Status: The end. Thank you all so much for reading.
Wrists
stay .
The week passed by very, very slowly. As promised, Ms. Hill only asked me about how I was feeling, and let me talk about anything I ever wanted to; it didn’t have to be “disorder related”. I still hated that word. ‘Disorder’. I still hated being labeled as a young male suffering from ‘Anorexia Nervosa’. I didn’t feel like all these other patients—my so-called “disorder” didn’t stem from wanting to be ‘thin’ and ‘beautiful’. I still don’t even really understand how this came to be. And, I found myself telling all of this to Ms. Hill. She sat there. She listened. I mean, she really looked like she was listening to me because she wanted to, not because she had to. It made me feel nice. Comforted. Ms. Hill really was a nice person.
When I finished talking, Ms. Hill explained to me that the first step to recovery is actually believing that I have an eating disorder of some sort. She told me that even if I was “labeled” as an Anorexic, that she—and the doctors—know that I’m not just like everyone else. She told me that just because I was given the same title as some of the other patients in Avalon Hills doesn’t mean that the doctors assume we all have the same mindset. It made me feel a tiny bit better to know this, but I was still uncomfortable with having an eating disorder on my medical records.
Ms. Hill wasn’t the only one that I grew more and more attached to, though. Day by day I was learning more about the other patients in the clinic: Amelia grew to become the person I respected and looked up to. She was the eldest in the clinic, and she certainly acted like it. She worked twice as hard than the rest of us, and wanted to recover so, so badly. I could see the desperation in her eyes sometimes. She was also like a second Ms. Hill to me. She asked me about my day every morning, let me sit next to her while I ate (eating was still a difficult task, but her supportive attitude helped me significantly), and she always chose me as her partner when we had to do group work during our sessions. I appreciated everything she did for me, and, of course, I supported her as well.
Raychel—as I had already expected—was a lesbian. She didn’t say much at all about her home life, but what I did know was that her immediate family didn’t take to kindly to her coming out. She was a bit of a rebel in the clininc; I could tell Mrs. Clayson had trouble getting her to do as she was told. But, when she wanted to, Raychel was the strongest of us all—even stronger than Amelia. Her demanding and stubborn attitude tended to hinder her recovery at times, but she eventually ended up doing what she needed to. She seemed to enjoy my company; I’m assuming since I was the only male in the clinic.
Miranda became a little Cheyenne to me. She was younger than I—acted like it 98% of the time—and came to me when she wanted someone to just be with. I treated her like I treated Cheyenne most of the time; it was nice to have that familiar feeling that I once had when with my real sister.
Taylor, Amy, and Payton were the three amigos. They hardly ever left one another’s sides, and always seemed to be up to something. They were the ones who constantly attempted to break the system. I would occasionally over hear them talking about finding a place to purge without being caught by the cameras. They worried me, but I paid them no mind—Amelia normally caught on to what they were plotting and told the higher-ups. As you would know, Taylor, Amy, and Payton didn’t like Amelia too much.
Weston and Krystal were quiet. Very quiet. At moments they’d have insightful realizations, but, other than that, they just went along with whatever. Whenever I wanted a quiet moment—a moment mostly to myself and my thoughts—I’d just gravitate to their lunch table, or their side of the session room. They would nod to acknowledge my presence, but, other than that, they sat around like furniture.
Visiting day was the next day. I was nervous, but also excited to see my family and friends again. I missed seeing Elijah’s blue eyes them all the time, since I hardly ever see them those days. Unfortunately, though, that day was my weigh-in day. I had to go back to my doctor—Dr. Poorman—and get on the scale and get myself checked up again. I didn’t want to; I really didn’t want to. I could already feel the fat growing on my stomach and legs, why confirm that I had, indeed, gained? If I hit 110 pounds, I knew I was going to kill myself. I never thought much about my weight, but suddenly now my weight was everything.
My fretting kept me up most of the night. And, first thing in the morning—even before breakfast—Dr. Reynolds came to escort me to that horrid doctor’s office. My heartbeat was going crazy; my hands shaking uncontrollably. Dr. Poorman was smiling kindly at me once Dr. Reynolds closed the door behind me, trapping me in enclosed space. She instructed me to strip down to my boxers and undershirt. I carefully did as I was told.
I was finally on the scale. Dr. Poorman fiddled with the weights for forever, trying to get the perfect measurement. After what seemed like three hours, she smiled at me and said, gently, “112, Graham. You’re doing so great.” She sat down at scribbled away on her clipboard. I stood there, watching her, numb. Was that really supposed to be ‘doing so great’? Because at that very moment I felt like slitting my wrist and letting myself bleed to death.
It was worse than I had expected. 112 pounds. No way. No fucking way. It took so long to lose, and so fast to gain. A week to gained nearly 15 pounds. I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. But I pretended to be happy about my weight gain, all the way up to when Dr. Reynolds escorted me to breakfast. How the hell did they expect me to eat everything on my plate when I knew I gained nearly 1000 pounds? My reflection in the nearby window looked ten times bigger than ever before.
I knew they were watching. I knew there were cameras everywhere I walked and looked. But I didn’t care. I ate everything on my plate, as they had instructed, and then I excused myself to the bathroom.
I didn’t think. I just reacted.
I emptied myself.
When I finished talking, Ms. Hill explained to me that the first step to recovery is actually believing that I have an eating disorder of some sort. She told me that even if I was “labeled” as an Anorexic, that she—and the doctors—know that I’m not just like everyone else. She told me that just because I was given the same title as some of the other patients in Avalon Hills doesn’t mean that the doctors assume we all have the same mindset. It made me feel a tiny bit better to know this, but I was still uncomfortable with having an eating disorder on my medical records.
Ms. Hill wasn’t the only one that I grew more and more attached to, though. Day by day I was learning more about the other patients in the clinic: Amelia grew to become the person I respected and looked up to. She was the eldest in the clinic, and she certainly acted like it. She worked twice as hard than the rest of us, and wanted to recover so, so badly. I could see the desperation in her eyes sometimes. She was also like a second Ms. Hill to me. She asked me about my day every morning, let me sit next to her while I ate (eating was still a difficult task, but her supportive attitude helped me significantly), and she always chose me as her partner when we had to do group work during our sessions. I appreciated everything she did for me, and, of course, I supported her as well.
Raychel—as I had already expected—was a lesbian. She didn’t say much at all about her home life, but what I did know was that her immediate family didn’t take to kindly to her coming out. She was a bit of a rebel in the clininc; I could tell Mrs. Clayson had trouble getting her to do as she was told. But, when she wanted to, Raychel was the strongest of us all—even stronger than Amelia. Her demanding and stubborn attitude tended to hinder her recovery at times, but she eventually ended up doing what she needed to. She seemed to enjoy my company; I’m assuming since I was the only male in the clinic.
Miranda became a little Cheyenne to me. She was younger than I—acted like it 98% of the time—and came to me when she wanted someone to just be with. I treated her like I treated Cheyenne most of the time; it was nice to have that familiar feeling that I once had when with my real sister.
Taylor, Amy, and Payton were the three amigos. They hardly ever left one another’s sides, and always seemed to be up to something. They were the ones who constantly attempted to break the system. I would occasionally over hear them talking about finding a place to purge without being caught by the cameras. They worried me, but I paid them no mind—Amelia normally caught on to what they were plotting and told the higher-ups. As you would know, Taylor, Amy, and Payton didn’t like Amelia too much.
Weston and Krystal were quiet. Very quiet. At moments they’d have insightful realizations, but, other than that, they just went along with whatever. Whenever I wanted a quiet moment—a moment mostly to myself and my thoughts—I’d just gravitate to their lunch table, or their side of the session room. They would nod to acknowledge my presence, but, other than that, they sat around like furniture.
Visiting day was the next day. I was nervous, but also excited to see my family and friends again. I missed seeing Elijah’s blue eyes them all the time, since I hardly ever see them those days. Unfortunately, though, that day was my weigh-in day. I had to go back to my doctor—Dr. Poorman—and get on the scale and get myself checked up again. I didn’t want to; I really didn’t want to. I could already feel the fat growing on my stomach and legs, why confirm that I had, indeed, gained? If I hit 110 pounds, I knew I was going to kill myself. I never thought much about my weight, but suddenly now my weight was everything.
My fretting kept me up most of the night. And, first thing in the morning—even before breakfast—Dr. Reynolds came to escort me to that horrid doctor’s office. My heartbeat was going crazy; my hands shaking uncontrollably. Dr. Poorman was smiling kindly at me once Dr. Reynolds closed the door behind me, trapping me in enclosed space. She instructed me to strip down to my boxers and undershirt. I carefully did as I was told.
I was finally on the scale. Dr. Poorman fiddled with the weights for forever, trying to get the perfect measurement. After what seemed like three hours, she smiled at me and said, gently, “112, Graham. You’re doing so great.” She sat down at scribbled away on her clipboard. I stood there, watching her, numb. Was that really supposed to be ‘doing so great’? Because at that very moment I felt like slitting my wrist and letting myself bleed to death.
It was worse than I had expected. 112 pounds. No way. No fucking way. It took so long to lose, and so fast to gain. A week to gained nearly 15 pounds. I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. But I pretended to be happy about my weight gain, all the way up to when Dr. Reynolds escorted me to breakfast. How the hell did they expect me to eat everything on my plate when I knew I gained nearly 1000 pounds? My reflection in the nearby window looked ten times bigger than ever before.
I knew they were watching. I knew there were cameras everywhere I walked and looked. But I didn’t care. I ate everything on my plate, as they had instructed, and then I excused myself to the bathroom.
I didn’t think. I just reacted.
I emptied myself.
♠ ♠ ♠
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