Wrists

I try. I’m trying. I even forced myself downstairs that day for dinner and ate with my mother and Cheyenne. I had two handfuls of brown rice and a piece of barbecue chicken. Cheyenne watched me incredulously (which made me feel very self-conscious and extreme anxiety, but I managed it anyway), and my mother’s eyes brightened and went wet. She finally addressed my... “problem” since the last time we talked that evening.

“Have you thought about going away, Graham?” She asked quietly. “You know. To help you.”

To help me. It sounded more like hell to me. Going there would prove to everyone that I honestly had something wrong with me. It would spread through my family like wildfire; they wouldn’t be able to contain such sacred secrets. Something I’d rather keep to myself for forever. But maybe that was just my demons me talking.

“No.” I muttered angrily. Bitterly. That single word stung; she was only trying to be a supportive mother. But my inner emotions came spilling out and I couldn’t help it. She looked on with wide, hurt eyes, but then looked back down at her food. My mother never understood me. Sometimes I didn’t even understand myself.

“Help?” Cheyenne chewed slowly as her eyes passed by our faces. “For what?”

My mother grew silent fast. She glanced at me before looking back down at her plate and lifting more food to her mouth. I was also quiet; I didn’t exactly want Cheyenne to know, but I knew it was for the best. She had to know—she was my sibling, after all. “I.” I said softly, not sure if I could repeat what I had once said to my mother so long ago. “I just have problems. Eating.”

Cheyenne’s curious eyes darkened. She took her time finishing the bit of her food in her mouth before she dabbed her face with a tissue and said, “I know,” simply. Stunned, I looked up at her, and then at my mother. My mother gave me a look the showed she, in no way, told Cheyenne of our little talk.

“What?” I heard myself ask.

Cheyenne raised another bit of chicken to her lips and chewed at it with ravenous vigor. “I said ‘I know’,” said she, mouth full, “You never eat. And all your bones are showing.”

Silence. Stunned. And then came rage. Absolute rage. How can those words glide off so easily on her tongue? How can she pretend my “problem” is something not to worry too much about? She put no effort in her sentence—she said such things like it was the fact of life! How could she?

“Okay.” I dropped my fork and got up. “Thanks for the dinner, mom.” I forced my legs to go up the stairs, even as I heard my mother call after me. They knew I was upset. They knew. I never knew how inconsiderate Cheyenne would be. I was so confused and angry and just. Tired. Tired of it all; tired of feeling this way.

But it was only the beginning of my torture.