I’m so hungry. I eat more in one meal now than I used to in one day. Why am I hungry? I shouldn’t be hungry.
When I was at home and hunger pains clenched my stomach in their fists, there was a mantra I recited to myself: Strong, stronger, strongest.
I chanted it until my mind was focused enough to conquer my body. Until the glasses of water and the cans of diet soda and the constant running quieted the grumbling inside. Until everything stopped hurting so much.
Strong, stronger, strongest.
My body yelled that it needed calories and energy. It begged me to listen. But I thought I could conjure energy out of thin air, out of sprints and sit-ups, starvation and failed attempts at sleep.
I did conjure energy for a while. I was in control. I made magic. I was stronger than the pain. My mantra isn’t helping me in here, though. There’s nothing to fight back against. They won’t let me be hungry. They’ve taken my eating disorder away. It’s trapped inside my brain, screaming for freedom.
When I tell it I want the noise in my head to stop, it gets louder.
When I tell it I want to get better, it tells me I’m weak.
I tell myself that I’m not my body, that I’m strong enough to beat this. I tell myself so many things, but I’m still scared. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to make it to the finish line.
I want to tell Willow how I’ve been doing crunches. She says I need to be honest for her to really help me.
In our last session, Willow talked about “accountability” and how my eating disorder thrives on secrets. “Imagine planting a seed in the ground,” she said.
I made a joke about being an awful gardener and how I killed the birthday rosebush Grandma gave me last year. Willow smiled, but she didn’t laugh.
“This is important,” she said. “If you water and give that seed food, it will grow. If you give it sunlight, it will thrive.” Willow pointed to the plant on her desk, the one that’s green and lush. “This plant is like your eating disorder.”
“Huh?”
“Eating disorders thrive on secrets,” Willow said. “Secrets make them grow. Deception makes them strong. If you don’t give your eating disorder what it wants, if you ignore it and starve it—instead of yourself—it will die. The seed will stay a seed.”
“So it’s good that I’m a plant killer?” I joked again.
This time Willow did laugh. “It’s a start,” she said. “Just remember that I won’t judge you. I want to hear your secrets so we can deal with them together.”
I want to confess, but every time I try, the words skulk back into the shadows, ducking and hiding behind my shame.
Ed: If you tell Willow, she’ll get mad at you. She’ll make you stop.
Healthy Voice: But I want to stop. And right now, I can’t stop myself.
Ed: If you tell Willow, she’ll be disappointed in you. Everyone will.
Healthy Voice: If I tell Willow, she’ll be proud of me for telling the truth. She’ll help me get better.
Ed: You don’t want to get better.
Healthy Voice: Maybe I do.
Ali got her IV out this morning. I guess she’s hydrated enough to not need it. Or nutrient-full enough. She’s still full of mean, though. This morning she told me I looked healthy. She had this annoying half smile on her face when she said it, because we both knew what she meant.
“Healthy” doesn’t mean that I’m not sick.
“Healthy” means that I’m fat.
That all my fears are coming true. That even with the crunches, I’m gaining weight in here. I’m gaining too much weight in here.
Ali’s comment made me not want to eat. It made me want to tell the counselors that I’m done with this, that I need to leave.
What’s wrong with me? I say I want to recover. I wrote yesterday that I don’t want to be sick anymore. But I’m still scared of gaining weight. I’m still doing crunches. I’m still keeping secrets.
And what’s wrong with gaining weight anyway? We talked about that in group this morning, how the world thinks fat is the worst thing ever, worse than disease and pollution and even death.
“People call me all sorts of names,” Brenna said. “They make fun of me because I’m fat. When I told my soccer team I was going in here, half the kids laughed because they didn’t believe someone like me could get an eating disorder.”
“You’re not fat,” I said quickly.
“I am fat,” Brenna said. “I’m fat because that’s how I was made. I’m not meant to be skinny like you, Riley. And not just because I binge. Because I’m me.” She looked to Heather for approval, like her words could break into pieces at any moment.
“You’re right, Brenna,” Heather said. “What’s so bad about fat anyway?”
No one answered.
“Does being skinny make you a better person?”
“Does eating less food make you more kind?”
“Is eating too much food a crime?”
It feels that way.
“That’s what we want you to realize in here.” Heather’s voice rose like she was onstage giving a speech. “You’re all meant to live in different bodies, bodies you’ll naturally have without stuffing or starving or punishing yourselves. You may end up in a body that’s fat. You may end up in a body that’s muscular or thin, curvy or straight up and down.
“It will be your body, though. Your body that you live in and love in and play in. You can still have friends in that body. You can still have fun in that body. You can still live your life in that body. Because you are so much more than your size.”
“I don’t want to be fat,” Ali said.
Brenna glared at her. I glared at Ali, too. I still think the same thing a little bit, but Heather makes sense. Wouldn’t I rather be fat than miserable?
Ali didn’t notice our glares. I bet she forgot everything Heather said. Because right now she’s dancing around the group room, waving her arms and wiggling her hips. “No IV, no IV!” She’s chanting it like she’s a cheerleader. Everyone else is giggling. Everyone else likes Ali. No one else sees what a faker she is.
I used to want to be like Ali. I don’t think I do anymore.
Brenna’s words keep echoing in my head: I’m not meant to be skinny like you, Riley.
Am I meant to be skinny? Yeah, I’m skinny now, but I only look this way because I’m sick. When I recover, I’ll look different. I may not be skinny.
I’ll still be me, though.
And I think that’s a good thing.
I got mail today! Two things, actually. One was a postcard from Julia. I laughed when I saw it, because it reminded me of the summer when I was nine and Julia was eight. That’s the year Mom was between jobs and Julia was starting to get serious about gymnastics. She didn’t have practice every day, so it was okay to go to Cape Cod for a week.
Okay to spend every day at the beach instead of in the gym.
Okay to splash in the waves without worrying about what my body looked like.
Okay not to have to wear a two-piece to be cool.
Okay to eat ice cream twice a day.
Okay to have fun.
That’s the summer Julia and I went to the country store around the corner from our rented cottage and picked out postcards to send to everyone back home. We tried to find the silliest pictures: the lobster with one eye bigger than the other, the sea otter in sunglasses, Santa fishing on the end of a pier.
Today I got a postcard from Julia. It had a big blue whale on the front, with GET WHALE SOON in bright yellow letters. On the back she wrote: I miss you. I hope you’re home soon. The postcard made me happy. Because Julia was thinking about me. Because Julia didn’t hate me for being such an awful sister.
The other thing I got was a letter from Emerson. It was super short, just a bunch of stuff about track and school and tests and how I’m so lucky I missed our unit on Industrialization last week because it was so boring.
The best part wasn’t Emerson’s letter, though. It’s what was in the envelope with the letter: a newspaper clipping. It reminded me of the letters Grandma Archibald sends us, with an “only funny to old people” comic from the newspaper attached or an article about how important sunscreen is.
Emerson’s clipping was about an art class at the community center, one that starts next month.
I’ll do it with you. It’ll be fun! Emerson wrote on the bottom, next to a big smiley face.
Emerson didn’t write anything about me being sick. She wrote to me like I was a regular person, someone who used to love art. Someone who could maybe love it again.
I keep thinking about that class. It’s scary to think of someone looking at my drawings. But Mom won’t be there to criticize them. And I’ve been drawing more the past few days. Not televisions, and not even my usual dragons and animals. I’ve been drawing more people, like we did that time in art therapy. I still haven’t been able to draw my face, but I drew Brenna’s. Aisha’s, too. I used pencil and worked on shadow and light.
I think they’re okay.
I think I’m okay.
Maybe I could get better.
Brenna’s definitely my best friend in the hospital. Last night we did a puzzle in the group room before bed. There was a picture of a kitten with fairy wings on the box, but the inside was full of pieces from all different puzzles. So we pieced together what we called a “mutant puzzle.” There were pieces with cars and trucks, pieces with a mermaid, and pieces of the Eiffel Tower. The final result looked hilarious.
I bet in real life I’d be friends with Brenna.
This isn’t real life, though.
When I get out of here, I’ll probably never see her again. Brenna will live her life and I’ll live mine. The hospital will be a memory.
I wonder if that day will ever come, when I barely remember these walls and this hospital food. When I’m so happy that I forget what it’s like to be this scared.
Tonight I asked Brenna if she was happy. They talk a lot about being happy here. Happy with our bodies. Happy with who we are. Happy with our life. I never feel happy, though, not all the way. I’m always waiting for something to go wrong. Are there people who are happy all the time? Is that even realistic?
Brenna shrugged. “I guess. I’m happier than I was before. At least I know I’m not the only one like this.” She pulled at her pixie cut. “I’m annoyed with my hair, though. It’s growing out so weird.”
I need a haircut, too. They don’t have a stylist at the hospital. We don’t even have hair dryers. Hair isn’t a huge deal to me, though, not as much as it is for Brenna. She says she feels more herself when her hair is short, that long hair makes her feel fake.
“When I have long hair, I feel like I’m playing a part. And I only like playing parts when I’m cosplaying.” We giggled. Brenna showed me pictures of her at Comic-Con. She dressed up as Batgirl and as a steampunk Cinderella. She won an award for the Cinderella costume and took pictures with tons of famous people!
Brenna doesn’t hide as much of herself as I do.
Brenna’s way braver than me.
“But how can you be happy when you’re still big?” Whoops. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean that.
Did I mean that?
Brenna bit her lip. Her shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean there’s anything wrong with your size. I’m an awful person.” Apologies flew from my mouth like Silly String from a can. Why would I say something like that? I don’t care about weight. I don’t want to care about weight.
Brenna took a deep breath. “No, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she repeated, like she was reassuring herself. “It’s okay. I am bigger than you. And even though I’ve stopped bingeing in here, I don’t think I’ve lost much weight.” Another breath. “That’s okay, though. I guess I’m realizing this is who I am.”
Brenna gestured down at her body. “And that this isn’t all I am. Plus, eating gets easier with time. Your body will feel better with time. I promise.” Her eyes brightened. “Plus, now that I’m doing better, my dad is planning a trip to Disney World this summer. I can’t go if I’m still sick. I can’t do Comics Club at school, either.”
That’s what I’ve been realizing, too: How much I’ve been missing out on. How much I’m going to miss if I stay sick. If/when I recover, I can take that art class. I can have fun at sleepovers and go to school dances. (Even though school dances are totally silly. They have them after school in the cafeteria. Where we just ate lunch three hours ago and where it still smells of overcooked green beans. Three hours and a few rolls of streamers do not cover up the stink of green beans.)
“I’m still nervous about food, but I’m not miserable,” Brenna said. “I don’t want to throw up or binge as much, and I’m actually excited about things now.”
“Does that mean you’re recovered?” I asked her.
Brenna laughed. “Yeah, right. Did you see me this morning?”
We laughed. Brenna cried this morning when they gave her a bagel instead of an English muffin. People lose it over random stuff in here. Last night Aisha had a panic attack because her slice of cake had more frosting than Meredith’s. Meredith went around all smug for the next hour until Aisha told on her.
“Willow says it’ll be like that for a while,” Brenna said. “Up and down. One step forward, two steps back. But to focus on the good things. How the bad parts and the sad parts are so much smaller.”
“That’s what she told me, too,” I said. “That eventually it’ll be two steps forward and one step back.”
“We just have to keep walking.” We said this at the same time, which cued up a massive gigglefest. Willow repeats herself a lot. I think that’s another thing they learn in therapist school.
“It’s still hard,” Brenna whispered. “I still compare myself to other people.”
“I wish I could be small forever.”
“But is it worth it?”
Is it? That’s what I have to figure out, I guess.
Brenna and I stopped talking for a minute while Laura rummaged around the craft closet. She left with watercolors, charcoals, and construction paper. Laura’s pretty good at art. Maybe even better than me. I’m not jealous, though. (At least I keep telling myself not to be.)
“You asked how I can be so happy?” Brenna asked. “It’s because I pretend. Not all the time, but some of the time. Pretending that things are okay makes me feel brave. Remembering how awful my life was before helps me move forward. Being here makes me feel stronger. It makes me feel safe.”
Then she turned away and started reading her book. She’s reading one I read last year—Goodbye Stranger by Rebecca Stead. It’s about a bunch of girls and their problems with growing up.
It’s weird to hear someone talk about the hospital being a safe place. Brenna’s right, though. I do feel safe here. They make me eat here. They make me rest. They teach us to remember what’s good about our lives and help us be strong while our minds are buzzing with anxiety. They’re the mallets in that whack-a-mole game that I’m so bad at, banging at our fears the second they come to the surface.
There are a lot of moles in my head.
It’s nice to know that even if Brenna does pretend sometimes, she’s still doing okay. I’m going to try to pretend, too. Maybe I won’t be happy all the time. Maybe I won’t have some blissfully perfect life. Maybe I’ll still have problems.
But a little happiness is better than none.