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.
DAY TWENTY-NINE: MONDAY
Brenna’s back. She got here this morning after breakfast. We were all in the group room, doing some worksheet Heather passed out about self-soothing techniques (A warm bath! Cuddling with a cat! Smelling flowers!), when Meredith elbowed me in the ribs.
“Ow!” Meredith’s pointy elbow hurt. I bet I’m going to have a bruise tomorrow. Then I looked up and saw Brenna. She was outside the group room window. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes red.
Her dad was with her. I recognized him from when she was discharged, when he came in for her good-bye party and to help her pack up her stuff. He’s way tall, with a potbelly and a bushy beard. Snippets of his voice came through the thin walls:
“… do it this time … one more shot … no other choice…”
I shouldn’t have been listening, but I couldn’t exactly turn him off. He was loud. Everyone was staring. Everyone was listening. Heather switched on the TV. “Nature shows can be soothing, too!” She made us watch an old episode of Planet Earth, one with screeching birds and roaring lions. TV didn’t soothe me at all, though.
I keep thinking about how Brenna looked when she’d left, so shaky and afraid. She knew she wasn’t ready. She was right.
Now she’s back. A repeat customer, just like Aisha. Just like me someday?
No, not like me.
How do I recover? I’ve been here for a million years now. I’ve shoved food—lots of food—down my throat. They’ve taught me “life lessons” and “coping skills.” I should feel like a better person now, right? A person who cares more about friends and school and life than my body.
Except I still feel like the same old Riley. I still think about my body.
I still feel like a fake.
* * *
Josie sent me a letter!!!!!!! That deserves seven exclamation points. That deserves seven million exclamation points. This journal is definitely not big enough for that, though.
Riley,
I’m sorry I got mad. I’m sorry you got sick. Emerson told me you’re doing better. I hope you can come back to school soon.
My birthday wasn’t that much fun without you. No one could agree on a movie to watch, and all the songs I picked for the dance party seemed babyish. Chloe kept asking why I hadn’t invited boys—umm, because I didn’t want to? Because all the boys in our class are super annoying?
Talia got glasses last week. They’re these big black frames that she says are “way stylish” and “the latest thing.” Except I’m not sure Talia really needs them to see, because she doesn’t wear them half the time. Now all the other girls are wearing fake glasses, too. It’s really weird.
Talia asked how you were doing the other day, like I would know the answer. Usually I would know the answer. I used to know everything about you. I’m not sure if Talia was looking for a reason to make fun of us some more or if she really cared. Either way, I care. I’m not that mad anymore. Even if you messed up, I still want you to be my friend.
I hope it’s not too scary in there. I hope you know that I love you and that you’re awesome.
Love,
Josie
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
* * *
I didn’t feel guilty after lunch today! I ate the food and tasted the food. Everything tasted good, too! I went to our next group and drew and read some of my book. Then all of a sudden I realized I hadn’t thought about lunch once.
It felt like someone had let me out of a jail cell after I’d been sentenced to life in prison, except instead of my body, it was my brain that was free. I wasn’t cooped up in an endless circle of I ate something bad. I’m so bad. I have to fix this.
Things were different. My race car stopped going around and around the track. It got on the exit ramp. I thought different things, too. I thought about how when I got out of here, it would be fun to bake cookies with my friends. How maybe if I stopped biting my nails, Mom might take me with her to get a manicure.
How the sky looked really pretty and I wanted to draw it.
How my latest portrait of myself looked … kind of nice?
How lately, I want to draw way more than I want to run.
Then I had snack.
And … now I feel guilty for eating.
Baby steps, right?
DAY THIRTY-ONE: WEDNESDAY
I think I’m doing better. I know I’m doing better. So why does the scale still freak me out? Why am I still afraid of a silly number?
I asked Willow that today. I told her how this morning’s number is haunting me, how I’m afraid that if I see it, I’ll backslide. I told her how weighing myself used to be the first thing I did every morning and how if the number was higher than the day before, my mood was ruined.
If the number was lower, I was happy. Elated. Overjoyed. I was every synonym in the thesaurus. But only for about ten minutes. Then I started worrying about what would happen if I gained weight the next day.
“Then why use the scale?”
“We have to get weighed in here,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” Willow agreed. “Because we’re making sure you get to a healthy weight range. That’s our responsibility. Your responsibility is to lessen the power that number has over you.”
Willow’s right. The scale is like a magnet, pulling my body and my mind to it. I remember how the morning of our class trip to the amusement park, I weighed more than the day before. While everyone else was having fun on the Ferris wheel and going on the Corkscrew roller coaster seven times in a row, I was moping and obsessing.
I remember getting on the scale last month and losing a whole pound in a day. Before I stepped on the scale, I was upset. I’d gotten a 70 percent on my math quiz, way lower than my usual scores. I was tired and cranky and still had to read five chapters for Language Arts and go for another run.
Then I saw the number. The lower number.
I felt like I’d won the lottery. I felt like I could lift a car over my head or bend a steel bar in my hands. The anxiety and exhaustion slid off me like a snakeskin, coiling on the floor by my feet. My new skin was relief. Power. Invincibility.
Then, after a few minutes—even a few seconds—the snakeskin started to grow back. It covered me from head to toe, thicker than before. Harder to shed than before.
My next thoughts always came quickly:
I could get that number lower.
I should get that number lower.
If I
’m not careful, I’ll gain it back.
I never let myself rest. I always had to go for the next run, skip the next meal. I never reached the finish line.
Willow pulled a scale out from under her desk. It was old and black. My heart did a double beat in my chest. I had to get weighed again?
“What would happen if you stepped on this and you saw a high number?”
I’d have failed.
I’d be fat.
The world would be over.
I shrugged.
“What would happen if you saw a low number?”
“I’d win.”
Willow cocked her head to the side. “You’d win what?”
I thought for a few seconds. “When I get on the scale and the number is lower, I feel like I can take over the world.” I peeked at Willow. She didn’t look disgusted. “I feel like I’m powerful. Like I’m the best at something and no one can take that away from me.”
“It makes you feel good,” Willow echoed. “It makes you feel in control of your life when it’s spinning out of control.”
“Yeah.”
“Does it make you feel bad, too?”
“All the time.”
“More than it makes you feel good?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I hate the scale. I hate how it makes me skip parties because cake would make the number go up. I hate how it makes me sad when everyone else is happy. I hate how I can’t stop thinking about how every single thing I do will affect it and how it keeps calling me names.”
“The scale is a machine,” Willow said. “An appliance, like a microwave or a blender. It’s something human beings crafted and put together. Something that can be taken apart.” She pulled open her bottom desk drawer and took out a different scale, this one in pieces. I stared at them: The cracked window where the numbers appear. The inner workings, shiny and metal, strewn over her desk. The red needle and the circle filled with numbers that somehow define who I am.
Parts.
That’s all the scale was: a broken collection of parts.
It wasn’t human. It wasn’t real.
It didn’t have power over me.
It shouldn’t have power over me.
DAY THIRTY-TWO: THURSDAY
I miss my friends.
I want to go home.
* * *
“We have the bestest, most amazing, most super-fantastic, unbelievable-istic news in the history of EVER!” That’s what Emerson screeched when she burst into my room at the start of visiting hours. Josie was behind her. Heather was behind them, shushing Emerson.
I laughed. My heart beat faster in my chest. I had just written about how much I missed my friends. Is my journal magical? Can it grant my wishes? Obviously not, but I’ll take this magic any day.
“I’m sorry.” That’s what Emerson said next. “When I visited, I saw that really skinny girl and started worrying you were going to die. I thought something I’d say might make you worse so then I was super rude and mean and then I felt so guilty that I was afraid you’d be mad if I tried to visit again and oh my god, I’m sorry.” Emerson took a deep breath.
Josie pretended she was Emerson collapsing from oxygen deprivation. Then she inched closer to my bed like I was a snake about to bite her. “I’m sorry, too. You got my letter, right?”
“I did.” I hugged her. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, three.” I looked at Emerson. “I’m not going to die.”
I looked at Josie. “I’m not going to skip any more parties.”
Silence for a few seconds. Then another screech from Emerson. “The news!”
I thought she was going to tell me her aunt Isabelle visited from Paris again and brought her the most “très chic” hat ever. (Even though we both look ridiculous in hats. Especially berets.)
That Josie had finally gotten a higher grade than Lola Lopez on the spelling test.
That (a total long shot) Tommy Bell had asked Emerson to the Winter Wonderland dance.
No. It was even better. Emerson’s dad got tickets to an art show in Boston. (That part wasn’t a big deal. I’ve been to tons of Mom’s shows. When Mom first got her job, Julia and I had to dress up for all her opening nights. We wore fancy scratchy dresses, said hi to all Mom’s coworkers, and then had to leave before the desserts came out. Fancy art shows are no fun.)
This was an art show for adults and kids, though!
“There will be adults displaying their stuff, but also real artists teaching classes for kids our age,” Emerson said. “There will be demonstrations on watercolors and oils and sculpture and even graphic novels! Plus, you can enter a raffle to have some famous guy look at your work. How cool would that be?” Emerson ran out of breath again.
“You could get discovered!” Josie bounced on my bed. It squeaked, reminding me of the noise it made when I used to do crunches.
I feel different than that girl. I am different than that girl.
I still wanted to say no, though. It was like how I used to automatically say no every time anyone asked me to hang out. I couldn’t go to the mall. I couldn’t go to the movies. I couldn’t go to a sleepover. If I did, someone would discover my secret. I wouldn’t be able to exercise. I’d have to eat.
Now, my reasons are different, but that urge to flee is the same. What if I do win that raffle? What if I show my work and get confirmation that I’m awful?
You’re a fraud.
You don’t deserve to put your art into the world.
Stay small.
That’s what the voice in my head tells me.
That’s what I pushed back against.
“Of course I want to come!” I forced the words out. Because deep down, I want to go to the art show. Deep down, I’m more excited than scared.
“Awesome! The show is next Saturday night and Mom and Dad said they could drive us all. And maybe if you get discharged in time, we can still do that art class? It starts in a few weeks.” Emerson looked at the ground and shuffled her feet, like she was afraid I was going to say no.
“I’d love to do that art class! Maybe I will be discharged by then.” For the first time, I really believed that life “outside” could be different. It could be good.
“Do you want to see my portraits?” Without hesitating, I showed my best friends a bunch of my sketches. Not just the ones of the other patients, but also the ones I drew of myself.
They said they were good! They didn’t say they were awful! I think they were proud of me, too. It was the best feeling ever.
Then I realized the worst thing ever.
“Wait. The show is next weekend? I can’t go.”
“What? No!”
“I haven’t been approved for an overnight pass yet, and Boston is far enough from the hospital that I’d probably have to sleep at home.” I wanted to cry. I wanted to have fun with my friends and learn from famous artists who didn’t know my mother. I wanted one night away from here, one night of vacation from my eating disorder.
Emerson and Josie begged me to ask.
“You have to come!”
“It won’t be the same without you!”
Even if I don’t get approved for a pass, at least now I know that my friends still want me around. That I have friends to go back to when I recover.
Not if.
When.
* * *
Willow says she’ll have to talk to the treatment team. “We might be able to get you a twenty-four-hour pass,” she said. “You can go to the art show and sleep at home. It’ll be good for you to try out life on the outside. To use your coping skills and come back to talk about how it goes.”
I felt like doing a happy dance. That might be considered exercise, though, and I have to be on my best behavior now. I wonder if I’ll have to present my case to the people in charge of the hospital. I’ll dress up in a pantsuit and pack a briefcase and act all lawyerlike. I’ll shout “Objection!” when they bring up the brownie incident and pace in front of the jury as I argue how much better I am.
; I practiced that argument with Willow.
“Here’s what I’d say: ‘It may just be an art show, but it’s an experience, too. It’s something I can share with my best friends that will make me feel normal. It’s a way to develop my interests and plan for my future.’” I smiled all toothily like I was posing for a camera.
“What about the food?” Willow asked. “You’ll be going out to dinner, right?”
I stopped smiling as that familiar pit of fear opened up in my stomach. The deep, dark pit I always get stuck in. Then I remembered that I can climb out of that pit now. They’ve given me tools to use. Ropes and ladders and pickaxes. Assertiveness training and self-esteem class and positive self-talk.
“I’ll eat dinner,” I said. “My friends will help me. I’ll pick out a restaurant and look at the menu online. We’ll figure out what fits in my meal plan. It’ll be okay.”
It really feels like it’ll be okay, too. It’s just food. I’ve been eating for weeks now. I can totally eat around my friends. They won’t judge me. Maybe we’ll even get frozen yogurt afterward. Or ice cream! (I think I can do that.) As long as Emerson and Josie don’t make a big deal out of me eating. That’d be embarrassing.
I’ll sleep at home. I’ll wake up in my own bed and have breakfast and hang out with Julia and relax and oh my God I have to eat breakfast with my parents and try to “relax” around Dad and I can’t go for a run how I am supposed to do that I can’t do this ahhhhhh!
I’m breathing really fast right now. My pulse is bumpety-bumping like a train rattling at top speed, when the scenery flashes by and the floor vibrates and everything turns into a blur. My life is a blur right now.
It’s less blurry than before, but the colors still run together. There are still moments of swirling black and white and muddy brown, still moments when I can’t tell exactly what I’m seeing. I can walk forward, though. I can walk one step at a time, slowly, until I get more practice seeing the world in this new way.
I can do this. I’ll follow my meal plan and then come back and tell everyone how awesome it went and how recovered I am.
Good Enough Page 15
