Wrists

I cried. I felt numb. I promised myself I’d try and eat something. I told myself just fucking eat. Your fear is irrational and completely stupid; your mother won’t get pissed at you for having one more fucking egg, along with the yolk. Relax, Graham, just eat more. Don’t kill yourself. You’re killing yourself, you know that? You’re dying at this very moment. And who’s to blame? Not your mother, not your father, not even your sister: you. Just go the hell downstairs and nourish your body. You have to.

But as I went downstairs to listen to the sane part of my brain, the demons protested. They shook, rattled, tore at my brain, shouting at me not to take that extra bite. Do you want to feel pathetic again? They asked. Do you want to continue to go through your life hating yourself for your lack of control and for making your mother upset? Your mother is the last person to deal with your shit; don’t do it. Stop it, Graham; you’re delusional, you know that? Delusional.

Needless to say, I left the eggs boiling, went into my room, and cried some more. My mother and father were out, but my sister was home. And she probably heard every humiliating, heart-aching moment of my breakdown. She heard all of them nowadays—she was always there, listening. Listening to her older brother suffer and shout at himself and scream and pull his hair and throw himself around his room and sob.

And my biggest fear is that she’ll pick up on all of this, because an older sibling is a role model, no?

I’m no role model.

I couldn’t even take one bite.

I’m sorry, Cheyenne. I’m making your life a living hell at home.

I’m making myself a living hell.