My nasogastric feeding tube is a Capri lemon shade of yellow. It goes in through my nose, runs down my esophagus, and ends inside my stomach. Nutrition can be delivered through the tube in one large infusion, or gradually, via pump over a period of eight to twenty-four hours.
Or in the case of an evening snack, in ten minutes flat.
The procedure is surgically swift and lonely. It takes place in the nurse’s station. The other girls cannot see me from the other room but I can hear their conversations.
I ask to use the bathroom. The humiliating sound of jingling keys. Perhaps it is the tube, or not, either way, I am choking for breath and in tears. I close and lock the bathroom door and let myself sink to the floor. Finally alone again, I cry.
Matthias is gone.
Matthias is gone. I sent him away. I know I did the right thing. At least now as I free-fall I know I will not be taking him down with me.
I keep the bathroom light switched off. I stay on the floor for hours. Or minutes, or a second, I do not know. No one knocks for me to come out.
I finally stand up and switch the light on, reaching for the faucet. I jump: my reflection in the mirror. I look old, sick, and hideous. Scary. I switch the light back off.
But even in the darkness again, I cannot unsee my face, my body, the feeding tube. I look fat. I feel fat. Anorexia: there it is.
I dissect every body part outlined in the shadowy mirror. My breasts are far too small for the rest of me, and my legs are far too short. My behind sticks out more than it should. My thighs could and should be thinner. My back could be straighter, my shoulders more square. I could tuck my stomach further in.
Even my vision is distorted. Macular thinning; even eye muscles can lose weight, detect less detail, less light, send less dopamine to the brain. Life loses focus in the haze.
I hate what I see, even as my eyes squint in my self-imposed dusk. Shapes are hazy and disfigured, shadows look longer than they are, but the feeding tube glares directly at me, and Matthias is gone.