Thin

by Alicia Michaels

  Taking my seat, I stared dismally at the meager offerings resting on my tray. A bowl of plain bran flakes with milk, and a banana. I had each of the items my meal plan suggested, yet having the permission of my nutritionist to eat this did nothing to make me want to pick up my spoon. Instead, I grabbed the banana—something I felt comfortable with—and peeled it, deciding to start there.

  “So, tell me more about group therapy,” I said to Dawn between bites. “What’s it like for bulimics?”

  Rolling her eyes, Dawn licked her spoon as if wanting a taste of the yogurt without committing to taking an actual bite.

  “It’s what you’d expect … a bunch of girls sitting around crying about their body image problems and daddy issues.”

  “Hey, there are some guys in there,” Derek managed between bites of pancake. “Then there’s … him.”

  “Him who?”

  Dawn sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Him. Royce Adams, one of the counselors for the bulimic’s group. We call him Mr. Perfect … and he is literally perfect. Sexy, fit, genuinely nice. He makes me sick.”

  “That’s because you secretly want to do him,” Derek quipped.

  “So do you,” Dawn pointed out. “Eat your eggs, D. You need your protein.”

  Fork dripping with syrup from the pancake speared on the end, he raised his eyebrows at her. “I’ll eat my eggs if you eat your yogurt.”

  She grimaced. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  I smirked as they each took a bite of the neglected foods at the same time. Polishing off my banana, I stared at my bowl of cereal. Mixing the two foods I typically avoid together had been a mistake. I found myself physically unable to place a spoonful of carb mixed with dairy into my mouth. My hand shook, and I dropped my spoon back into the bowl before my sweatshirt ate it, and pushed the tray away. I did, however, drink the entire glass of orange juice I had poured myself, and counted it a victory.

  Taking out my little notepad, I wrote my breakdown beneath the heading where I’d placed the date.

  Derek polished off his eggs and another pancake, while Dawn finished her yogurt, then a bottle of water. We parted ways after breakfast, with me and Dawn opting to have our physical activity time outside, while Derek decided to go to the gym, declaring he didn’t do sweat unless it was dripping off a buff dude’s abs.

  It was nice to be outside after spending the past two days indoors. Dawn and I found the tennis and basketball courts filled, with a few others opting to walk or run on the paved track. I fell in step with Dawn, who led the way to the walking track. Making a few laps was all I felt capable of. The time passed quickly with Dawn filling pretty much all the silence with conversation. The few times she paused to get an answer to one of her questions, she went right on after I’d answered, her mouth moving a mile a minute.

  From where we walked, I spotted Randy on the basketball court with a group of four guys and two girls. He seemed to enjoy himself, but I didn’t miss that he cast glances at the walking track and tennis courts every now and then.

  “Randy seems laid back,” I said.

  “That’s because he’s one of the few people around here that isn’t a doctor,” Dawn replied. “Randy’s cool. He alternates spending time in the different workout areas and tries to motivate everyone.”

  I cast her a sideward glance. “Something tells me you aren’t easily motivated.”

  Dawn laughed. “Not even. If it ain’t walking or light yoga, I’m not doing it.”

  By the time we finished our exercise, the Texas sun had begun to bake everything beneath it. A sheen of sweat covered my face and neck when I returned inside, determined to have a shower and maybe a nap before group therapy. Alone in my bathroom again, I glanced at myself in the mirror and managed to crack a little smile. With my hair piled on top of my head and the tank top beneath my sweatshirt plastered to my skin because of sweat, I recognized myself a bit. Cheerleading had been a huge part of my life through high school and college, and I’d forgotten how good being active could feel. My walk was nothing compared to pikes and back handsprings, but it was more than I’d pushed myself to do in months.

  A hot shower and some quiet time with a book had me feeling a bit better, and maybe readier than before to face group therapy. When lunchtime rolled around, Dawn came to get me, freshly showered and wearing an oversized, shoulder-baring T-shirt over a pair of striped leggings with her usual Converse.

  Meeting Derek in the cafeteria, we sat together again. I filled my plate with a turkey sub with all the fixings, and a mixture of celery and carrot sticks with a little cup of Ranch for dipping. I ate all the celery, two of the carrots, and pulled a slice of turkey away from the sandwich because I couldn’t resist how good it smelled. When it came to the bread, I was two seconds away from taking a bite, but talked myself out of it at the last minute. I felt pretty good about the amount I’d eaten, as it was more than I’d had for lunch in weeks. Eating bread right now would just send me running to the bathroom.

  I logged the food in my journal, then joined Dawn in heading to therapy. Honestly, I hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t a room that looked like a coffee house. Plush chairs and couches faced inward, with a soft rug in the middle. A long table sat against the wall with snacks and drinks waiting, and more furniture lined the walls, some facing away from the larger grouping of chairs, as if set aside for smaller groups who might need privacy. A few windows overlooked the back of the facility, which I’d never noticed had a small garden, where people seemed busy planting and tending to things. Gardening must be one of the adjunct therapy offerings.

  “Looks like we’re the first to arrive,” Dawn said. “We’re a little early. I’m gonna have some green tea. You want anything?”

  “No, I’m okay,” I told her, still taking stock of the room.

  The environment had thrown me off. I hadn’t expected a comfortable space that looked like someplace I’d hang out with Jenn, Chloe, Luke, Christian, and Kara. Still, I couldn’t let it make me too comfortable. Talking with my therapist about my problems was one thing … letting a room full of people, and some counselor I didn’t know from Adam, in on my problems was another.

  I chose an armchair on the edge of the circle surrounding the rug. It sat close to the door in case I needed to make an escape. Dawn took a chair close to mine, blowing into her cup to cool her green tea. In the minutes that followed, more people filed in. I observed them all covertly, noticing once again the different body types, sizes, and ages. I was surprised to find two other girls of color in the group—one black and the other Asian. Somehow, society and the media had managed to convince me that anorexia and bulimia were white girl problems. All the stories and articles I’d ever read about eating disorders had been about girls who looked nothing like me, and I’d expected to stick out here like a sore thumb. It was comforting to know I wasn’t alone in being an ethnic girl with a so-called white girl’s disorder.

  Eventually, the little circle filled up, and a glance at the clock hanging on the wall across from me revealed that it was time to get started.

  I heard the door open and close behind me, causing everyone in the group to quiet, a few people sitting up a bit straighter. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and my hands began to sweat. Based off the body language of my peers, it was safe to assume our counselor had arrived. Despite myself, I gave in to curiosity and turned, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the guy they called Mr. Perfect.

  I was, in no way, prepared for what I saw.

  Chapter Seven

  Royce Adams was physically perfect. Not even plain jeans and a T-shirt could steal focus away from a face chiseled from granite, and a body sculpted like marble. The surface of his skin was smooth, its tone a similar shade of brown to mine. Dark eyes gleamed beneath a hooded brow, framed by long, spiky lashes. The fact that he went clean-shaven drew attention to slashing cheekbones and the flawless pillow of a full mouth just above a dimpled chin. To add insult to injury, there
were tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of his shirt—black tribal style marks that gave him a bit of bad boy edge. It only made him hotter.

  What. The. Hell.

  This guy was our counselor? A man who looked as if he could have any woman he wanted, and had won all the trophies in high school, and hadn’t ever suffered so much as a pimple in his life. What could he possibly know about how it felt to suffer from an eating disorder?

  Instant dislike flared in my gut, sparking too fast for me to stifle. My body—beyond my control—took up defensive action. My jaw clenched at the same time that my brow furrowed and my arms crossed over my chest. I followed his progress across the room, noting some of the murmurs and sighs from the girls over his appearance. Apparently, they had no problem with the fact that Dr. Swanson thought it was okay to have a Greek god counseling a group of emotionally fragile young people with body image issues.

  “Hey, everyone,” he said, sliding a backpack off his shoulder and dropping it onto the floor beside the chair directly next to me. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was a bitch today.”

  My senses became flooded with his scent—masculine and spicy. It wasn’t overpowering, but just strong enough that I knew it was him because I hadn’t noticed it until he sat down.

  A few voices spoke up, greeting Royce and excusing him for being late by all of two minutes. Reaching into his backpack, he retrieved a folder and flipped it open. Bending his knee and resting his ankle against his opposite leg, he lay the folder in his lap and flipped through some paperwork.

  “Looks like we have a new patient. Kinsley Simmons?”

  Glancing up, he scanned the room before realizing I was right next to him. He parted his lips to smile and I prayed fervently for a set of crooked, tar-stained teeth. There was no way this guy didn’t have a single flaw. Apparently, the flaw I so desperately searched for didn’t reside in his mouth. The even, white teeth he flashed me blinded in their brilliance, making him even more wildly attractive.

  Nodding the affirmative, I turned my head and stared at a blank spot on the wall.

  “Welcome to the group,” he replied, his voice remaining even and pleasant as if I hadn’t just completely ignored him. “Did you get a journal yet?”

  Damn it. Why was he still talking to me?”

  I shook my head, refusing to look at or speak to him. Deep down, I knew I was being a total bitch, but I couldn’t stifle my strong reaction to him, or the fact that his presence in this room infuriated me to no end.

  Clearing his throat, he reached back into his bag and placed something on the arm of my chair. From my peripherals, I could see it was a spiral notebook.

  “It’s not required, but after every session I recommend writing exercises. They seem to help a lot of people in this group.”

  A few people murmured their agreement, and I noticed most of them had brought their books with them. Clearing my throat, I grabbed the book and held it in my lap with a quietly whispered, “Thanks.”

  Royce went back to his folder. “So, let’s get started. Who did Monday’s exercise?”

  Several hands went up, though a few seemed tentative about sharing that info.

  “Good,” he said. “More of you than last week. Is there anyone here who would like to read theirs out loud? Share some insights with the group?”

  Silence followed his question.

  “Oh, come on,” he urged. “No one? Guys, we go through this every week. Someone has to be first.”

  I glanced around the room, noticing a lot of lowered heads and nervous lip chewing. No one spoke up.

  “No one?” Royce prodded. “Fine … let’s see what I’ve got.”

  Reaching back into his bag, he came out with a stack of notebooks similar to mine. After briefly flipping through them, he settled on one and stood.

  “Here’s a good one from one of the students from another group I counsel. As always, I’ve been given permission to read this to you guys.”

  Pausing for a second, he cleared his throat. Every eye in the room went to him and held as he began to read.

  “Three days ago I had the overwhelming urge to binge,” he read. “It’s been a while since I was faced with this urge, so when it came, I became overwhelmed. I had thought myself past that point of being so out of control, and it stunned me to feel like I was right back at square one all over again. I’ll admit, I allowed the urge to control me at first. I grabbed the nearest takeout menu and ordered everything that sounded good. While waiting for my Chinese food to arrive, I ate an entire box of cookies. By the time my order arrived, I was already feeling sick to my stomach, yet that feeling of emptiness still lingered in the pit of my stomach. So, I spread out all fifteen cartons of fried food and prepared to dig in. After about three bites of sweet and sour chicken, I gagged and couldn’t force down another bite. The entire box of cookies came back up, and after it was over, I found myself consumed with guilt over what I’d done. In the past, my reaction to feelings of guilt would consist of a strenuous workout to make up for every single calorie I had consumed. The workout would end in fatigue and hunger, which would only restart the cycle. But I’ve come too far to go back to my old habits, and I decided then and there, that I would break the cycle, yet again. I packed up every carton of Chinese and put them back in their bags. I then got in my car and drove until I found the nearest homeless shelter—not hard to find in downtown Houston. There were several families standing in line, waiting to see if there would be room for them that night. I split the humongous meal up between about three families, deciding the food shouldn’t go to waste. As I walked away, it struck me that I had been about to consume enough food to feed three entire families. There was a time I would have done it without a second thought. The fact that I found the willpower to stop myself before going too far reminded me that I am not the guy I was four years ago … or even six months ago. That deserved celebration, not a pity party or self-punishment. So, I decided to reward myself instead of beating myself up over my little slip-up. I called this girl I’ve been casually seeing for a few weeks and asked her to a movie. We shared popcorn—small size—and I drank a soda. I decided depriving myself of things I like are not the way to go. I let myself have what I like in moderation, and enjoyed a fun night with a pretty girl. All in all, I counted it a success. My journey is far from over, but I consider myself to be living in the aftermath of an eating disorder, as opposed to my life being ruled by one.”

  Closing the notebook, Royce raised his head and looked around the room, making eye contact with several people.

  “Last week’s assignment was to write about a recent relapse in your recovery, how you handled it, and how you think it will affect your recovery going forward. This exercise certainly isn’t meant to shame anyone, and you sharing it shouldn’t make you feel bad. The point of this exercise, is for everyone here to see themselves and their struggles in each other. You aren’t alone. There are fourteen other people in this room who understand exactly how you feel. Sharing these out loud may help someone else in this group today. If you relapsed and couldn’t beat it, it will show someone that they aren’t alone. Maybe they relapsed, too, and just need to know they aren’t the only ones facing setbacks. If you struggled this week and beat it, then you can inspire someone here … show them that where they are now isn’t where they will always be. So … who wants to go next?”

  Across the room, the slender Asian girl with jet black hair hanging in her eyes stood. She kept her head lowered as she opened her journal and began to read aloud. She had written her entry just this morning, and by the time she finished reading it, half the room was in tears after hearing about how she’d been secretly starving herself for the past two days after having gone an entire month eating a healthy, balanced diet and gaining back three pounds. She ended her entry by realizing that the anniversary of her mother’s death had triggered her relapse. She’d chosen to wake up this morning and have her mother’s favorite breakfast in celebration of the woman’s life—a vegg
ie omelet and side of toast. In a shaky voice, she read her own words promising to do better for herself in memory of her mother, who wouldn’t have wanted her to starve herself to death.

  My throat constricted as one by one, other members of the group began to read their entries. Each story hit me harder than the last, and before long, I couldn’t hold back my tears anymore. Something white appeared within my field of vision, and after blinking so I could see straight, I realized it was a handful of tissues. Royce had retrieved them from the box sitting on a little end table near his chair. I snatched the offered tissues from his hand and mopped at the tears pooling beneath my eyes.

  I couldn’t take anymore. I felt exposed, as if they were reading my personal thoughts out loud. My eyes wouldn’t stop watering, and I became afraid that any second I would collapse in front of everyone, sobbing hysterically. Snatching up the notebook, I rose unsteadily to my feet. I could feel several pairs of eyes on me as I turned and bolted for the door. No one called out to me, or tried to hinder my progress, for which I was grateful. I couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.

  I wasn’t sure how I found my way back to my room, when I could barely see two feet in front of me. Yet, somehow I arrived there without mishap. Slamming the door, I hurled the notebook across the room, not bothering to see where it landed. Running for the bathroom, I fell to my knees before the toilet, my fingers itching to purge my lunch. I stopped myself two seconds from ramming my fingers down my throat. Sobbing, I pushed away from the bowl, falling back onto my butt on the hard floor. I sagged against the bathroom wall, lowered my head, and finally allowed myself to cry without holding back.

  By the time I calmed myself enough to stand, wash my face, and leave the bathroom, almost an entire hour had passed. Most everyone would be off to their various adjunct therapy classes, or to spend some free time in the rec room before dinner. I wasn’t ready to face anyone after storming out of group, so I opted for a nap.