You think about how you need to take that little yellow pill every day to be in a sort of good mood, and it generally doesn’t even guarantee you’ll be in a good mood.
You wonder if you’re going to have to take that pill every day for the rest of your life.
You think about how often people comment on how tall and beautiful you are, and how you wish you could believe them. Why can’t you believe them?
You think about how freaked out you are about school starting next month.
You think about what picture you’ll put on Instagram next, and if your mom will yell at you for exposing too much cleavage. (I didn’t have boobs like that when I was your age! she’ll say. You’ll remind her they didn’t have social media or iPhones or the Internet when she was sixteen and she rode to school on a dinosaur. You do love your mom, you do.)
You think about how your lips are always chapped and you should get some new lip gloss.
You think about Alex but then you make yourself not think about Alex.
You think about how you’re a little bit hungry. Then decide you’re not.
You think about how you held hands with Ben just yesterday and how it was practically one of the most perfect days you’ve had in a very long time.
You’re thinking about the sunburn you got and wishing you had put more sunscreen on—damn your mother for always being right about the stupid sunscreen.
You’re also thinking about how it is worth a thousand sunburns to have had the day you had.
You think about how awful it is to be lonely, and you’re tired of feeling this way.
You think about the girl from school who has two hundred thousand followers on Instagram and wonder how she got so many followers; what is it that makes her so popular?
You think about becoming an artist someday. Even though you know that a job in the arts would not make much money, you feel that being an artist would make you happy.
Your mind never shuts off and it gets terribly exhausting.
There’s that knock again.
“Can I come in, please?” your mom asks.
Your mom is usually the one looking for you. Your older brother, Todd, hardly bothers with you. Your dad, when he’s not at work, is mostly always watching ESPN.
“Sure.”
You turn off your music and wait.
Your mom comes in; she’s holding a glass of wine and has that sweet-sickening smile, the one that’s all cheery and upbeat.
“Dinner’s ready.” She takes a sip of wine and that happy-fake smirk makes you want to bury your head in your pillow and scream.
“I’m not hungry.”
She already knows that. You know she knows that. This is the game you both play. It’s been going on for years, pretty much your whole life, yet you still play it.
“Can’t you come down and sit with us? You can eat whatever you want.”
Another sip of wine.
“I don’t feel like it.”
You open your laptop. Like the discussion is over. Like you can control the situation.
“Not even an apple?”
“Mom.”
“Fine. But I have some news for you. That place I’ve mentioned before, Healthy Foundations? They called me back, and you have an appointment this Thursday. Your dad and I want you to go.”
You don’t look at her. Because you know. Deep in your heart, you know. You’ve been waiting for this and it’s almost a relief to hear that she’s going to take care of the problem: ever since you were a little girl, ever since you have had a memory, you haven’t liked food, except for the obvious good stuff—the safe foods.
The healthy foods that have protein and vitamins—the vital nutritious food—you don’t eat. It’s pretty much impossible. You’ve never known why—and it’s not that you haven’t tried, because you have tried, many times—but you have no desire to eat those things. Ever. You wish so much that you could enjoy food the way others do. But you can’t because something is there, stuck in your throat—a monster, guarding its castle, your body, and it won’t let the stuff go down. The monster comes and goes sporadically, but when you’re feeling stressed or anxious about food you know it’s his doing. You know it seems silly, but that’s the only way to explain it, yet you’ve never been able to tell a doctor this. Because it sounds so stupid, that a monster lives inside you.
And you know your problem is not anorexia or bulimia, because you’ve never wanted to lose weight, and you’ve never thrown up, hidden food, used laxatives, or binged. The only time you’ve purposely not eaten was when that thing with Alex happened last spring and that doesn’t count.
When you do eat the foods you can eat—your safe foods—the monster is usually quiet. You don’t limit your portions, you don’t worry about how much you put into your mouth, you don’t think about gagging. You’ve always had a healthy-looking body, and that’s one of the reasons your parents could keep denying something was wrong. You’re neither too thin nor too heavy. Throughout your whole life, no matter where your parents have taken you to be evaluated—the pediatrician or a nutritionist—they always came to the same conclusion—that you’re a healthy, normal girl who is simply a “picky” eater.
You’re perfect.
But there’s more.
Because the monster also makes it extremely hard for you to do things a normal girl is able to do. The monster was lingering at Jae’s party, making it hard to socialize, making it impossible to eat with friends. He causes anxiety and depression, and makes you sad because he’s holding you back from so many things you’d like to do, from so many things you know you want to do but are incapable of doing.
So when your mom tells you she’s made an appointment, you feel that maybe the monster took a hit. At least maybe he got stabbed or something. Like the battle has begun.
“You’re good with this?” your mom asks.
You look up from your laptop and shrug. You have all sorts of feelings but aren’t sure how to react. You’re scared and anxious, and you don’t know what’s coming your way or what you’ll have to do to get the monster to die.
You just know you want the monster out of you. He’s lived there far too long.
4
“Braden said Ben wants your phone number.”
It is the next night and you and Jae are on FaceTime, and when she says this, you tilt your head down and pick at your blue toenail polish so she can’t see that your face lights up. Even though your room is dark because you’ve got candles lit and there are flickering shadows everywhere. The candles soothe you and they smell good, but your mom gets annoyed when you light them. (“You’re going to burn down the house one of these days,” she’s always saying.) “Did you give it to him? My number?” you ask.
“No! I wasn’t going to give out your number to just anyone.”
“Well, you can give it to him.”
“Uh, well, what exactly is going on?” Jae moves her face closer to the screen, scrutinizing you through the Mac.
Your smile goes big. You try to pull it back in but it’s no use.