Status: The end. Thank you all so much for reading.
Wrists
wrists .
I was under the impression that after I was done settling down I would be escorted to the room where everyone else was, and I’d get my counseling over with faster. Apparently I was under the wrong impression. Because Dr. Reynolds sent me straight to a room that horridly resembled a doctor’s office, and they forced me to strip down to my boxers, stand on a scale the scale the weighed my self-worth, measured my arms, legs, waist, and various other places, asked me about any symptoms and/or problems I’ve been experiencing. But that wasn’t the end. They proceeded to check me out exactly like my family doctor would; check my heart, my eyes, my ears, my nose, have me stick out my tongue, and asked me more questions.
The upside was that my doctor was nice, though, and she somehow managed to make me relax (I absolutely despised and feared going through check-ups, for many reasons I’d rather not voice). Her name was Dr. Poorman—she told me with a smile that I was one of the first boys in a long time that she had to examine; many boys didn’t come to the clinic, she said. If only she knew I’d rather slit my wrists throat than be there right then and there. I was never actually going to commit suicide, though, of course, and I left the doctor’s office in one peace.
I started to feel anxiety as Dr. Reynolds—finally—escorted me down the tan-carpeted hallway and towards a large, circular room with no doors and many, many tall windows. In a big circle sat about 8 girls and one peer that I couldn’t even tell if it was a male or female. There was already an open seat for me. I started to feel worse, and turned to Dr. Reynolds, giving her an uncomfortable glance. But after a wide, red reassuring smile, she grabbed my shoulders and made me face the group.
“I’d like you all to meet Graham! He’s just been admitted today and he needs as much support as all of you.” She leaned towards my ear. “Take a seat, Graham.” Her smile grew faker wider as she glanced at me.
Everyone was staring. Even their counselor, whom was sitting among them—in the circle—with her legs crossed. “Hello, Graham!” she was the first to greet me. Everyone else still stared as if I was some rare species. And I probably was: aside from that girl-guy, I was the only male in the room. My anxiety only grew worse at that realization. “We’ve already prepared a seat for you.”
Dr. Reynolds gave me a gentle push forwards, and I took my death-walk straight towards my seat, keeping my gaze low and head bowed. Everyone looked a little bit younger than I, aside from one girl, who seemed to be in her early twenties. She was the first to give me a benevolent smile which I, to be polite, returned. Once I got settled into my seat, the counselor began talking.
“My name is Mrs. Clayson, okay, Graham?” She paused and grinned at me, as if I were a small child. “And I’ll be your counselor for the duration of your stay here at Avalon Hills.” She turned to everyone else once I nodded. “Now, can everybody take turns saying who they are and what that have been diagnosed with to give Graham a good idea of who we all are?”
“I’ll start,” the early-twenties girl spoke up. She was an average-looking woman with frail, bleached hair pulled up in a small ponytail, and very defined cheekbones. She sat up tall, a small bit of confidence filling her dull brown eyes, and she spoke clearly, “My name is Amelia and I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa 5 years ago. I’ve been in this treatment plan—on and off—for a year now, and,” she paused, confidence slowly dying, “I’d have to say it has helped me through a lot.”
Everyone clapped politely. I felt inclined to do the same, so I did.
“Wonderful introduction, Amelia,” Mrs.Clayson grinned. “Next?”
Boy-girl raised his/her hand lazily. I turned my attention to it. “M’name’s Ray—”
“—Raychel,” Mrs. Clayson corrected.
“Raychel,” she (now that I knew her name was most definitely a female’s name) snapped. “And I’ve been diagnosed with... Bulimia Nervosa for two years now. I was also diagnosed with Binge Eating Disorder for three years.”
Everyone clapped. I joined in weakly. She was a strange girl; her brown hair was chopped off in a male’s hairdo, and she wore baggy clothes on her stocky frame.
“Next?”
Soon after I met Madison, who’s been diagnosed with Binge Eating Disorder for 8 years, Taylor, who’s been diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa for 2 years, Amy, who’s been diagnosed with Bulimia Nervosa and Anorexia Nervosa for 4 years, Payton, who’s been diagnosed with Compulsive Exercising Disorder for 7 years, Weston, who’s been diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa and Bulimia Nervosa for 5 years, and Krytsal, who’s been diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa for 9 years.
“And you, Graham?” Mrs. Clayson asked as she peeked over her glasses at the clipboard in her hand. “Please introduce yourself the way the rest of the ladies had.” Everyone’s eyes turned to me. I broke out in cold sweat, wondering exactly who I was.
“Um,” I began shakily, sounding weaker than most of the female’s in the room. I cleared my throat and began slowly, “M’name’s Graham—as you know already—and I. Uh. I’ve never really been diagnosed with any kind of... eating disoder.” Saying those horrid words burned my tongue.
Mrs. Clayson looked back down at her clipboard. “You haven’t, but your mother informed us that you’re in here because you’ve had strong symptoms of Anorexia Nervosa. And your doctor should inform us with you diagnosis in a few days or so. Okay?” she smiled up at me.
No. That wasn’t ‘okay’. I didn’t want my medical records to say that I’d been diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa. That name sounded so weak; it sounded too feminine. Because guys never fucking got eating disorders. Not me, at least. Not ever. I nodded my head, though, like a good boy, and the class resumed with their agenda: facing your eating disorder head on.
While the girls each managed to share some of their hardships with their disorders, I sat there—in my anxiety—hoping this “session” would be over soon so I could lay in bed and force myself to sleep. Everything suddenly seemed like a bad dream again. And the worst part was only to come.
Because soon we’d have to eat. And eating meant being watched and getting food stuffed down my throat.
I was scared. So, so scared.
I missed Elijah already.
The upside was that my doctor was nice, though, and she somehow managed to make me relax (I absolutely despised and feared going through check-ups, for many reasons I’d rather not voice). Her name was Dr. Poorman—she told me with a smile that I was one of the first boys in a long time that she had to examine; many boys didn’t come to the clinic, she said. If only she knew I’d rather slit my wrists throat than be there right then and there. I was never actually going to commit suicide, though, of course, and I left the doctor’s office in one peace.
I started to feel anxiety as Dr. Reynolds—finally—escorted me down the tan-carpeted hallway and towards a large, circular room with no doors and many, many tall windows. In a big circle sat about 8 girls and one peer that I couldn’t even tell if it was a male or female. There was already an open seat for me. I started to feel worse, and turned to Dr. Reynolds, giving her an uncomfortable glance. But after a wide, red reassuring smile, she grabbed my shoulders and made me face the group.
“I’d like you all to meet Graham! He’s just been admitted today and he needs as much support as all of you.” She leaned towards my ear. “Take a seat, Graham.” Her smile grew faker wider as she glanced at me.
Everyone was staring. Even their counselor, whom was sitting among them—in the circle—with her legs crossed. “Hello, Graham!” she was the first to greet me. Everyone else still stared as if I was some rare species. And I probably was: aside from that girl-guy, I was the only male in the room. My anxiety only grew worse at that realization. “We’ve already prepared a seat for you.”
Dr. Reynolds gave me a gentle push forwards, and I took my death-walk straight towards my seat, keeping my gaze low and head bowed. Everyone looked a little bit younger than I, aside from one girl, who seemed to be in her early twenties. She was the first to give me a benevolent smile which I, to be polite, returned. Once I got settled into my seat, the counselor began talking.
“My name is Mrs. Clayson, okay, Graham?” She paused and grinned at me, as if I were a small child. “And I’ll be your counselor for the duration of your stay here at Avalon Hills.” She turned to everyone else once I nodded. “Now, can everybody take turns saying who they are and what that have been diagnosed with to give Graham a good idea of who we all are?”
“I’ll start,” the early-twenties girl spoke up. She was an average-looking woman with frail, bleached hair pulled up in a small ponytail, and very defined cheekbones. She sat up tall, a small bit of confidence filling her dull brown eyes, and she spoke clearly, “My name is Amelia and I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa 5 years ago. I’ve been in this treatment plan—on and off—for a year now, and,” she paused, confidence slowly dying, “I’d have to say it has helped me through a lot.”
Everyone clapped politely. I felt inclined to do the same, so I did.
“Wonderful introduction, Amelia,” Mrs.Clayson grinned. “Next?”
Boy-girl raised his/her hand lazily. I turned my attention to it. “M’name’s Ray—”
“—Raychel,” Mrs. Clayson corrected.
“Raychel,” she (now that I knew her name was most definitely a female’s name) snapped. “And I’ve been diagnosed with... Bulimia Nervosa for two years now. I was also diagnosed with Binge Eating Disorder for three years.”
Everyone clapped. I joined in weakly. She was a strange girl; her brown hair was chopped off in a male’s hairdo, and she wore baggy clothes on her stocky frame.
“Next?”
Soon after I met Madison, who’s been diagnosed with Binge Eating Disorder for 8 years, Taylor, who’s been diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa for 2 years, Amy, who’s been diagnosed with Bulimia Nervosa and Anorexia Nervosa for 4 years, Payton, who’s been diagnosed with Compulsive Exercising Disorder for 7 years, Weston, who’s been diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa and Bulimia Nervosa for 5 years, and Krytsal, who’s been diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa for 9 years.
“And you, Graham?” Mrs. Clayson asked as she peeked over her glasses at the clipboard in her hand. “Please introduce yourself the way the rest of the ladies had.” Everyone’s eyes turned to me. I broke out in cold sweat, wondering exactly who I was.
“Um,” I began shakily, sounding weaker than most of the female’s in the room. I cleared my throat and began slowly, “M’name’s Graham—as you know already—and I. Uh. I’ve never really been diagnosed with any kind of... eating disoder.” Saying those horrid words burned my tongue.
Mrs. Clayson looked back down at her clipboard. “You haven’t, but your mother informed us that you’re in here because you’ve had strong symptoms of Anorexia Nervosa. And your doctor should inform us with you diagnosis in a few days or so. Okay?” she smiled up at me.
No. That wasn’t ‘okay’. I didn’t want my medical records to say that I’d been diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa. That name sounded so weak; it sounded too feminine. Because guys never fucking got eating disorders. Not me, at least. Not ever. I nodded my head, though, like a good boy, and the class resumed with their agenda: facing your eating disorder head on.
While the girls each managed to share some of their hardships with their disorders, I sat there—in my anxiety—hoping this “session” would be over soon so I could lay in bed and force myself to sleep. Everything suddenly seemed like a bad dream again. And the worst part was only to come.
Because soon we’d have to eat. And eating meant being watched and getting food stuffed down my throat.
I was scared. So, so scared.
I missed Elijah already.
♠ ♠ ♠
One of my longest chapters—wow. Well, it is going to be a long process for Graham, so if it must be long chapters, then it must be long chapters.Thanks for reading, guys! Comments are gladly appreciated. <3