‹ Prequel: The "You're Not Fat" Campaign
Relearning Laura
Fallfallfall
I tug anxiously at the hem of my sweater and shuffle my feet on the pavement as I stare up at the forbidding grey building that is the Hope House Treatment Center for Eating Disorders.
"Laura, come on," my mom says. I bite my lip hard, almost hard enough to draw blood. I do not move.
"Laura," Mom repeats, her voice full of warning. "We don't have time for this."
"I'm scared, Mom," I whisper. My voice wavers and I feel a tight knot of anxiety in my too-full stomach.
"Don't be ridiculous," Dad snaps. I wince and scuff the toe of my right boot against the curb.
"Sorry," I sigh. My parents lead me through the double glass doors and into Hope House. There is soft classical music playing, and a big rectangle of worn-down chairs, and old People magazines on the table in the center of the chair rectangle. The air smells of coffee and damp carpet and sadness. A small woman with wispy white hair totters out of an office and over to us.
"Hello!" she squeaks, her wrinkly face getting even more wrinkled as she smiles at me. I smile hesitantly back a her.
"Laura McKee for Dr. Weiss?" Mom says. The little old lady nods and scuttles back behind the desk, then returns to us with a clipboard in her hands.
"Fill out these forms, please!" she requests. Mom and Dad take the clipboard, sit down, look up at me expectantly. I sit down in a worn-out hair across from them and fold my arms and legs into tight little pretzel shapes. My fat rubs together and it is foul.
No Laura it's normal
No Laura it's FOUL
My parents finish with the paperwork and hand it to the wispy receptionist, who wrinkle-smiles at us again and tells us to wait just a few minutes for the doctor. I pick at a loose thread on the thigh of my jeans and try to keep calm. Deep breaths, Laurie, deep breaths.
After maybe ten minutes, a tall woman with red hair pulled into a French braid and a blue sweater dress approaches us.
"Are you Laura?" she asks me. I nod. The woman smiles.
"I'm Dr. Weiss. Nice to meet you," she says, holding out her hand for me to shake it. Her grip is firm, almost too tight. My bones feel like they're being crushed together, ground into a fine powder.
"You too," I mutter, not meeting her eyes. Dr. Weiss leads us into her office, a small room that doesn't have enough chairs for us all to sit down. She apologizes about ten times, but Dad waves a hand at her and says he doesn't mind.
They talk and talk and talk and then Dr. Weiss asks me questions and it's all a blur so I say yes when it seems right and no otherwise and Dr. Weiss signs some forms and I sign them and Dad signs them and Mom signs them and then we are Free To Go.
My stomach is still too full.
A muscley man in a Hope House uniform comes up to us and says "Hi, I'm David. I'm Laura's floor nurse."
That wakes me up.
"A floor nurse?" I ask, alarmed. Mom looks at me strangely.
"Yes, Laura. You're staying here, remember? We just talked about it with the doctor," she says. I shake my head violently.
"No. No way, absolutely not, no," I tell her. "I don't need to stay here, that's ridiculous, I'm not even sick!" David the floor nurse steps back. Dad buries his face in his hands. Mom stares at me, incredulous.
"I am not SICK, Mother!" I say, and I am screaming now, loud and harsh and angry. "I don't need to stay here, I don't have an eating disorder, I'm too fat to have an eating disorder, I'm not sick I'm not sick I'm not sick!" All this screaming is making the blood rush to my head. Mom is crying and Dad is shouting at me and David is somewhere calling for help as I fallfallfall to the floor.
"Laura, come on," my mom says. I bite my lip hard, almost hard enough to draw blood. I do not move.
"Laura," Mom repeats, her voice full of warning. "We don't have time for this."
"I'm scared, Mom," I whisper. My voice wavers and I feel a tight knot of anxiety in my too-full stomach.
"Don't be ridiculous," Dad snaps. I wince and scuff the toe of my right boot against the curb.
"Sorry," I sigh. My parents lead me through the double glass doors and into Hope House. There is soft classical music playing, and a big rectangle of worn-down chairs, and old People magazines on the table in the center of the chair rectangle. The air smells of coffee and damp carpet and sadness. A small woman with wispy white hair totters out of an office and over to us.
"Hello!" she squeaks, her wrinkly face getting even more wrinkled as she smiles at me. I smile hesitantly back a her.
"Laura McKee for Dr. Weiss?" Mom says. The little old lady nods and scuttles back behind the desk, then returns to us with a clipboard in her hands.
"Fill out these forms, please!" she requests. Mom and Dad take the clipboard, sit down, look up at me expectantly. I sit down in a worn-out hair across from them and fold my arms and legs into tight little pretzel shapes. My fat rubs together and it is foul.
No Laura it's normal
No Laura it's FOUL
My parents finish with the paperwork and hand it to the wispy receptionist, who wrinkle-smiles at us again and tells us to wait just a few minutes for the doctor. I pick at a loose thread on the thigh of my jeans and try to keep calm. Deep breaths, Laurie, deep breaths.
After maybe ten minutes, a tall woman with red hair pulled into a French braid and a blue sweater dress approaches us.
"Are you Laura?" she asks me. I nod. The woman smiles.
"I'm Dr. Weiss. Nice to meet you," she says, holding out her hand for me to shake it. Her grip is firm, almost too tight. My bones feel like they're being crushed together, ground into a fine powder.
"You too," I mutter, not meeting her eyes. Dr. Weiss leads us into her office, a small room that doesn't have enough chairs for us all to sit down. She apologizes about ten times, but Dad waves a hand at her and says he doesn't mind.
They talk and talk and talk and then Dr. Weiss asks me questions and it's all a blur so I say yes when it seems right and no otherwise and Dr. Weiss signs some forms and I sign them and Dad signs them and Mom signs them and then we are Free To Go.
My stomach is still too full.
A muscley man in a Hope House uniform comes up to us and says "Hi, I'm David. I'm Laura's floor nurse."
That wakes me up.
"A floor nurse?" I ask, alarmed. Mom looks at me strangely.
"Yes, Laura. You're staying here, remember? We just talked about it with the doctor," she says. I shake my head violently.
"No. No way, absolutely not, no," I tell her. "I don't need to stay here, that's ridiculous, I'm not even sick!" David the floor nurse steps back. Dad buries his face in his hands. Mom stares at me, incredulous.
"I am not SICK, Mother!" I say, and I am screaming now, loud and harsh and angry. "I don't need to stay here, I don't have an eating disorder, I'm too fat to have an eating disorder, I'm not sick I'm not sick I'm not sick!" All this screaming is making the blood rush to my head. Mom is crying and Dad is shouting at me and David is somewhere calling for help as I fallfallfall to the floor.