“Yes, I ate my lunch,” I tell the nurse. The staff here wears a constant expression of pity. I suppose it’s inevitable, but sometimes I wish their eyes would lie rather than pierce me with shame. She checks a few boxes, jotting down my rehearsed answers on the blue form. I hate that form.
As she waddles away, her obnoxiously juvenile scrubs stretch painfully across her thighs. I imagine them ripping and her skin spilling out, thankful for the freedom. I pinch the roll of cold flesh beneath my sweatshirt.
Dr. Jason briskly walks into the exam room, attempting a grin. He is on time every day. He sits on the edge of the cushioned stool, exuding anxiety with every quick movement. I like Jason, but he needs to find a new job. Serving as grim reaper does not validate four years of medical school and six of residency.
“Your heart rate is dangerously low and your left kidney is starting to fail again,” he announces, as uncomfortable as I am. I don’t blame him. How else do you tell a 19-year-old that she is killing herself?
“I figured this would happen soon,” I say. It happens to all of us. Organs weave in and out of functioning ability until they quit altogether. Some days, I wish they would quit. To appease Jason, I promise to try harder. He continues to talk but I cannot listen. I cannot obey him. Calculated plans and stages of recovery haunt me in my sleep.
Allowed to return to the lounge, I sulk down the hallway, pulling my faded hospital gown away from my stomach. My fingers brush my hipbone then grip it. The calendar on the bulletin board won’t let me forget tomorrow’s required outing. The staff first suggested the pool, but the thought of bathing suits left our closets smelling like vomit – anywhere the nurses rarely check. For our health and sanity, they compromised with the mall.
I join the other girls sprawled on the stiff couches. We waste our lives here. Slowly destroying our bodies, we wait and we waste. Mary’s arms are translucent; the skin barely clings on as if it can’t decide whether or not to let go. She brings both hands together above her head and blue veins crawl across her limbs as she assumes ballet’s fifth position. She used to be a dancer. We all used to be things. Now we are sick girls stuck between the desire to be normal and the fear of letting go. We are girls who fear pounds more than death.
“What did you say about your lunch?” Mary asks while balancing on her tiptoes.
“I told them I finished it,” I answer without making eye contact. “It’s their fault for not watching us today,” I add.
“I guess,” she mutters.
Mary has crossed over. Maybe she will be back, but for now, she is one of them. It’s always us against them, us against the staff, the scales, the snacks. Now Mary wants to get better.
“Did you get Jason or Diane today?” she asks.
“Jason,” I say flatly. I see her eyes light up. Everyone has a crush on him. If he weren’t the only male in the building, they would realize he is mediocre and awkward.
“What are you going to wear tomorrow?” she probes, bouncing from topic to topic as she bounces on her toes.
“I’ve been here so long that my wardrobe is probably out of style by now,” I joke. It has been 17 months. Most insurance companies only cover a few weeks of treatment, so my mother affords the difference, justifying it as life support.
“I hear it’s warming up outside so I am going to wear my favorite dress,” she brags. She ignores me and continues her ballet routine, keeping her gestures confined to avoid violation of the exercise restriction. I covet her long skinny legs, knowing for a fleeting second that my own are the same, if not skinnier. Then I return to the truth, my version of it at least, and stare at my pudgy corpse. I have every imperfection memorized. My right ankle is puffier than its counterpart. A springy dress would look foreign on me.
I choose baggy boot cut jeans and my ex-boyfriend’s football t-shirt. He visited me once. Some of us dress to show off the product of our lives’ devotion, others keep it hidden out of embarrassment and defeat. Nervous excitement has the van chattering. I lean my head against the sun soaked window in silence. Is this what I want? I once ruled the mall and now I am petrified to walk past a mirror, yet alone into a fitting room.
Standing up to get out of the car, I feel dizzy. They say that’s common, something to do with poor circulation. The clump of hair in the drain after every shower is also expected. Rather than expected, I almost wrote normal, but normal implies something very different for me, for people like me, than for the rest of the world. Full of worry, I walk through the parking lot, focusing on my steps.
I pluck at the racks of clothing, confronted by the reality and speed of life outside the treatment center, even life outside my head. A few tops and a dress that looks just like the one she is wearing, strain Mary’s small arm. I pull a skirt away from its clones. Maybe I will try it on. Probably not. I meet with a therapist every day. We made a list of goals for this shopping trip. I am supposed to try on at least one thing.
The jealously I feel watching Mary step into the fitting room pushes me to ask the attendant for a number, but as she closes the door, I change my mind. I cannot be left in here alone, my body versus the mirror. They make us do exercises with mirrors. Most days I refuse to look at the reflection. Unable to run from my mind, I run from my body. Today, I am scared to confront how far I have fallen. I run from the store.
The van isn’t leaving for three more hours. I lean my back against the window front of the store. The vertebra of my spine grate against the glass as I slide down into a seated position. People walk past me and I feel the chill of my own invisibility. I estimate their measurements. I see cheekbone definition, waist size, finger thinness, and love handle severity. An athletically built woman catches me staring at her. Even after we make eye contact, I continue to study her muscles.
I wasn’t fat before I fell into this. I could eat a cupcake without detecting new pudge. Never again will I bite into something sinful and come out free of guilt. The sliders on the scale may trickle to the right and my organ function may return, but I will never escape this mindset. I will always look with disgust at the people leaving the food court – cinnamon sugar from soft pretzels lacing their lips, greasy French fry stains on their pants, and the scent of pepperoni pizza on their breath.
“There you are, Anna,” an emaciated face shouts. “We thought you were in the dressing room, but we waited and waited and you never came out.”
“I’ve just been sitting here,” I answer from the floor, holding my knobby knees into my chest, wishing I could squeeze harder and collapse into myself. I would never have to eat again.
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