When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

Outside, the road rushes by, a long ribbon of gray asphalt spotted by vehicles. The bus engine hums its dull song. It's not enough to lull me back to sleep, though I wish it was. The engine is what I woke up to, possibly what woke me up from the dream I was having. It was a good dream. I don't remember what happened or what it was about, but it was good.

Sighing, I lay on my back, listening to the engine. Plates clatter in the front of the bus, the vague sound of zombies dying first thing in the morning mixes with the engine hum. Dalton curses. All is right in our world despite the problems that have surfaced. Elina's rape, Riley's cancer. These things are out in the open and this calms me, but only slightly.

I want to help. What can I do, though? Cancer is cancer. I can't magically relieve Riley of the illness. And rape... I can't even help myself get over my mom's ridiculous favoritism. I can't help Elina with something like rape.

I can exist for them to talk to, I guess.

My hand slips under my shirt, calloused fingers tracing over ribcage bones. Lying like this, I can see them. My stomach hollows and the skin above my ribcage stretches in an almost painful fashion. But I can't see all of them. Only a few. I know what they look like. I've memorized that by now. I don't have to lift my shirt to see.

With Ross on my case, I'm going to gain weight. He's not like Jack, who's easy to confuse and convince things are going to be okay if I can please vomit once.

I don't... I can't... I just... Why did this have to happen? I was content vomiting. I could have done without people knowing. My problem isn't bad. It's not rape, it's not cancer. It's not serious. I feel so selfish.

And this makes me want to vomit.

I trail my fingers over my hip bones. They're little hard mountains of bone trying to poke through my skin. I don't want to get better. Not completely. Only enough so I'm not a health risk anymore.

No, I don't want that either. I don't want to get better. I don't think I ever did. Maybe for a moment when recovery seemed easy, but I never tried to get better. Sure, I cut back on vomiting, but I cut back on eating, too.

I wore that outfit for Jack. That says something but not that I'm getting better. Bulimics tend to be sexually active, impulsively so that it leads to promiscuity, a stark contrast from the anorexics, who are too anxious to have sex. That outfit is one step closer to something I didn't think I wanted. I still don't think I want to lose my virginity, but I didn't think I wanted to wear the outfit either.

I shouldn't have worn the outfit.

This isn't helping. The longer I sit here, the more I berate myself for something I can't control. I've worn underwear in front of Jack, that's great. I should stop analyzing something so unimportant.

But maybe it is important.

I shake my head. No. No more thinking. I have to face Ross.

I plan on breaking every single rule he gives me. What is he going to do? Change sound check order? Call my mommy? Yeah, right. That's not going to stop me, and there are only so many punishments he can come up with.

Pulling the curtain back, I slide out of my bunk and pad through the short hall of bunks to the living room. Everyone's there. Dalton and Calvin have controllers in their hands, staring intently at the screens. Elina sits next to Dalton, and RJ sits on the arm of the couch next to Calvin, both completely engrossed in the action on the screen. Riley stands in the kitchen area, leaning against a counter top and watching them. A smile plays on her lips. Ross is at his normal seat in the booth, a cup of coffee, a plate of pancakes, and a set of papers near him, his laptop in front of him.

I've figured out the secret to the pancakes. They're pre-made, come in a pack and you microwave them. I was expecting something much more complicated, like sticking a plate covered with pancake mix into the microwave and opening the microwave repeatedly to flip the cooking food.

A loud explosion comes from the television. Elina and RJ groan in unison.

"Damn it," Calvin yells.

"Why does this always happen?" Dalton whines.

"Because you guys fail," Elina says.

"Maybe they should play something less violent," RJ teases, "Like Harvest Moon."

Ross looks up from his computer, glancing at the group on the couch with a raised eyebrow. His eyes catch on me, and he motions for me to come to him. I don't want to, but I walk across the living room. The gamers let out random yelps when I cross in front of the television.

"It's just a game," I shoot back.

Riley laughs at the comment. Dalton waves me off with his hand. I roll my eyes and turn to Ross. Papers are shoved at me. Giving Ross a look, I take them.

"What is this?" I ask, not bothering to actually take the time to look at them before asking.

"Rules for you," Ross answers and takes a sip from his coffee.

"You already got them written up?"

That was quick. I honestly thought it would take him a few more days to find enough information regarding eating disorder programs. There are enough memoirs and such that have treatments in facilities described, but to read through them all... that would take days.

But Ross is dead set on getting this in motion.

"It didn't take long. There's only so much I can simulate on tour."

I don't say anything but turn my attention to the papers in hand. Two sheets, each rule has an explanation. Across the top of page reads "You First Eating Disorder Clinic- Rules and Regulations."

It almost sounds official.

I read over the first rule, a short sentence in bold letters to set it off from the explanation. The whole page is set up like that. And if the rest of the rules are like this one, I may start laughing.

"Rule number one," I say out loud, "No vomiting." I chuckle and pull the paper away from my face. "Aren't you creative?"

A lazy smile stretches across his face. "That's the one I know you're going to break first."

"I hope you've thought of good consequences."

"You won't like them. Keep reading."

"Okay," I say, tone taunting. I bring the paper up to my face. Ignoring the description under number one, I say, "Rule number two—"

"I didn't mean out loud. Everyone else has already read them."

"Rule number two," I say, smiling, "You're restroom time will be... monitored,
My smile drops and I pull the paper from my face again, "You have to be kidding."

"Sorry, Holland. I can't let you run off to a restroom anytime you please. You have to let me, or someone around you, know. It's up to us to decide if you plan on vomiting. I was going make someone go with you to make sure you don't vomit, but I decided I'd give you some privacy."

"That's bull."

"That's how it works in a facility. Stop arguing with me and read the damn rules."

This isn't a real facility. He has no right to set a rule like that. There's a boundary of privacy he's overstepping.

But I know he's right. The bathrooms in some facilities are set up like public restrooms, and the nurses go in with you and sit outside of the stall. Some don't even have stall doors. I'm getting more privacy then my sister got.

I may have visited her once while she was in the clinic. It wasn't a good meeting. It wasn't just a visit, either. It was to see her psychiatrist, some little Asian lady who kept trying to get a response from me. Apparently, she needed to get a feel for our family dynamics in order to understand Italy's problem.

When we left, one of the doctors stopped me and told me I wasn't supposed to leave the ward. He was new, probably didn't know the list of patients but knew the signs of an eating disorder.

I huff and look back at the paper. "Rule number three," I say, "You must eat three meals a day—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Two of those meals are just coffee, right?"

"Nope, you're eating this," he picks up the plate of pancakes and places them where I would sit, "for breakfast."

I stare at them. Two pancakes are stacked on top of each. Syrup oozes down the sides. A small slice of butter on the top has begun to melt. Steam lifts from the top of the pancakes. They're fresh, to an extent, and they look good. They would feel amazing going down, warm and delicious. I bet they'd feel as amazing coming up. Big chunks of fatty substance spilling from my mouth into the toilet.

I'm not allowed to vomit.

I can't eat them without the leisure to vomit when I want. All that substance will turn into fat on my bones. I'll grow and grow until I pop like a fucking balloon. Except, I won't really pop. I'll just be fat. Huge.

"I can't eat that," I say.

"Yes, you can," Ross says.

"No, Ross, you don't understand. I can't."

"There is no cat fur or shellfish on the plate. Eating from it won't kill you."

Anxiety rushes through my veins, my stomach tightens. I glance around the bus. My band mates are watching, putting a pause on their entertainment to see if I'll make a move in the right direction. I feel trapped under all the gazes, on the bus with no real escape. Elina's eyes bore into me, multitudes of emotions running through them. Riley's worry is clear in her face. I look at Ross again, and he stares at me, expectant.

"No," I say.

It's almost a whisper, barely audible over the music playing from the television and the hum of the engine. But Ross hears it. I can see that he does.

"Holland, sit down and eat."

The command is crisp, words clipped and holding authority. That may work on a dog, but that won't work on me. I'm a bulimic. We're a little harder to contain than dogs.

"No," I say, clearer now.

"Holl—"

"No," I exclaim, "No, no, no, no, no."

Before Ross can make another command, I dash from the room into the bunk hallway, dropping the rules on the floor. I dive into my bunk, taking my backpack in shaky hands and unzipping it. I reach in and pat around the inside of the bag. The plastic I'm searching for doesn't brush against my fingers. I pat around more frantically, legitimate fear chilling my veins. It's empty

Where are my Ziplocs?

"Looking for something?" Ross's voice grates my ears.

I turn my head to face him. He leans against the bunk frame, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with calculating eyes.

He has something to do with my missing Ziplocs.

"What did you do with them?" I ask.

"I threw them out while you were asleep."

"Why would you do something like that?"

How could he sneak into my bunk and take my Ziplocs? Those aren't his to throw away. Those are mine, and I didn't want to get rid of them.

"Because those Ziplocs allow you to vomit on the bus. In order to get better, you can't do that."

That's my escape, and he's gotten rid of them.

"I don’t want to get better. Let me vomit, Ross."

I can't believe I just said.

That could ruin all chances of getting these rules changed.

He pushes himself off the bunk frame and sits in the bunk beside me. "Holland, don't say that. You have to get better. There are people counting on you to get better."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you do."

"I can't get better for other people."

I can't get better for myself.

"I'm not asking you to, but you have a support system here for you. Accept that and the help we want to give you."

"I don't want help."

"You need it. Do you want to get sent to a facility?"

"I'm nineteen. I have a choice on whether or not I get sent there."

And I don't plan on going to a facility willingly. Dealing with that kind of lock down isn't on my list of things to do. It's like they make you revert back to childhood. They take away all responsibilities with their structured schedules, take all of your problems off your hands. There's arts and crafts time, group therapy, individual therapy, among other things to keep you busy, make you forget the world outside. You get better because the problems really aren't there anymore. Then they release you into the wild when they think you're capable of handling it, even if you're really not. I don't want that.

"When you become a danger to yourself, Holland, you can legally be committed no matter what age you are."

News to me.

"And who decides when I'm a danger to myself?"

"The doctors."

"But that means I have to agree to go to the doctor."

"If you pass out, have a heart attack, you don't really have a say in the matter," he pauses, "Do you want to die? Is that what this is now, some form of slow suicide?"

I stare at him, a little shocked at his new tactic. Do I want to die? If this kills me, this kills me. Even if I get better, stop vomiting, I'll have all kinds of health problems that'll never go away and will possibly kill me.

Is there really a point in stopping in that case?

"What if you have a heart attack on stage and the EMTs don't get to you soon enough? You'll collapse on the stage, gasping in pain. The band might think you're joking at first, then they’ll realize you're serious. They'll rush to your side. Jack will rush to your side. But it won't be soon enough. You'll black out from pain and your heart will stop before anyone can bring you to the hospital because your heart is hardly strong enough to stand up against a heart attack for long. Do you want that?"

... Maybe...

"No," I mumble.

I don't know. It would sure as hell make my life easier. But I need to play along.

"Well, that's what's going to happen if you don't stop. I understand vomiting is how you find comfort, but we need to get you over this to save you. No one wants you to die."

"Right."

"Three bites. Does that sound okay? I'll cut them and you'll eat them. We're almost at the venue, so you won't have to sit around for thirty minutes to make sure the food digests. You can run off with Jack and frolic in a field or whatever it is you two do."

He sounds desperate. His whole story about how I'll die if I keep vomiting sounded like a last ditch effort to me.

That means I have him right where I want him.

"How big?"

"Bite-size, I promise."

"I guess that's okay."

Going from two full pancakes to three bites? Wow. Apparently even Ross can be manipulated. When I said I'd fight him on this, I meant it. And I'm not above manipulation tactics.

"Alright," he sighs and stands. "Let's go."

I follow him back to the front of the bus. My band mates hush when I return, watching me as I walk back in. I ignore the stares and slide into the booth across from Ross. He starts cutting small bite size shapes out of the pancakes.

"Holland," Riley says.

I look at her. She moves from her spot at the counter and walks to the booth. She's worried. I don't know what it is about her face that gives it away so easily, but there's something there.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"I know... I know this is hard for you, but you have to eat. It's like chemo. That's hard for me and I don't particularly like it, but I know I have to do it so I can get better. This is your chemo. It'll be okay soon."

She looks like she might cry, and I almost feel bad for convincing Ross to knock down the amount I have to eat.

But Ross pushes the now cut pancake towards me. I see the syrup and the butter, and I know that this is how it has to be. I'm not going die if I don't eat this.

"Thanks, Riley," I say.

She smiles. I take the fork into my hand, twisting it between my fingers, and stare at the pancakes, a plan of action formulating in my head.

How do I eat this without having to keep it down?

Oh, I know.

I spear the three pieces onto my fork and shove them into my mouth, purposely smearing syrup on my top lip. While I chew the pieces into mush, I grab a napkin and pretend to just wipe the syrup from my mouth. I slip the chewed mush into the napkin and wrap the paper over itself before anyone can see what I've done, making it look like I've swallowed what was in my mouth.

I learned that trick by watching my sister.

"See, it wasn't that bad," Ross says.

"Not bad at all," I return.

If I have to use this trick for a little while, then I will. But I'm not eating breakfast and I'll vomit if I want. Once a day is fine. It's better than what I used to do.

"How long till we get to the venue?" I ask.

"Thirty minutes," Ross answers.

I need to get out of here and see Jack.