Status: The end. Thank you all so much for reading.
Wrists
insane .
When Mrs. Clayson let out for our 40-minute lunch break, Dr. Reynolds took me back out of class and sent me to a room, where a nutritionist was waiting for me. She introduced herself as Dr. Moore, and got straight into setting up a plan for me. Apparently my mother had bought a full plan: a nutritionist was to set a plan for me of what good, whole foods to eat for my duration in this hell hole clinic. She explained to me that we were going slow; I started out with protein and fiber bars, raw foods, whole wheat bread, bagels, pancakes, and waffles, fruit juices, and a bit of meat and other things she said was important. We sat there for almost two hours, going over what was suggested to eat on a daily basis, and at what time frames I should eat it.
I tried to be active. I tried to listen, and tried to convince myself to commit to the plan and do as I was told. But the thought of sending that food—no matter if it was “healthy” or not—down my throat sent a shiver of fear down my spine. To counter my fears and habits, though, she also informed me that even the bathrooms had cameras, and I wasn’t allowed to throw up or hide any food anywhere in the facility. I was to eat the food under any circumstances. Failure to oblige led to greater punishments. I wanted to reply that this place was punishment enough, but Graham, as always, was a nice boy and refrained from doing so.
Instead I gave her a weak nod, asked some questions about the diet plan, and then finally Dr. Reynolds came to escort me to the lunch room. The rest of the girls were already in their one-to-one conferences with several of the counselors on the property, so I was to eat alone, under the supervision of the nearby staff.
I forced myself to eat everything on my plate: assorted fruit, a small serving of whole grain rice, a nutrition bar, some mixed vegetables, some grilled chicken pieces, and a tall glass of lemon water. It sounded like a lot—which it was, to my small stomach—but I knew that “normal” people ate more than that for lunch. Much, much more.
I had to be normal.
So I ate.
And the guilt came, but I attempted to keep it down. I was supposed to be getting better. For Graham. For Graham.
For Graham.
I tried to be active. I tried to listen, and tried to convince myself to commit to the plan and do as I was told. But the thought of sending that food—no matter if it was “healthy” or not—down my throat sent a shiver of fear down my spine. To counter my fears and habits, though, she also informed me that even the bathrooms had cameras, and I wasn’t allowed to throw up or hide any food anywhere in the facility. I was to eat the food under any circumstances. Failure to oblige led to greater punishments. I wanted to reply that this place was punishment enough, but Graham, as always, was a nice boy and refrained from doing so.
Instead I gave her a weak nod, asked some questions about the diet plan, and then finally Dr. Reynolds came to escort me to the lunch room. The rest of the girls were already in their one-to-one conferences with several of the counselors on the property, so I was to eat alone, under the supervision of the nearby staff.
I forced myself to eat everything on my plate: assorted fruit, a small serving of whole grain rice, a nutrition bar, some mixed vegetables, some grilled chicken pieces, and a tall glass of lemon water. It sounded like a lot—which it was, to my small stomach—but I knew that “normal” people ate more than that for lunch. Much, much more.
I had to be normal.
So I ate.
And the guilt came, but I attempted to keep it down. I was supposed to be getting better. For Graham. For Graham.
For Graham.