Fat

I’ve been going to therapy 3 days a week since I came home from hospital. I haven’t bothered to write anything about it because I don’t do anything. For an hour every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday – well, not every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday because sometimes I skip my appointments – I sit in a cushy chair and stare at the credentials belonging to Doctor Harper that are hanging above his desk. He said in the first session that I didn’t have to say or do anything, so I don’t. I spend most of the time thinking about Lucas and stare and that’s it. At the beginning of every session he asks me as soon as I sit down “how have you been today?” and I answer “fine” every time. That’s it.
That’s the entire session. Usually.

Today, Doctor Harper began a different way. He was standing when I entered the room and moved around his desk when he spotted me. I never realised before how tall he was because he’s always sitting down.

“Hello, Caleb. Today we’re going to test your BMI. I know last time you had it done was when you were in hospital so we’re going to see how you’re progressing, okay?”

I just nodded, while my heart sank. I wondered if I could not find out how fat I was getting again but I knew better than to ask. He would make sure I knew where I was at.

The doctor measured my height, which hadn’t changed since last time I was measured, and then he stood me on the scales. I shut my eyes tight. I didn’t want to know.

I heard Doctor Harper write a number down on his notepad and then he told me I could get off. It was only when I had completely stepped off the scales that I opened my eyes again.

The doctor then went back over to his desk, sat down and gestured to me to do the same on the other side.

He wrote a few things down and typed in a few more things and then looked up at me. He looked pleased.

“Caleb, your BMI is now 21. That’s right in the normal range. Congratulations.”

I didn’t really know what to say so I just nodded and looked away.

I didn’t tell Mother when she picked me up. I just wanted to be sick. I know I’ve put on a lot of weight. I can see it when I look in the bathroom mirror. I don’t like it one bit.

The only positive side is that I now only have to come to therapy once every week; since Doctor Harper seems to think I’ve improved a lot. I’m not as sure about that as he is, but I’m glad I don’t have to see him so often now.

Everyone seems to be so happy that I’m getting back to how I was before all this started.

Why can’t they see that it’s making me miserable when I look in the mirror?