89. That
was all I saw. All I felt as I timidly brushed the dense skin. I instantly
withdrew my touch, mortified by having any contact with the repugnant object.
The walls seemed denser now, more intimidating; with just one touch. In a panic
I rocked my legs faster, sporadically bouncing them. I glanced down at the
trembling fat upon my calves, I only shook faster; as if at any moment the fat
would detach from the bones. The adipose tissue dancing in mid-air. I wish.
“Hazel,
just eat one piece. You used to like bananas.” My mum muttered calmly. 89. I
used to like myself too, things change. I merely continued to rock and stroke
the curved object upon my lap. As I tugged a clump of my thin, black bob behind
my ear; I could sense the terror boiling within me, terror not just at the
numbers coiled within the textured flesh but at the knowledge that if I
swallowed a morsel I would not be able to prevent myself from having another
bite. Until just the empty husk lay despondent within my palms.
“I can’t.”
I muttered, my forearms flexing and casting the fruit on to the navy carpet.
89, 52, 42; the numbers that control my thoughts. The tense atmosphere suddenly
evaporated as both mum and Zoey breathed a frustrated sigh. The sigh initiated
a fury within me, a blistering rage ascending. They have no right to hold a
spec of frustration in their polluted air. They’re the ones forcing me to ram
platefuls of thick, coagulated, repulsive calories down my searing throat. The
anger pierced the edges of my flesh until my fingertips burnt, the navy seat
irritating the skin it found. They have no idea how much I yearn for proper
food, food without self-loathing. Life is grey without it. Bleak and dull. Colourless.
“Maybe
we’ll try next time then. But I want you to eat when you get home. Do you
promise me?” Zoey asked, adjusting her position and brushing her ginger/grey
curls back from her portly shoulders. I merely nodded.
“Right,
let’s go weigh you then.”
Mum gave an
encouraging smile as I stood, a faintness washing over me; I welcomed the
well-known delirium as it tingled down to my numb finger tips. With a light
sigh, I followed my gargantuan eating disorder consultant through the equally
large door and into the seemingly infinite hallway. This building always
disturbs me with its oddly sized rooms and walls, as if they want you to feel
even more disconcerted.
We entered room 7 and I was greeted
with the familiar scene, the clinical bed on my left; the various units and
cupboards coated in a collage of puerile drawings and demeaning diagrams,
seeming to mock me. Odd pictures placed on each wall, certain words prominent
within the frames. Hope. Freedom.
Happiness. Finally my eyes wandered to the height chart, the tall mirror
and of course the focal point of the room. The scales. The little machine that
seems so pompous and pious. I felt guilty just glancing at it.
“Jumper off
then, and slip your shoes off.”
I
reluctantly fiddled with the hem of my oversized, green jumper and tugged it
over my shoulders before chucking it aside. The cold instantly hit me.
Assaulting my frame and winding me. Before slipping my pumps off I glared at
the figure in the reflection. She was disappointing and belittling. Vile. Disgusting
and repulsive just to view. The mini dress seemed as dull as her. The pale pink
clashing with her pale complexion. Her hip bones barely visible. Her collar
bones not prominent enough. Thighs too close together. Unsatisfactory. I gave
up trying to dissociate myself from the image and looked at Zoey, she was
scrawling something illegibly onto her clipboard. Of course.
“Anything
in your pockets?” I shook my head. I wouldn’t need to hide anything or water
load with how much weight I’ll have put on over the past week. With that
terrifying musing I stepped upon the black plate. The thick digits rapidly
zoomed from 0.00 up and up, rising and rising with my trepidation. Up and up.
Bang.
“Okay
that’s great.” She mumbled. I stepped off. My brain frozen. My surrounding
reality swirling before me, caving in until it gradually, and yet at the same
time instantly, drowned me. 48.3kg. 7 stone 6 lbs. I’d stayed the same. Static.
Level. I couldn’t quite tell whether the prevailing emotion was contentedness
or devastation. Contentedness that I hadn’t put on any weight. Devastation at
the fact that I still have 27lbs to lose before I’m happy. 20 at the least.
Would I feel happy then? Would she be happy? The thin Hazel imprisoned within
this shell, caked in flesh. I am not this person. I am a thin girl engulfed by
these layers.
“She’s
remained static. So it’s all positive.” Zoey chimed, satisfaction reverberating
in her tone. She sounded so proud. Mum’s eyes glistened with relief. As if all
the underlying issues in my chaotic mind were instantaneously fixed, mended. A
proverbial bandage has been placed over the cracks in my thoughts and the scar
tissue is slowly and peacefully binding together. As if.
Mum’s
electronic cigarette lit up orange like a miniature traffic light, wisps of the
vapour rose to the roof of the car as if I could smudge it across the sky like
oil paint.
“I think
that was positive. You haven’t lost. That’s good… that’s good…” She repeated
the words as if placing a plaster over the invisible wounds between us. I could
feel the emotions bubbling up within me, I wanted to beg her; to ask her to
help. But I knew that if I reached out, there would be no more concealing of
chicken pieces no more hiding within my safety bubble of antacids and zero cokes.
I was alone within this self-inflicted coma, this one on one battle. But the
thing that I feared the most was that I may never be able to be free of the
shrapnel. And the truth was, I was out of ammo. I am merely a rag doll, a shell
of a real girl; battered and bruised by the gusts of winds, hitting every rock
on the way.
Before I could control it, all the
unsaid words and searing thoughts rose up like a bile within my chest and
rolled down my cheeks like acid. My chest heaved, my breath caught on the tears
and spluttered out. Mum didn’t say anything, she simply wrapped me in the safe
enclosure of her arms, I lay my weary head upon her shoulder and allowed the
terror to burst out in sporadic sobs.
“I’m
scared…” I muttered through the tremors.
“I know love,
but I’m here.”