You are lying in a hospital bed. A nurse comes in to take your blood. She tries your left arm, no veins. She stares at your left hand, holding it, turning it over and over, saying, You have some veins here. You hate those veins, you always have. They make you think of when you were younger, when you had to visit your old grandfather. Your mom would always force you to go to his bed and greet him because he was unable to walk. Give him a little kiss, she would say. You didn’t understand why but today you realize it was because he was dying. Yet, you don’t lower your head to his cheek to give him a kiss because you are selfish and scared, scared of his wrinkly skin and green veins that seem to outline the corners of his hands.
After the nurse takes your blood, she asks, Would you like something to eat? You wonder if she knows why you’re in the ER; you wonder if she knows you haven’t eaten in three days, despite your mother’s pleas at the dinner table. All you do is ask for green tea. Lots of it. It is the only thing you consume anymore, including grapes and an apple a day. She brings you only two tea bags. A psychologist comes. She asks you question after question: How many calories do you eat a day? 150 maximum. Do you use laxatives? No (lie). What was your highest weight ever? 126. Your lowest weight? 94. When did your eating disorder start? Two years ago. Do you self-harm? Yes. Where? On my thighs, hips. Have you passed out or experienced any seizures? No (second lie). What is your ideal weight? I’m not sure, 90 lbs seems pretty nice, really just any weight that would **** me. Do you want to get better? No comment. Then, suddenly, before she leaves, you confess: When I use a mirror, I can’t seem to look into my eyes anymore. You can’t bear it? She acts like she understands. It makes you mad. She leaves for a few seconds then comes back with a wheelchair.
You don’t want to attract any attention, so, as calmly as possible, you announce, I can walk perfectly fine, I don’t need a wheelchair. She stares at you with pity lurking in her eyes, We don’t want you burning any more calories, ***. Reluctantly, you fall into the chair, embarrassed as people stare wondering what your problem is. You arrive at the Eating Disorder Clinic. There is a young boy playing a video game. He has a feeding tube; he is the first one to greet you. You look around the room and think, they all look like normal people. While getting to know the other patients you will soon learn who is bulimic, who is anorexic, who has anxiety, who has depression, who wants to get healthy, who is faking their way out of it. You stare at each of their bodies: Are their thighs skinnier than mine? What about their wrists? Do their cheekbones protrude? How much weight have they gained since they’ve been here? Does their arm bone pop out when placing their hands on their hip? Yours does. You are disgustingly proud of it.
That evening, as a night nurse shows you to your room, she explains the rules: Bathroom and drawers must be locked before going to bed, there is a camera in the room, you will be watched at all times, always keep the bathroom door open, make sure to ask us to check your toilet before flushing (you rarely do), every morning you must be weighed in a hospital gown, no sharp objects allowed, the mirrors are made out of metal (in them you can’t see the size of your ****, thighs, stomach). You cry your fist night there. But I’m not skinny yet! you yell into the sheets without making a single noise and you, honest to God, believe that you don’t have a problem. Just give me some space and I’ll figure things out; really, I’m fine, just a bit confused.
      But still, like every other morning, you wake up and stare down at your thighs, collarbones, belly, and think, You pig, you fat *****, you have no control, pathetic *****. For the first few days you have to remind yourself, Feel your bones, embrace them, remember how light and delicate they are, soon they won’t be there anymore. You want to hide.