When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

The All Time Low bus is empty, aside from Jack and me. Jack runs his hand thought my hair, and I stay curled against him, staring at nothing. My mind is a jumble of thoughts, my stomach a mess of nerves. My band mates' new found knowledge of my eating disorder stays ever-present at the front of my thoughts.

I know what I have to do, but I don't want to.

"Are you going to eat?" Jack asks.

"I'll vomit."

It's not a threat. My stomach is flipping so violently, I don't think I could keep anything down. I would prefer not trying and sparing myself the uncontrollable vomit fit that would follow.

Though, this would be a perfect time to vomit. I'm sure I'd calm down considerably if I did. Just one shove of my finger and all my fears would disappear into the toilet. It would be so nice.

But I'm not allowed to vomit.

"You'll vomit anyway. Eat a little something."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm scared."

"Holl, I know you're scared to eat, but you need to try."

"It's not eating."

"What is it then?"

"My band knows."

"Yes, they do."

"They're going to ask questions."

"Of course, they will."

"I'm scared."

"Holl," he presses me closer to him, "You shouldn't be scared."

"What if they hate me?"

"They won't hate you. You're band is a family. Family's go through hard times together."

I look up at him, one eyebrow raised. Family? That hardly makes me feel better. In fact, that makes me feel worse.

"Right, not the person to use the family analogy on," he mumbles. "Look," he says more confidently, "They're your friends. Real friends don't abandon each other when times get tough."

"What if they don't understand?"

"They will if you explain it to them."

"What if they don't?"

What if they think I'm some superficial bitch hell bent on being thin, that I'm selfish? I don't want them to view me in that light. I want them to like me. I want them to be my friends.

Having bulimia is not how you make friends.

"Stop playing the 'what if' game with yourself, Holl. You'll only psych yourself out. What you need to do right now is march your cute little ass to the venue to find your band mates."

I sigh, pushing myself out of his hold and off the couch, "You're right."

"I'll walk you there." He stands.

"Can I go change first?"

Jack let me wear his clothing when I woke up, a shirt from his clothing line and a pair of sweats. They smell like him, something almost as comforting as vomiting. I should be fine.

But the word "BONER" is stretched across my chest in obscenely large letters.

"No, you look good in my clothes."

"I can't wear this shirt."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe having 'boner' written across it is a tad inappropriate."

"Well, you are a boner-inducer, so I think it fits."

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I make an unidentifiable noise. Something like a squeak and an "Oh" mixed together. Jack smiles down at me, cocky because he's actually getting away with saying something like that.

"I can't believe you approved a shirt like this."

"Holl, it's me."

That is true.

"You're ridiculous," I shake my head.

"And the bus is empty," he places his hands on my hips and presses his forehead to mine, "Know what we could do?"

I step out of his hold, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards the door. "Walk to the venue hand-in-hand?"

He doesn't answer, but smiles and nods. I think he's a little proud of me for taking the initiative to start the talk with my band. No two week wait, no persistent struggle. I'm stepping out of my comfort zone to talk to my band.

That's got to mean something.

The venue is filled with workers, bustling about to set up for the show. I catch a glimpse of Matt talking to a group of stage hands and guess that Ross is nearby. I would go to him first since he is the one who could gather our band in a heartbeat, but I need to talk to Riley. I can imagine she's pretty upset.

And Dalton called Jack to tell him Riley had a bad panic attack.

I feel like it was my fault. She was worked up when she was telling the band, and I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed and talked to them about everything. By now, they've probably talked about me and decided to kick me out because I'm a failure as a friend.

But I'm trying now.

"Where do you think Riley is?" I ask.

"With her stud muffin."

"And he would be...?"

"In The Maine's dressing room or bus."

Nodding, I lead Jack to the hall of dressing rooms. Alex pops out of the All Time Low room, eyes catching on Jack.

"Hey, we're changing the order of some songs on the set list," he says.

"Okay. I'll be there in a second."

Alex disappears in the dressing room again, and Jack looks at me, worry creases across his forehead.

"Are you going to be okay without me?"

"The Maine's dressing room is right there. I don't think I'll get kidnapped on the short walk to it."

He smiles, leans down, and presses his lips against mine. A short kiss. A "good bye" of sorts. The impending conversation keeps me from demanding more.

"No chickening out, alright?"

"Alright."

He lets go of my hand and walks to his dressing room door backwards.

"Bye, Holl."

"Bye, Jack."

He disappears into the room, where he'll have difficulty trying to remember the new set list. Alone, I walk to The Maine's dressing room and stop at the door. I stare at it, take a shaky breath. My fist doesn't rise to knock, my body doesn't make any moves to open the door. Shaking my head, I turn away from the door.

I can't do this.

Not until I vomit at least once.

The closest bathroom is the one in the dressing room hallway. I don't plan on going far, and I don't care much if someone hears me, so I slip into it. For now, it's empty. I probably don't have much time till it fills up.

The girl's restroom always has a line around lunch time.

I take the stall closest to the door, a completely conscious effort to get one of my band mates to catch me in the act so I don't have to bring it up by myself.

I'm a coward. I can admit it.

Taking a deep breath, I lean over the toilet. My finger goes through motions of shoving itself as far down my throat as it can and wiggling when it's at the right point. It moves out at just the right time, knowing how to keep clean of vomit. Stomach acids rush up my esophagus, splattering into the bowl. A throb runs through my throat, tears sheet my eyes, my body shakes.

And I don't feel so nervous anymore.

A little guilty. I'll have to tell Jack about this later, and he'll be upset. But I feel okay enough to talk to my friends about my eating disorder. That's what I needed.

Funny how the eating disorder is the only thing that can make me confident enough to do that.

I clean myself quickly, the same routine I have yet to forget. Chomping on gum, I leave the bathroom and walk up to The Maine's door again. Riley's laughs wrap around the tight gaps between the door and its frame. Perhaps it's good I'm catching her while she's happy.

I rap softly on the door and open it before anyone can tell me its okay to enter. Riley's eyes land on me, her laughter stops, her smile drops. I shouldn't have interrupted her good mood.

"Hey, Riley," I say, my voice soft, "we need to talk..."

She nods, stands, letting go of John's hand as she does so, and follows me out of the room. We stand in the hallway, eyes locked. Hers are tinted red. She doesn't look like she's slept well.

That's probably why she doesn't seem to have taken notice of my shirt.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, "I didn't have a right to tell anyone."

Is she serious? Apologizing for ratting me out. Not on something that will get me arrested, of course not. No, ratting me out regarding something that's killing me, something I should have told them about.

Have I mentioned she's a saint?

"Don't say sorry for that."

"But you ran out of the room right after I said it. You didn't even come back to the bus last night. I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, Riley. I wasn't upset with you. There's nothing wrong with what you did. Whether or not you kept it a secret, the rest of the band would have found out."

"I guess," she pauses, "Why do you... do it?"

"I wanted to save that conversation for when the rest of the band is here."

Her eyes light up. "We can have a band meeting now. On the bus or something. I can text them since you left your phone on the bus."

"Yeah, okay. That sounds good."

I think she's trying to make up for spilling my secret, but she doesn't need to. I'm not mad. I'm actually relieved she doesn't hate me.

But she's Riley. She doesn't hate anyone.

She pulls her phone from her pocket, presses buttons rapidly, then looks up at me, with a smile. "Done."

"We should head to the bus then."

She nods and we walk together through the hallway to the exit. Outside, the sun shines and it's cold. Winter will be here in a month. The weather is changing accordingly.

"So, how were things last night?" I ask, while we walk across the pavement.

"Quiet."

"You guys didn't talk?"

"No. I talked to John, but everyone was so... introverted last night. I don't think any of us understand what you're doing and we want to."

I nod. That almost relieves me, too. They haven't ganged up to toss me from the band like ten month old cheese from a refrigerator. That's good.

I can see Calvin, Dalton, and RJ in the distance, rushing onto the bus. Ross is probably already in there. And Elina... I don't know... She might be there, she might not. Things are strange with her right now.

Riley and I get to the bus moments later, having to re-punch in the code because the door slid shut behind the boys. Riley walks on first, and I follow. Ross, RJ, Dalton, and Calvin are standing around the front of the bus. Elina's nowhere in sight.

"Holli-bear," Dalton exclaims, rushing towards me with his arms open but stops short, eyes glued to my shirt. "Why is 'boner' on your boobs?"

"What?" Riley asks and looks at my shirt, a smile spreading on her face.

Everyone seems to find humor in the shirt. I think I could kiss Jack right now for insisting I wear it. It’s a tension breaker. I don't know if he planned that, but I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"It's Jack's," I answer.

"From his clothing line," Dalton nods in thought. He perks up again and exclaims, "Holli-bear," finishing his rush towards me and throwing his arms around my shoulders.

I grunt on impact, a slight pain running through my body. I let Dalton squeeze me tightly, not wanting to ruin this. They're not yelling at me, not reprimanding me. I could cry in utter happiness.

Dalton lets go and I get a round of hugs from the rest of our male members.

"Where's Elina?" I ask.

"In her bunk," Dalton answers.

"Okay, I'll get her."

"Meet us in the backroom," Ross says, "There's more privacy there."

"Alright."

They walk towards the back of the bus, trailing into the back room, and I follow, stopping at Elina's bunk. I pull back the curtain. She's laying there, her extension-less hair not teased.

I kind of like her better without the extensions. I've never really been one for extensions in the first place, though. Hair dye, on the other, I'm all for.

"We need to talk," I say.

I assume she's read the text Riley sent, whatever it said, so I figure I don't need to elaborate. She gets out of her bunk without question and follows me. We enter the backroom. Some band members are on the couch, some on the floor. They're not talking but waiting.

"What are we doing back here?" Elina asks.

I guess she didn't read the text message.

"We're helping Holland," Riley answers, a smile on her face.

Elina's face shifts to something I can't read. It's not happy, I guarantee that. But I don’t know what it is. Regardless, I feel like I caused it. Calling this meeting was a bad idea. What if she thinks I'm attention seeking? What if they all think I'm an attention seeker?

"We don't have to do this," I start, "You guys know, that's great. We don't really need to talk about it."

"Sit," Ross commands, voice staccato.

Wide eyed, I sit on the floor in front of the couch and fold my hands in my lap. Elina takes the space on the arm of the couch.

"It is important we talk about this," Ross says, "We want to help you. So we need to know everything. No more secrets, no more lies. You tell us everything, here and now."

"Okay," I mumble.

He's right. Ross is always right.

And scary.

Very scary.

"Good. Where do you want to start?"

"I don't know."

"Okay," he takes a breath, "When did this start?"

"Three years ago."

"You've been doing this since before you joined the band and we haven't found out till now?" Calvin asks.

"I've been keeping it a secret."

"Why does Jack know, then?" Riley asks.

She sounds a little hurt. But I didn't tell Jack about my eating disorder willingly, just like I didn't tell the band willingly.

"I passed out in the parking lot and he insisted on bringing me to a doctor. He was in the room when the doctor did the eating disorder evaluation."

This seems to satisfy her.

"Did you know you had it before the evaluation?"

"Yeah."

"Then why go through the evaluation."

"Because I didn't want to admit to it. I was kind of hoping I could pass, but that didn't happen."

"Why didn't you tell us afterwards? You were diagnosed by a doctor, its kind of important to let your band mates know, at the very least your manager," Calvin says.

"I didn't want to worry you guys."

"This is the type of thing we need to worry about."

"I guess," I shrug.

"Is this what you've been doing when you run off to the restroom after performances?" Dalton asks.

"It’s a ritual."

"Not a very safe one. Do you vomit on the bus?"

"Yeah."

"When people are on the bus?"

I nod. He leans back on the couch, shocked. Seems everyone's a little shocked that I've managed to do it under their noses, so to speak. I'm pretty amazed I've managed it, too.

"Can't you clog the system like that?" RJ asks.

"Depends on how frequently you do it," Ross says, "How frequently do you do this?"

"Everyday."

"And our toilet hasn't backed up because...?"

"I've been doing it in Ziploc bags that I throw away when we get to the venues. I hide them in the black backpack in my bunk."

"That's not sanitary," Calvin says.

"Neither is shoving your finger down your throat," I say.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Riley asks. "You know it's not safe on all kinds of levels and you still do it. Why do you choose to be unhealthy?"

She's upset again, not mad but unhappy about the concept that I'm allowing myself to become sick over something like this. I understand she doesn't understand. I don't know if she will fully. I don't know if anyone will fully. Going through it is the only real way to understand sometimes.

"I'm not choosing to be unhealthy. I didn't choose to get addicted to forcing myself to vomit. It just happened... And I can't stop."

"Well, where did you get an idea like that in the first, and what compelled you to go through with it?"

"Family stuff."

"Like what?"

"You guys wouldn't understand. And it's not like this is important anyway."

"What won't we understand?" Ross asks, disregarding the fact that I told him it wasn't important.

"Sibling rivalries."

"What?"

"You don't know what its like to have an older sibling who you have such an intense rivalry with that you both develop eating disorders, to have an older sibling who's so perfect your mother doesn't care for you as much as her."

"Are you talking about Italy?"

"Yeah."

"She has an eating disorder?"

"Its one of the few traits we share."

"So something as petty as a sibling rivalry caused you both to develop eating disorders?"

"This wasn't a normal sibling rivalry. We hated each other growing up. We fought all the time, there was never a moment where we were decent to each other, we would get into physical altercations. It wasn't just a petty sibling rivalry. It was a sibling rivalry based on sheer hatred."

"I definitely didn't see that yesterday."

"We made up a few weeks ago while she was in an eating disorder treatment facility. She called me, it happened."

"How did the eating disorders develop from that?" Riley asks.

"When we were younger, we fought over our mom's attention. I don't know why we wanted it so badly, but we did. The thing is, mom never was good at sharing that. She'd pay attention to her favorite and ignore her least favorite. Tally, Italy, was her favorite. She was pretty, thin, into beauty pageants, perfect. She still is all of those things. I wasn't anything like her. I was chubby, dropped out of pageants when I was like three, and I was definitely not perfect."

I don't have to explain much regarding the pageant situation. Italy mentioned it at least once. She and Ross had a conversation about it.

"Your mother ignored you?"

"For the most part. When she wasn't ignoring me, she was harping about my weight. I let her for a long time. It wasn't till I moved out that I actually told her to stop for the first time, but she does it anyway."

"You moved out?" Ross asks.

Oh, right. I never told them that, and they haven't come over since I moved. I don't invite them over, so they don't really have a reason to come over.

"When I was eighteen."

"Really?" Dalton asks.

"Yeah. I live in a pretty nice apartment. You guys should come see it once the tour's done."

Now, I'm inviting them. It feels good.

"That'd be cool," RJ chirps, eyes sparkling.

He's probably planning tricks to play on the other residents. He looks innocent, but he does have a prankster side. A pretty good one at that.

"Back on subject," Ross pushes.

"Right, um" I think for a moment. "Italy's eating disorder started a week before mine did. We were at a fitting for her pageant dress and she gained a bunch of weight, about two dress sizes. Mom wouldn't let the seamstress take out the dress, instead insisting Italy could drop the weight before the pageant, which was in a week."

"Are you serious?" Riley asks.

I nod.

"Did she lose the weight?"

"Every extra pound. Fit into the dress perfectly by the day of her pageant. I assume the rapid weight loss hooked her, but I don't really know. I feel it best not to pry. We've only recently fixed our relationship, I don't want to hurt it by asking."

"Then you started forcing yourself to vomit."

"Actually, Italy's week of extreme dieting lead me to the realization that our mother's greatest wish is for her children to be thin. I decided I would lose weight and mom would love me, too. As much as I hate to admit it, I tried to copy my sister's diet. Half a grape fruit a day and at least four hours of exercising."

"And?" Riley pushes.

She sounds eager to hear the story, slightly appalled at how it's going but completely engrossed and intent on hearing the end. I guess what I'm doing is slowly making sense to her, and everyone else, as I go.

"I failed miserably. I ate three sandwiches and a big bag of chips around lunch time. That didn't stop me from continually trying over the weekend. With every failure, I didn't give up. I should have. Starvation is still really hard for me."

"So what happened?"

"I went to class like normal on Monday and we had a presentation on eating disorders because some girl in my English class died from heart failure caused by anorexia. I never did figure out who that girl was. I didn't pay as much attention to the presentation as I should have. Causes, health issues, all that mess, I spaced out during. But I did pay attention when the woman was describing what the disorders were. There were some absolutely disgusting ones, but there was one that set this light bulb off in my head."

"Bulimia," Riley mumbles.

This is the first time I've heard her say the word.

"Yeah. I was ecstatic when I heard about it. I figured I could lose weight by doing it. I didn't pay attention enough to hear the woman tell the class that losing weight with bulimia is only possible with bouts of starvation, but I did figure out after a year."

"Wait, you didn't lose weight the whole first year of doing it but kept doing it anyway. Why?"

"Because it made me feel good. I went home that day, had dinner with my parents and sister. Dad was actually home and he made a comment about Italy only eating half a grape fruit for dinner. He and mom got in a huge argument, dad ended up sleeping on the couch. Italy blamed me for the argument, told me that if I wasn't such a pig, dad wouldn't get on her case. When I went to my room, I shoved a toothbrush down my throat and vomited up dinner."

"Why not your finger?" Calvin asks.

"I tried. Couldn't get it down far enough. The toothbrush was training wheels for a few months, and then I managed to get my finger in."

"Vomiting made you feel good?" Riley asks.

"Yeah. It made the stress of my family disappear."

"Why?"

I shrug, "Endorphin release, I suppose. All I know is it made me feel good when I was upset. It started as something I did just when I was upset. Now, I do it for any reason. If I'm happy, I vomit. If I'm sad, I vomit. If I'm nervous, I vomit. If I'm excited, I vomit."

"When you have an adrenaline rush, you vomit," Riley adds, "Like after shows."

"Right."

"You haven't been disappearing after shows lately. Have you replaced vomiting with kissing up on Jack?" Dalton asks.

"I'm trying to quit, and Jack is trying to help. He tries not to let me vomit while he's around me."

"Are you making any progress?" Ross asks.

"Well, I've cut down a lot. I used to do it multiple times a day. I've only done it once each day for the past couple of days. I get anxious when I don't do it and I'm not very good at stopping myself."

"So how do we help you?" Riley asks.

"I don't know."

"There's got to be some way without sending you to a facility."

"I guess so."

"We could simulate a facility," Ross starts, ideas flickering in his eyes.

Shit.

"Can we not?" I ask.

"It’s the only way we can keep you from vomiting long enough to get you unaddicted."

"I don't agree to this."

"Don't care. I'm going to do some research on eating disorder facility methods of treatment and I'll draft a set of rules for you to follow. It might take a couple of days."

"Are you sure you're not too busy for this?"

"I've been playing Solitaire for the past week."

"Great."

"Gets boring after awhile. Anyway, I'll give one to everyone on the bus and Jack so they'll know what you can and can't do."

"You can't be serious."

"I am. I don't expect anyone else to make sure you follow them, that's my job. But I want them to be aware."

"I want to help," RJ exclaims.

No one listens.

"You do know I'm going to fight you on this, tooth and nail, right?" I ask.

"Bring it," Ross returns.

Lovely. I'm going to deal with a mock treatment facility. Run by Ross. If I haven't killed him by the end of the week, I'd be surprised.

"Are we done here?" I ask.

"Yeah, unless anything else needs to be brought up."

I glance around the group. Riley nibbles on her bottom lip, thinking about something. Calvin and Dalton seem pretty content with the information they've received. RJ is spouting some nonsense about acting as a male nurse, which I don't doubt would be adorable. And Elina isn't saying anything. I'm not sure if she's paid any attention.

"Okay," I stand, "I'm going to go eat before sound check."

"And not vomit," Ross says.

I copy him in an obnoxious tone, "And not vomit."

I walk to the door, hear people standing from their various seats. This talk wasn't that bad. Not as bad as I thought it would be. I'm okay and everything will be okay.

I just need to kill off Ross first.

"I have cancer."

The exclamation cuts through the air as I reach for the doorknob. All motion stops. I turn from the door to stare at Riley, who's still seated, twisting her hands nervously.

What?