I hate doctors.
All doctors?
Yes, all. And nutritionists too.
Matthias and I are out on the porch. The weather is pleasant this evening. I am not; day two had been painful and heavy. And dinner had been worse.
I deduce that you had your first meetings with your team.
Wry smile, barely concealed. I resent his lighthearted response, but
Yes, and my first session of group therapy.
How did they go?
Not well.
Not that I really know how they should; I had never met with a therapist, psychiatrist, or nutritionist before.
They treat me like a child, Matthias! Like a patient at a mental institution.
The words not of sound mind replay in my head.
You are a patient, Anna.
Yes, but I am not stupid or crazy. I chose to come here. You should have heard the condescension in their voices, telling me what to eat and what to think!
It’s their job. They are just trying to help. You are sick—
I am not sick! I have a problem.
You have a disease that is killing you.
I want to keep my voice low but feel it rising with my irritation. My spine tenses. I fire:
Don’t be dramatic!
Matthias’s face darkens at my snap. He waits for me to finish my tirade, knowing there is more to come.
I said I have a problem! And I am fixing it! I am going to fix it. I just …
but my voice quivers, and my throat feels tight. I just … struggle with the rest of that sentence.
I end lamely:
It’s just hard.
No, it is exhausting. Today was exhausting. The meals, sessions with the girls and my team. How had things gotten to this? How had everything gotten so difficult?
How does one forget how to eat? How does one forget how to breathe? Worse: how does one remember? And how does happiness feel?
I sink back into the wicker chair. Matthias puts his hand on mine. No, I do not need the pity. I sit back up before the tears come.
Don’t worry, I will fix this,
I tell Matthias.
I will figure it out. I can do this on my own, I do not need—
But Matthias interrupts:
No.
Silence. What side is he on?
No you cannot do this on your own. You tried, remember, Anna? You promised me you would eat, and your father and family,
The confrontation, the hours of begging, defending, arguing in the living room on Christmas Day. The promises I had made to make them stop crying, stop worrying about me.
and it did not work.
I tried!
I protest.
I am still trying, all right? I am doing my best!
But I am the only one shouting. Matthias takes my hand again.
Softly:
Anna, you weigh eighty-eight pounds.
My throat is tight again. I do not trust my voice to reply, am too tired to withdraw my hand. The tears are flowing, treacherous and unauthorized, freely down my face.
I finally let him put his arms around me, crying quietly into his shirt.
I know you tried, Anna. I know you really did, but if you could have fixed this you would have. If this were “just” a problem you and I would not be sitting here.