The "You're Not Fat" Campaign

We pull into the hospital parking lot.

I have stopped crying for now, but I can feel the tightness in my throat, the burning behind my eyes. One harsh word and I will fall apart again.

I clutch at my wrist, squeezing it tightly. The minor pain helps me focus. Mom and Dad lead me into the emergency room and I can't breathe again. It smells of cleaning solution and someone's old-lady perfume. Mom and Dad sit at the admissions desk and sign me in. They speak in low voices so that I can't hear them. The desk lady attaches a paper bracelet to my wrist and I start to cry again.

"It'll be okay, honey," says the desk lady, but I shake my head and turn away.

We wait for forty-five minutes. I twist my fingers around themselves and concentrate on controlling my breathing. IamfineIamfineIamfineIamfine.

Look what you've done.

No no no please not now please stop please go away.

You're going to get caught and they're going to make me go away and it's all your fault. You're so weak. You're so pathetic.

Yes I am.

You don't deserve me.

Please don't abandon me.