They switched Ali’s room last night. The counselors told us she was moving across the hall and wouldn’t answer any of our questions. I know they’ve confronted her, though, because they have a staff member checking her room every fifteen minutes at night.
Ali hates me. She keeps looking at me like I’m a slab of steak and she’s a hungry tiger.
Even dealing with Talia would be better than this. At least outside of the hospital I’d be doing other stuff besides eating. In here, that’s all there is: food and emotions and crying.
The world is going on without me.
I think my drawing is getting better, at least. I’ve been doing it all the time, in and out of art therapy. I’ve drawn all the girls in here. I’ve drawn them all more than once, actually, in different poses and in different lighting. Mom was right, too. I was bad at shadowing. That’s why my noses always looked strange. But now that I’ve drawn and redrawn and experimented, I’m getting better at it.
I’m not a failure. I’m a work in progress.
Maybe I can work hard and take that class with Emerson and then take more classes and get better and better and someday become a professional artist. How cool would that be? I don’t have to display in Mom’s gallery, either. There are tons of other galleries and tons of other paths to take. I just have to find my path.
I can’t be an artist with an eating disorder, though. Art is all about trying new things, exploring the world and capturing those emotions. I don’t have emotions when I’m sick. I’m too scared to explore anything when I’m focused on my body.
I need to be free to live my life.
I can’t control my body and be an artist. I can’t control my body and be me.
Mom and Julia came to visit tonight. Mom tried to convince me to ask for a pass—she wanted us to go out to eat together—but there’s no way I’m ready for that yet.
“You’re doing so well!” she said.
I’m not doing that well, though. The idea of Mom staring at me while I stare at a menu makes my heart race faster than it does when I run the 400 meter. What if I order more food than they usually have me eat in here? What if the salad comes with dressing already on it? What if Mom pressures me to order dessert and it’s delicious and I eat and eat until it’s gone? I won’t be able to run to burn off the calories, and if I throw a fit or get anxious, Mom will be disappointed.
Julia brought a bunch of board games instead. We played Settlers of Catan and Ticket to Ride and King of Tokyo. King of Tokyo is boring with three players, so Brenna and Laura joined us. Brenna got so into it she started jumping up and down and pretending to be Godzilla whenever it was her turn. It was so funny. At first Laura acted embarrassed by us, but I could tell she had fun, too. Her boyfriend hasn’t been visiting or returning her e-mails, so she’s been a super grump lately.
I get that. It’s lonely in here.
It’s like that lost city of Atlantis, the one that sank into the ocean, never to be seen again. Some explorers think it’s a real thing and spend their entire careers searching for the gleaming towers beneath the surface. Most people think it’s a myth, though. If Atlantis was real, the world has forgotten it ever existed. Everyone else has gone on with their lives. Made new friends. Moved on.
Meanwhile all of us underwater people are struggling to swim up to the surface. Here I am! Find me! See me!
At least Julia is still searching for Atlantis. She didn’t talk about my body at all—unlike Mom, who kept examining me like she was a human X-ray machine. Julia talked about TV instead. Apparently this new show premiered last night that everyone in her class is “totally obsessed with.” She told me about the main character and his magic powers and the boy he likes and the girl who likes him and how “the scene with the shapeshifter was sooooooooo cool.”
I listened the whole time and didn’t even laugh at all the funny faces Julia was making. I bet I earned major big-sister points for that. Not like the negative seven million points I’ve earned in the past year, when I never said congratulations after a good meet and never had time to help Julia with her homework. After a while, Julia started tiptoeing around me like I was a bomb about to erupt. She didn’t ask me to do anything with her.
Julia was too busy growing her awesome life.
I was too busy shrinking mine.
Today was different, though. Today we acted like sisters. Julia didn’t talk about gymnastics. I didn’t talk about food. She treated Brenna and Laura like normal people, too, not circus freaks.
At the end of their visit, Mom sent Julia into the hallway to wait for her. After she left, Mom put her arm around me. I snuggled into her side. Half of me was afraid she was going to jump away like Emerson did or start chiding me for being too thin. The other half was glad to have my mom here.
I pretend I’m not scared, but I really am. I’m scared a lot. I just want everyone to think I’m strong.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked.
“Riley!” Mom looked so shocked that I thought she was mad at me. I thought she was going to yell. Or even worse, say how disappointed she was that I’m not all the way better yet.
She didn’t.
“Honey, I’m not even the smallest bit mad at you.” Mom tilted my chin up so I was looking into her eyes. It’s what she does when I’m in trouble and she wants me to make eye contact. That’s why I didn’t believe her.
“You’re not lying?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Mom said. “I promise.”
“But I lied to you.” I felt the tears welling up. I didn’t want to cry. I couldn’t be weak. I had to show Mom I was strong. “I lied and I snuck around.”
“You did,” Mom said. “You made some mistakes, like all kids do.”
“Julia doesn’t make mistakes,” I mumbled.
Mom laughed. “Oh, yes, she does. Julia talks back and messes up her room and—”
“And messes up her vault? That’s what I heard you say last month. That she’s not working hard enough.”
“Oh, Riley.” Mom pulled away and took a deep breath, then hugged me again. “I don’t care about Julia’s vault. Or Julia’s scores. Or your weight.”
“You care about your weight,” I said. “And you talk about gymnastics all the time.” I wanted to say something about my art, but I couldn’t get there quite yet. It would hurt too much if Mom confirmed that she judged my talent. I’d be too nervous if she asked to see what I’m working on. I’ll save that talk for later.
“I do watch my weight,” Mom said. “I diet sometimes. But that’s me, not you. We’re different people. You have to remember that.”
Of course I know we’re different people. Mom’s forty-two and I’m twelve. Mom has gray hair and I have pimples. She likes boring documentaries and I like action movies.
That doesn’t mean I’m okay with her dieting, though.
This is the kind of stuff we talk about in Assertiveness Group: Speaking up when we want something from a family member. Putting our needs into words. Heather worked on it with us yesterday:
Brenna practiced asking her sister to stop making fun of her.
Meredith practiced telling her dad that ballerinas are athletes, too.
I practiced telling Mom and Dad that I wanted them to pay more attention to me.
I rehearsed looking them in the eye and making my voice firm but not loud.
I rehearsed sitting up straight and squaring my shoulders.
I did none of those things today.
I didn’t tell Mom that her diets make me want to diet. I didn’t tell Mom that when she talks about losing weight, I want to lose weight. That even though I know weight loss isn’t a competition, I always feel like it is. I always want to win.
“Okay,” I said instead. “I’ll remember that.”
“Good.” Mom’s phone buzzed. Her fingers tapped away. “Hold on, it’s your father.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“One sec.” More tapping. “Sorry, honey, he had to go. He sends his love, though.”
“Why can’t he tell me himself?” It would take one minute of his day. Twenty seconds even.
“He has a meeting, I think.”
I’m more important than a meeting. But I didn’t say that to Mom. I wanted her to go home. I wanted to be alone.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.” I couldn’t say anything else, but I could say that. Maybe someday I’ll learn to say more.
“I love you, too, honey. You’re doing so well. You look healthier.”
My heart stopped. I literally felt it stop. For one heartbeat of a moment I ceased to exist. I hovered outside myself, hearing Mom’s words as my body went numb.
Healthy.
Does that word mean the same thing to me anymore? Does it mean that I’m not special? That I’m weak? Or does it mean that I’m … healthy?
Full of health.
Not about to die.
The staff here doesn’t talk about our bodies. They don’t tell us we look “good” or “healthy” or “better.” They talk about our personalities instead. Our smiles. Our talents.
“Brenna, I love how excited you were when you talked about your trip to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter!”
“Meredith, that story was hilarious.”
“Aisha, I can tell you’re a great friend.”
“Laura, that insight was fantastic.”
There’s nothing to decode because we don’t talk about weight. We talk about how we feel about weight, but not about how much we weigh. Mom doesn’t know that rule, though. She doesn’t know that she’s pushed my brain into a whirlpool.
I tried to use my healthy voice. I tried to stop my thoughts before they turned into urges by picturing a big red STOP sign in my mind.
Being healthy is good. Being healthy means I’m not sick. It means I can take that art class with Emerson. It means I can go home.
But what if I go home and Mom’s on a diet? What if I show her my newest drawings and she tells me they’re awful? What if nothing changes but me? Will I be able to keep going, or will I slide back into sickness?
I don’t want to be sick forever. I feel happier now. My body doesn’t hurt as much. I can concentrate. I read three whole chapters in my book this afternoon without getting distracted. I can probably do schoolwork now.
I don’t want to go back to where I was before.