Perfectly Thin, page 25
“Like what?” I ask, genuinely interested in what she’s saying.
“In your case, because there was no nourishment going to the heart, it became smaller in size, and the heart struggled to pump blood around your body. It’s why the fatality rate of heart failure in people who have eating disorders is quite high.”
“My heart’s shrunk?”
“Yes, it has. But the good news is, it doesn’t have to stay that way.”
I look down at the carpet in her office, which is exactly the same as the carpet in my room. “Wouldn’t that be something that’s more long term though?”
“Every person’s body is different. But when we deny our bodies nutrients, the body starts to decompose. It starts to eat away at itself. Bones become weaker and frail, making breakages more common.” She points to my wrist. “Hair starts falling out. The skin ages quite fast, making someone look much older than they are. There are so many things, but not every body responds in the exact same way, or even in the exact same process.”
“Izzy, I don’t want to be like this anymore.”
“And you don’t have to be.”
“But I was looking at the food this morning, and I couldn’t bring myself to have anything.” My left fingers scratch at the arm of the love seat, trying to distract myself. “Will I get better?”
“Here’s the thing, Jane. We need for you to find healthy coping skills. And one of the things, we’ve already gone through. Slowing down your thought process, and questioning it, putting it on trial when your thoughts tell you that you’re fat, or you shouldn’t eat something. Eating disorders don’t discriminate. They don’t care what gender, race, color, or age you are. It’s a sneaky mother who’ll get into your head, gain control, and before you know it, you’re in here.”
It did kinda happen like that. “That’s how I feel.”
“Okay, you know what I need you to do every day?”
“What?”
She stands, and walks over to one of her bookshelves. “Every day, no matter what’s going on, I want you to write your thoughts and feelings down in here.” She hands me a plain, blue book. I flick through it, and find it’s a non-descript, generic diary. “It doesn’t matter if you write in it once a day, or ten times a day. And it’s not going to be shared with anyone but me. Whatever you write in it is for my eyes only, unless you want to share it with anyone else.”
“What kind of thoughts do you want me to write in here?”
“Any, and all. I don’t care if you write how you miss your pet pig at home. Or how you want to binge-eat every cookie you know of. There’s only one thing it has to be.”
“Which is what?” I ask, as I slide the book partially under my thigh.
“It has to be honest. Because none of this will work unless you’re honest.”
“I can be honest,” I say.
“Can you?”
Of course I can.
I think.
Entry One
Dear Diary,
Is that what I call you? Diary? Anyway, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to write in here, all I know is Izzy wants it to be honest, and not bullshit.
Well, I don’t want to be here. Actually, I’m not really sure I belong in here. I mean, at breakfast this morning, I saw what everyone had on their plates. No one really eats, and that Wade guy was an asshole. I’m not an asshole like him. I don’t think I am. Shit, am I? He was snappy and rude, and I don’t think I am. Maybe that’s his way of pushing everyone away. I don’t do that though.
Wait, do I?
I place my pen down on top of the page, and think back to how I’ve been with everyone.
I think I have been like that. Pushing Emma and Presley away, not hanging out with them at lunch or after school. Being short with Mom and Dad. I stare at the words I’ve written on the page, and shame crawls through me.
Suddenly, I’m interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in,” I say.
The door opens, and Leo enters my room. “How are you today, Jane?” he asks.
“Um.” I look down at my diary, and shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“What’s happening?” He walks in further, and indicates the chair in the corner of my room, in a silent question as to whether he can sit.
“Sure.” I cross my legs under me on my bed.
“What’s going on? You’ve started your journal, have you?”
“I have, but I’m stuck. I’m not sure what to write.”
“Write what you’re feeling.”
“But I don’t know what I’m feeling.”
“Trust yourself, Jane. Because if you don’t know what you’re feeling, or how you’re feeling, how is Izzy supposed to help you? Maybe, write down a goal, something you want to achieve in your time here.”
“A goal? Like what? Put on weight?” I shiver at the thought.
“Putting on weight isn’t the problem though, is it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Okay, look at this way. If you put on weight, what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
I think about the absolute worst thing. “I’ll hate myself,” I say.
“Do you like yourself now?”
Holy shit, what a confronting question. “Um.” Do I?
“Do you look in the mirror and tell yourself how beautiful you are? Do you like the person you are with your family? With your friends?”
Bringing my left hand up, I scratch at my chin. “I don’t think I do.”
“You need to decide what you want. Spend time thinking about what’s blocking you from moving forward.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Set a goal, and don’t let anything get in your way. Believe it or not, these are your defining moments, not whether you eat. You have to make the unwavering decision that you want to help yourself, and when you do, we’re all here for you.”
“That sounds easy, but it can’t be. Can it?”
“I said unwavering decision. Which means, when that voice of doubt sneaks in, you need to hold strong to the decision you’ve made, and stick with your goal. Tiny cracks will appear, and the more you focus on those, the bigger they’ll get. But if you’re resolute, and refuse to budge on the decision you’ve made, those cracks will only ever be white noise, which eventually you won’t even hear anymore.”
“Do you really think it’s possible for me to do this?”
Leo chuckles. “What I think is inconsequential. It’s what you believe that matters most. If you believe you can, then nothing will stop you. If you believe you can’t, then nothing will help you, because you’ll always find a way to backslide.”
Rubbing at my temple, Leo’s words have a sticking power to them. “Leo, I don’t want to be this way anymore.”
He nods. “Then don’t. You have to be around you for the rest of your life, make yourself happy by doing things that are good for you. Maybe, in your diary, commit to eating something tonight at dinner. But if you make that decision, then you have to stick to it. The moment you commit to it, don’t bend for anyone. Most of all, for that tiny crack that wants to grow.”
Commit to eating something. Wow. “I don’t remember the last time I had anything. I’m not sure I can.”
Leo stands and stretches. “Then you’re right, you can’t. Or you’re right, and you can.” I watch as he straightens his t-shirt, and walks to the door. “Either way, you’re right.” Leo leaves my room, and I’m left staring at my diary.
Opening it up, I stare at the words I’ve already written.
Picking up the pen, my mind is reeling, trying to find truthful words I want to write.
Leo came in, and we talked about me. He’s left me confused, and I’m not sure what to think. He told me to make a decision and to stick to it. I want to get better, and I don’t want to put my family through this any longer.
I have to find my own strength, and if I leave here, I don’t think I’ll be able to do it. I need help. But I also have to be willing to help myself.
Tonight at dinner, I’m going to eat something. I think I can do this. Wait, no, I know I can. I have to be willing to help myself, but what if I fail? What if I can’t do this? Fuck, I’m such an idiot. Why do I think I can do this? I can’t. There’s no use in even trying. I’m going to fail before I even start. I may as well give up now, and not even bother with trying.
What if the decision I make is to just give up? I mean, if there’s a risk of failure, why even bother trying?
But, then again, if I make a promise to myself to not falter or hesitate, and I keep it, how can I fail?
Ugh, I don’t know what to do here. Should I try?
But then, the word try implies I entertain the notion that I might not be successful. What if I don’t try, but I just do it. Make a plan. Walk into the dining room with my head held high, shove a piece of fruit in mouth and chew it like I’m a baddass?
But then, what happens if I put on weight?
Come on, Jane. One piece of fruit is not going to cause me to put on weight. And what if I do put on weight? What’s the worst that could happen?
I have to make a decision. Something concrete, unshakeable.
Lowering my pen, I look around the room. I need to be strong here. I need to make a decision, and not talk myself out of it. I have to learn not to negotiate with myself when it comes to something good for me. I need to not listen to my head when it’s telling me how many calories is in something or how fat it will make me. Maybe I’ll try this tonight at dinner.
I pick my pen up, and go to write in my journal. But then, I stop myself. Once it’s written, Izzy will read it, and I’ll be accountable for it.
Cold washes over my entire body. My heart even flutters as goosebumps cover my arms.
Accountable.
Holy shit. I have to be accountable.
Closing my diary, I slide it under my pillow, and start pacing my room. My stomach is churning, and there’s a sick feeling sitting in the base of my throat. Any second now, I’m going to hurl. Taking deep breaths, I decide to leave my room, and get out of here, in hopes of clearing my head.
How can one damn word affect me like this? Accountable.
Shit.
I walk toward the common area, where Tia’s sitting on the sofa, her legs drawn up, staring at, but not watching, TV. “Hey, Tia,” I say.
“Hi.” She smiles, but I can see she’s sad about something.
“Want to go for a walk in the garden?” I ask. I haven’t really talked with anyone since I’ve been here. It’s not something I’ve been interested in. Maybe, that’s something I can work on.
Tia drops her shoulders, then lowers her chin. “I can’t,” she says.
“Why not?”
“It’s in my plan to exercise less. I have to stay seated for at least fifteen minutes out of every hour.”
“Oh, right. Well, do you mind if I sit with you then?” It’s the least I can do. If she has a plan, then I can support her.
“Sure,” she says as she untangles her legs. “Are you being forced to be in here too?”
Wow, what a question. “I’m not being forced, I’m choosing it.”
“My Mom says I have an eating disorder. I don’t,” she says.
“Why do you think you don’t?”
“Because I’m fat.”
Fat? Is she kidding? I could easily make an O with my thumb and finger around her wrist, and maybe even use just my two hands to place around her waist. She’s really skinny. Her brown hair is dry and lifeless, and face is so sunken that I can see her cheek bones. Her mouth looks too big for her face, and she has black circles under her eyes.
“You’re not fat,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Okay, whatever.”
It’s no use in talking to her about how she sees herself, she obviously thinks she’s fat and no one can talk her out of it. “Do you go to school?” I ask.
“Yeah, kinda. I’m home-schooled. Mom’s a bit, you know, kinda weird and stuff.”
I scrunch my brows together. “What do you mean?”
Tia shrugs. “I love her and all, but she’s too much sometimes.”
“What about your dad?”
“Took off after my sister was born. Said he couldn’t handle having kids. Apparently, he needed time to himself.” She lets out a humorless chuckle.
“Does he see you?”
“Said he doesn’t really understand what a father is supposed to do, and it’s best if he stays away because he doesn’t want to screw me and my sister up.”
Oh man. That’s rough. “So it’s just you, your sister and your mom?”
“Yep.” She sighs as she nods. “And every day it’s the same thing. ‘Tia, you have to eat’, ‘Tia, you’re getting too skinny’, ‘Tia, what kind of example do you want to set for your sister?’ ‘Tia, Tia, Tia…’,” she grumbles. My heart goes out to Tia. She seems to have it rough.
“Can I ask how old you are?”
“How old do I look?” She perks up and smiles.
“Um, I don’t know. Maybe sixteen or seventeen?”
“Nope. I’m fourteen. Turn fifteen in about four months.”
Holy shit. She’s only fourteen? She looks so much older. “Wow, I thought you were older.”
“How old are you? Like twenty?”
“I just turned eighteen nearly a month ago.”
“Whoa, I thought you were older,” she echoes my words back at me.
We sit in silence for a few moments, it’s kind of weird. What else can I talk to her about? “That Wade guy wasn’t nice to you.”
“He’s an ass. He likes to be the main guy in here, but now you’re here, it seems like he’s toning it down. Maybe ‘cause you told him off.”
“How old’s your sister?” I ask.
“She’s nearly thirteen. She’s the favorite. Mom says she doesn’t have a favorite, but I know she’s it. She’s like perfect, you know? Never talks back, does whatever Mom asks her to do, eats all her dinner. And she’s beautiful. Not like me. She’s so perfect. If Mom’s not yelling at me for something I’ve done, it’s ‘you should be more like Sarah. Why can’t you be more like Sarah. Sarah wouldn’t do that, why do you? Sarah eats, why can’t you?’ Ugh, I’m over it.”
“Must be hard being compared to your sister all the time.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
I look down, and think about my relationship with Daphne and Cleo. “Yeah, I’m the youngest of three. Cleo and Daphne, my older sisters, have always had a closer relationship than I have with either of them. But Cleo’s being a bit of cow lately. She’s pretty self-centered, it’s always about her and what she says and does.”
“Jealousy?” Tia says.
“Nah, not really. I just do my own thing, you know? They’re both away at college, so I don’t really see or speak to them often.”
“So, how did you end up in here?” Tia asks.
“I fell and broke my wrist.” I hold up my right hand. I don’t tell her about my heart attack.
“Yeah? That sucks, eh?”
I’m not sure how to respond to her. I’m not hating on being here, I think I could learn a lot. “How about you?”
She lifts up her t-shirt, showing me a white bandage over her concave stomach. “What’s that?” I ask.
“I tried to cut the roll of fat off. Mom found me in the bathroom, passed out. You know, I hate having rolls.”
Rolls? Where does she see rolls? “You tried to cut the roll of fat off?” I’m unsure what she means. “Like cut-cut?” I make a scissor action with my left hand.
She laughs, like it’s hilarious. “Yeah, with scissors. I hate my body, and I thought if I cut the rolls on my stomach off, I’d like me better. All I did was lose a lot of blood and pass out. Dumb-ass me, eh? When I’m old enough, I’m getting liposuction on my stomach and ass. My thighs could do with some too.” She hits her thighs, and there’s nothing there. “See, wobble.” She points out something imaginary only she can see.
“I don’t see anything,’ I reply truthfully.
“Really? Because I see it.”
It hits me like a freight train with no braking system. What Tia’s saying, is exactly what I’ve been thinking. Is this how I look to everyone else? Hitting my thighs, watching them jiggle, when in actual fact, there’s nothing there?
“Do you have a journal you have to write in?” I ask, trying to get her away from the self- hatred.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s so lame.”
“I don’t think it is. It might be a great way for us to move forward.”
“Move forward? How? If I can lose another fifteen pounds, then I’ll be perfect. I won’t hate myself, and no one will talk about me.”
“Who talks about you?” I ask, curious.
“Haven’t you ever noticed when you go to the store, or out somewhere, how people look at you, then move away? I see it all the time. It’s because I’m so fat, and no one wants to be around a fat person.” She looks up at the huge clock above the TV, and jumps to her feet. “I can go for a walk now. Want to come?” she offers.
I actually don’t. I want to go write in my diary. Tia’s given me a lot to think about. “Can I take a raincheck? I’ve got to write in my journal.”
“Oh, want a tip?” she asks.
“Sure.”
She moves closer, sits next to me, then sneakily looks around to make sure no one can hear us. “Just write down how much you hate your parents, because Izzy loves that kind of stuff. It makes her focus go away from food, and onto that. Best thing I ever did. Parker gave me that tip when I came here.”
“How long have you been here for?”
“About three weeks. Izzy thinks I need another month or so. Oh, you know what else?”
I’m too scared to ask. “What?”
“A few days ago I made a hole behind the bed, that I barf into my hand, then push it into the wall cavity. They’ll never know, and by the time they find it, I’ll be out of here.” She jumps to her feet, happily. “Last chance,” she offers.
“I’m okay.” All Izzy is trying to do, is to help. Can’t Tia see that? It hurts to see her be so sneaky, and conniving, to do something as desperate as making a hole in the wall so she can put her vomit into it. Why would she do that?
