I’m so sick of wearing hospital gowns. They’re ugly and stained and don’t even cover my butt. I try not to think about where those stains came from. And why the hospital won’t buy new ones. I just put them on, step onto the scale backward, and close my eyes, holding on to the fabric the whole time so the world doesn’t see my behind.
I don’t want to know what I weigh anymore. Isn’t that weird? That number used to be the most important thing in the world to me. Some people need coffee to function in the morning. I needed to know my weight.
I still care, of course. I think I’ll always care. I’ll always wonder. But I don’t want to know now.
I’m afraid of what I’ll do when I see that high number, whatever it is. What if it scares me and I start hating myself again?
I don’t want to hate myself anymore.
I’ve been eating all my meals. All my snacks, too. I do want to eat and I don’t want to eat, both at the same time. I feel proud and guilty, both at the same time. I feel like two different people in the same body.
When I was a kid and Mom read me stories before bed, we always did four stories—I chose two and she chose two. That way, even if Mom groaned when I chose Corduroy for the five zillionth time, she still had to read it.
Mom always wanted to read this boring book about a little girl with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The book wasn’t that good. It was one of those books that are supposed to teach kids a lesson, where the devil and the angel told the girl different things to do. I thought it was silly when I was five, but now that I’m twelve it makes more sense.
Right now, the devil is poking his pitchfork into my shoulder. He’s whispering that I don’t need food, that I’m stronger than my body, smarter than anyone else.
The angel is brushing her soft feathers against my cheek, cooing that I’m brave and powerful. That I can beat this disease.
When I was sick, I listened to the devil every time. His voice is softer now, but he’s still poking me. His pitchfork is still pointy. He’s trying to draw blood.
I’m listening to the angel, though.
I feel full and gross, but the devil is getting quieter.
Willow says that’s how I know I’m doing the right thing.