he already knows the problem. He can see it without this evaluation. But, as long as I don't admit to it, he has no choice but to run this series of tests.

"How long since you've thrown up?" he asks.

"You're assuming I throw up?" I ask.

"Yes."

"This morning."

"How many times this morning?"

"Once."

Lies.

"How many times this morning?" he repeats.

"Once."

"Judging by the swelling here, I'd guess five times minimum."

He's right. And he doesn't wait for me to deny it. Without warning, he shines a light in my eyes. I jump, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Did you know your eyes don't focus?"

"I did not."

"They don't." He scribbles on the paper in the folder, then says, "Stand up."

I do as he instructs. He takes my blood pressure and tells me to lie down, which I do without question. Again, he takes my blood pressure.

"Is it normal?" I ask.

"Not at all," he responds, "Walk heel-to-toe from the door to me."

I go to the door and start walking, eyes at my feet to make sure I'm doing it properly.

"Don't look at the floor," he says.

I look up, take a step, stumble and catch myself on one of the counters littered with magazines and a box of tissues. I'm too embarrassed to laugh it off. The doctor makes a note in my file.

"Shut your eyes, put your arms out to either side of you, and touch your nose with your index finger," he instructs.

He has got to be shitting me.

He seems serious, so I do what he's asked of me.

And I miss.

"Sit on the examination table," he says.

Defeated by a simple task, I sit, head hanging. He tests my reflexes with his mallet. Nothing happens. He tests again. My legs remain hanging limp. He takes one of my hands, glances over my scabbed knuckles, and looks at my nails. They have a blue tint to them.

I'd cover that with nail polish but I don't want chunks of nail polish to fall into my throat while I vomit.

He takes a blood test and a urine sample, scribbling notes all the while. By the time we're finished, I haven’t looked at Jack once.

"So did I fail?" I ask.

"Pretty much," Doctor Matthews replies, "I'm going to run these down to the lab. I'll put it on priority, since you have a strict schedule. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes."

I nod, and he leaves. I'm alone with Jack in the examination room. I don't know what to do.

"Holland," Jack starts, breaking his own silence, "do you," he pauses, "do you have an eating disorder."

For the first time since the start of the exam, I let my eyes wander to him. His face is twisted in worry and fear, eyebrows drawn together, lips a tight line.

"Don't hate me," I say.

Logically, I should be asking him not to tell, pleading him to keep it a secret, but right now, I'm more concerned with him and his reaction. Making him keep it a secret isn't as important as making sure he doesn't hate me.

"Holl," Jack sighs and stands from his chair, walking to my side, "I could never hate you."

"How can you not?"

"I can't hate you for having an eating disorder."

"But I lied to you. The scabbed knuckles, the bags of vomit, almost passing out on stage, vomiting after the performance, I lied to you about all of it."

He's silent, Labrador brown eyes piercing my blue ones. Anxious, I wait for him to say something, anything. He doesn't speak, but pulls my body into his, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and resting his head on top of mine. Silence wraps around us. Jack's arms provide much needed comfort.

"I'm not happy you lied to me," he says against my hair, "But I can't hate you for that. I feel like I should have caught on. All the signs were there. I feel like an idiot."

"You're not an idiot."

"Are you serious? I actually let you get away with that curry excuse."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't need to say sorry. All I want to hear is that you'll try to get better."

"I will."

Maybe.

"I'll be here for you every step of the way."

I admit I'm surprised he's willing to help. I thought he would be long gone by now, finding someone who's not messed up.

I like being proven wrong.

"I like you," Jack mumbles, "a lot."

My heart jumps.

"I like you a lot, too."

The door swings open, Doctor Matthews walking into the room. Jack releases me, opting to hold my hand while the doctor is in the room.

"What's the verdict?" I ask.

"Your blood is anemic. You have ketones in your urine. You're blood pressure is totally unstable and your heart rate is pitiful," the doctor answers.

"What does that mean?"

I'm a musician, not a doctor.

"It's your body's way of saying you have an eating disorder. Bulimia, if you were looking for a diagnosis."

"So, what now?'

"I recommend checking into a hospital psych ward or an eating disorder facility."

"I can't. My band is on tour, I can't just leave them. We've already called off a tour once. We can't call off another one."

"You're only other option is outpatient therapy."

"How am I supposed to go through therapy while we tour the United States?"

"You live in Phoenix, Arizona, correct?"

"Yes."

"I could give you the names of a few therapists in that area that would be willing to perform therapy sessions via webcam until the end of tour."

"I guess that's okay."

I don't really want to go through therapy.

He pulls a notepad from his jacket, along with a pen. While he scribbles on the page he says, "Now, I expect you to look into these therapists. There's no way your body can keep up if you continue doing this to yourself while on tour." He hands me the slip of paper with names and organizations scrawled on them.

"I understand," I mumble, slipping the paper into my skinny jeans.

All things considered, I'm kind of glad I dressed for the performance early. Somehow, I doubt I'll have much time to get ready once we get to the venue.

"Unless you have any questions, you're free to go."

"Thanks," I mumble.

Jack helps me off the desk, mumbling his own thanks to the doctor and shaking his hand before we leave. Hands linked, we walk across the parking lot until we get to the van, where Jack opens the door for me and gets in the driver's seat once I'm settled.

"How about we pick up some Burger King before we head back to the venue?" he asks, turning the key in the ignition.

Because he thinks I need to eat.

I almost want to point out that being bulimic does not mean I'm thin. Bulimia doesn't cause much weight loss. In fact, a good deal of bulimics who are as bad as me or worse are a healthy size or obese. Bulimia only keeps food you eat out of your system, it doesn't get rid of the food that's already turned into fat.

Paired with lengthy bouts of starvation, however, can cause some amount of weight loss.

"That sounds nice."

I'm supposed to be trying to get better, not arguing.

Smiling, Jack pulls out of the parking lot and drives. At Burger King, he orders food for me. A number nine with a Dr. Pepper. I can't keep myself from thinking Dr. Pepper is great for forcing food out of my system, that the slight sting from the caffeine feels amazing. I squish the thought.

I need to stop thinking like that.

I don't know if I can.

After years of conditioning myself to keep those thoughts in mind, I have to stop. I have to undo the work I've done over the years. I know it's for my own safety, but I don't really want to.

Jack hands me the food when the cashier gives it to him and we return to the road.

"You may want to start eating," Jack says, "I don't think you'll have a chance when we get to the venue."

"We're that late?"

"It took awhile at the doctor's office."

I nod and begin eating a few fries from the paper bag.

"So," Jack starts, "How long has this been going on?"

"Three years," I say.

"Does your band know?"

"No. Could you," I hesitate, "Could you not tell them?"

"Are you serious?" he glances at me.

"I don't want them to know. They have enough to worry about."

"Just because they have a lot to worry about doesn't mean they don't need to know."

"Jack, please don't tell them."

"Why not? Don't you think they deserve to know? Don't you think it's important in case you pass out or have heart failure?"

"I want to tell them on my own."

"And when will that happen?"

"When I'm ready."

"It's been three years. Do you think you'll ever be ready?"

No.

I shrug. He sighs, runs a hand over his face.

"Fine. I won't tell them."

"Thank you."

"I don't understand why you would do this to yourself. You're gorgeous, Holl. Why would you feel the need to make yourself vomit? There are better ways to lose weight."

"It's not about the weight," I say.

"What is it about?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

He doesn't say anything in response, but his mouth draws into a tight line. He's not pleased that I won't talk about it. I think he understands that I can't yet. Less than an hour ago, he found out about this. He'll have to wait a little longer before I lay out the story for him.

Admittedly, it's not that complex of a story. I understand what caused me to jump into the cycle of binging and purging. Though, I don't know why I'm still doing it. Its addicting, I suppose.

By the time we get to the venue, I've eaten all of my fries and half of my sandwich. Jack and I hurry backstage. You First goes on in mere minutes. If I'm late, Ross will have my head.

And my junk food.

It’s a low blow, threatening to take a bulimic's binge food away.

It doesn't seem like anyone's noticed I'm getting back so close to performance time. RJ gives me a look while handing me my guitar, but aside from that, everyone seems to be in their own world. Before we go one, Jack gives me a quick hug, wishes me luck, and presses his lips to the top of my head.

I'm thankful he's pretending nothing's happened.

The performance feels quick. Elina makes a comment about being the reason our band formed, which is true to an extent. There's band banter that I don't take part in. Thanks to the food, the performance is relatively painless for me. Less painful than it has been lately.

We finish, and I hand my guitar to RJ. I itch to rush to the bathroom and do my end of performance ritual. I didn't realize I would miss it that much once it had been taken away from me.

But has it really been taken away from me? There are no physical restraints holding me back. I can walk to bathroom and vomit if I damn well please.

I think I will.

Before Jack can make it to my side, I turn and walk to the nearest bathroom. There, I pick the stall farthest from the door, lean over the toilet, and shove my finger down my throat. A bubble of guilt encompasses me, but I pop that faster than I squashed the thoughts of vomiting up Dr. Pepper.

The caffeine does burn in the loveliest way.

"Really?" Jack's voice rings in the stall.

I straighten and jolt my head to face him. I didn't hear the bathroom door open, nor did I hear the stall open. For a normally loud man, Jack is awfully stealthy.

Or maybe I just couldn't hear anything over the relief of vomiting.

"Why are you in the women's restroom, Jack?" I ask, grabbing a swatch of toilet paper and dabbing my mouth to remove excess vomit.

"Why were you leaning over the toilet with your finger down your throat," he retaliates and walks further into the stall. He glances in the toilet, grimaces. "How can you keep doing this? I thought you were going to try to recover."

"I'm fine, alright?"

"Holland, there's blood in there. That's not fine. That means something inside you is bleeding. Aren't you the least bit worried?"

"It wouldn't be the first time there's blood in my vomit."

"That's not a red flag to you?"

Rolling my eyes, I flush the toilet and leave the stall. Jack follows me to the sink, watches as I swish water in my mouth.

"Talk to me," Jack pleads.

"Don't worry about it, Jack," I say, putting a piece of gum in my mouth and turning to leave.

I don't make it out the bathroom door. Jack grabs my arm and yanks me away from it, holding me up against the wall.

"Don't worry about it?" His voice is sharp. "You're making yourself vomit and you want me to not worry about it? Are you fucking insane? I want to help you, Holland. Why are you being difficult? Let me help you."

The tone of his voice forces tears to my eyes. I don't concentrate on all of his words. Only one repeats itself in my head, blaring like a horn.

Insane.

He thinks I'm insane.

I knew it.

Shaking my head, tears threatening to drip down my face, I push past him and run from the bathroom. He calls after me, probably chases me for awhile, but I don't stop till I'm in the confines of my bunk, curled in a ball, tears streaking down my face.