Ms. Reynolds speaks then. “I’d like to take you to my office to talk, and then I’ll evaluate what will happen next. You might need to go for some psychiatric care.”
“What? Where?” You don’t know what to think.
“We’re here to help,” Ms. Reynolds continues. “We only want the best for you.”
“Where am I going? What … I didn’t do anything wrong. I just have an eating disorder. That’s all! Tell them, Mom! And I’m getting better! I am! I ate part of a turkey sandwich this weekend! Mom, I did!”
“Oh honey.” Your mom begins to sob.
You cry hard, hot tears. The monster is looming large now, filling you with fear and anxiety.
He’s going to end you.
“I don’t want to go anywhere. I’m doing therapy with Shayna! I promise I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I don’t want to die. I just … I need help learning to eat, that’s all!”
“Do you need to get anything out of your locker?” Mr. Jordan asks.
You think for a minute. This might be your only chance to talk to Ben.
“I have to get my backpack.”
Mr. Jordan and Ms. Reynolds exchange glances. The principal nods his approval, and then says, “Your mom should go with you.”
Your mom wipes away tears and you both stand up to go to your locker.
“Come back immediately,” Mr. Jordan says.
“Yes, of course,” your mom says.
You leave the office and you’re still sniffling back tears. Your mom is silent.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. You know I didn’t try to kill myself,” you tell her.
“I’m not doing anything to you. The school called this morning saying there was an anonymous tip that you’ve been cutting yourself. And that memoir? You say there’s this monster and you need to die?”
“No, Mom. No! It’s not like that!”
“Sweetheart, there is no alternative. Do you understand the severity of the situation? You need something more than Healthy Foundations. You’re harming yourself, you’re not eating, you’re behaving erratically … Your father and I don’t know what else to do.”
“Mom, I don’t want to die, it’s just … it’s just … I don’t know…”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Do you really think I’ll have to be admitted somewhere?” The thought of it makes your head spin.
“I’m not sure, but something has to be done. Maybe they want to evaluate you overnight, that’s all?”
“Okay.” You feel a bit better now, thinking you might only be away for one night. When you get to your locker, you say, “I have to text Ben.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetie,” your mom says.
“Why not? I need to tell him what’s happening.”
Your mom says, “All this cutting, this hurting yourself, it started when you met Ben. We’re concerned that maybe a relationship is too much for you to deal with right now. Ms. Reynolds said I have to take your phone.”
41
“You don’t want to kill yourself?” Ms. Reynolds takes notes on a legal pad. The two of you are alone in her office while your parents wait in the lobby.
“Not yet,” you say.
She glances at you from above her reading glasses. You realize that’s not the right thing to say to someone on your crisis-management team, which she has told you she is a part of—the team. She is a member of your crisis-management team. If she’s on your team, then why the fuck is she trying to get you committed? you wonder.
“I haven’t tried to commit suicide,” you say. “Ever.”
“What thoughts do you have?” she asks.
“About what?” you ask.
“About life,” Ms. Reynolds says.
“I hate it most days.”
“Why?”
“Because it sucks.”
“What sucks about life?” she asks.
“Everything,” you answer.
“Some examples?”
“Let’s see, my mom drinks more than she should. When my dad’s not at his sports job, he’s at home watching sports or talking to my brother about sports. My brother is an inactive participant in our family. But my dad thinks he walks on water. I can’t eat. I have this thing where I hate food. I can’t comprehend what it’s like to enjoy eating. Now you all think I tried to commit suicide. The only thing I have going for me is a great boyfriend and apparently my parents think he’s a bad influence on me.”
You cross your arms defiantly and instantly feel like a snotty teenager.
“Anything else?”
“None of this is because of Ben. It’s all because of the monster.”
“Your English assignment monster?” Ms. Reynolds puts her pen down and gives you her full attention.
You sigh. You’re so tired of everything. You’re upset and exhausted, so you say exactly what you shouldn’t.
“Yes, and I don’t want to die. But the monster wants me dead.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have a monster living inside me that constantly tells me what to do, what to think, how to behave, who to love, how to act, how to react, what and when I should eat. It’s this monster that makes me do this bad stuff to myself. He makes me depressed, he makes me anxious. He controls my moods and my emotions, my anger and my sadness. I’ve had it, or him, my whole life.”
“Go on.”
“If you ask me if I want to kill myself, the answer is no. If you ask me if I want to live with this monster for the rest of my life, the answer is no. So there’s that. If that’s the choice I have, to have this monster in me for the rest of my life, then I don’t want to live any longer.”
As soon as you say the words, you realize you have sealed your fate.
*
Next, it’s your turn to wait in the lobby. The walls are lilac and while you’re sure it’s supposed to be a soothing color, all you can think about is Easter eggs. There are motivational phrases painted in fancy script that say, Just Breathe and Simplify and Keep Calm and Carry On. You want to throw up. Actually, you want your safety pin so you can scratch a new pathway onto the back of your hand, somewhere fresh, so you can pull out some of the anxiety you’re feeling. You want to scratch, scratch, scratch away everything that has happened this morning.
Your parents and Ms. Reynolds come out after about twenty minutes and you know it’s not good. Your mom’s eyes are rimmed red and she’s got tissues balled up in her fist. Your dad looks like his favorite football team lost the Super Bowl. Your mom sits down next to you, your dad next to her, and Ms. Reynolds kneels in front of you.
You’re ready but you’re not.
“So sweetie,” Ms. Reynolds begins, and you want to spit in her face when she calls you sweetie. “I discussed options with your parents and we all agree for now that you should probably go to St. Joe’s for a short stay.”
You begin to shake. The whole inside of your body goes hot and then numb. The monster roars ecstatically.
You try to gain some composure. “What about my therapy? I’m trying so hard with it. Shayna’s helping me.”
“When you get out, you’ll be able to continue with your other therapy. Inpatient is just more structure, a quicker fix, with faster results to get you the help you require.”