I'm just 15.

CW: Mental health, eating disorder

“Your mother has been telling me that you stuck to your meal plan this week.” Ms. Leroy took off her glasses with her thumb and index finger, as if she could break them if her grip was any harsher. I’ve been going to this woman for about 2 whole years, and every session is like a chess match. Moves and countermoves. I move the pawn; she steals the pawn with her knight. “Licensed Child Therapist” is what read on the gold-plated nameplate on her door, although it seems like she's more of a child than I am. I’ve always been told that I take life too seriously, too deeply, and that I should enjoy being a child more. Believe me, I’ve tried.

I noticed a gleam in her eyes, one that I have seen before. She knew I was lying. I swallowed what seemed to be like glass, cutting down my throat, making it impossible for me to lie to her. Something about her defiant glare that made me want to sink into my seat and tell her everything about me.

If only everything I ever said here was confidential. If only people actually cared. They don’t. Right?

Only some people care. I quickly check my phone, and there are a few comments I’ve been receiving online from my posts. “Skinny goals, I wish.” “So angelic!” “You’re almost invisible!”

I scrolled through the comments and god, I’ll admit, it made me warm. Seeing so many people compliment me and tell me I’m beautiful. Everyone’s attention felt like love. It’s true that people have different opinions, and there would always be people who would tell me I need to “get help,” but I am, and it’s not helping; rather, it’s getting in my way. Now what?

(Is this what beauty is? To starve yourself and almost disappear from the brink of existence for people's attention? I didn’t realize that this would be costing me a healthy relationship with something that was killing me rather than helping me; my very own flesh and bones.)

I refused to be under heavy observation yet again, or rather, on that awful meal plan that my parents and 2 nutritionists “carefully designed in order for me to get in shape.” Incredibly classy.

I’ve been dealing with all types of specialists recently, and all I have to say is that none of them seem blissfully aware that it doesn’t matter how many degrees they have in the end; it matters if the person they are trying to help actually lets them do their work. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that none of them actually care of their patients getting better, which makes it truly heartbreaking…(not). What was heartbreaking, however, was how my relationship with my own body was more painful than any other. My first and only heartbreak.

“Amelia?” Ms. Leroy’s cherry red nails glistened as she set her glasses aside on the clipboard, seemingly styled with her dark red blazer. Or, perhaps, it the other way around; the blazer came first, then the nails? Either way, distracting.

Say the right answer. She won’t ask again.

“Sorry, yeah. It’s going great, I love the taste of eggs every morning. Although I’d much rather prefer waffles.” I answer, forcing my grimace away. If I was too obviously ironic, she’d catch on and ruin this little game of ours. All the way from her chair, I feel her urge to roll her eyes at my comment. To be fair, I wasn’t too subtle about this whole thing anyway. Grabbing my knees over my chest, I sank lower into the couch with the sole purpose of hiding the groans and squeaks coming from my stomach. I guess that wasn’t too effective as the sounds echoed in the small room.

My body always betrays me. I can’t trust anyone.

Ms. Leroy sighed. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. I’m betting she’s just as tired as I am. At this point, I’ve been her patient forever; if she didn’t fix me already, what else can she really do, you know?

She untwisted her legs from the crosslegged position to get up and glide towards me. Her smooth yet short corporate skirt was plaid, with several floral patterns on top, meant to distract those who noticed it from the boring pattern underneath. Kind of like therapy. They have these great couches, and (although eternally boring) nice people who baby you and guide you places as if being 15 in this day and age isn’t hard enough. Ugh.

She crouched in front of me, linking her hands together as if to beg me. “Listen, Amelia, you know I can’t tell your mother you’re doing well. You know you’re hurting yourself.” She paused. “Don’t you?”

It’s not harm, I’m winning... Don’t you see?

My eyes stayed on her face longer than they probably should’ve. Her expression was trying so hard to be that of any trained professional; detached and sure of what their diagnosis is. For me, however, it seemed like her demeanor would crack every now and then, revealing that look I hate the most. Pity is not an unfamiliar emotion in others who surround themselves with me. It spilled out of her, bright and blinding. I can’t stand it. Everyone I always talk to shakes my hand like they’re afraid it will break. Their eyes soften around the edges, as if one remark will make the wind blow me away. I am fine. I never asked for that. I don’t want her pity. I don’t want anyone’s.

I’d rather they just believed the lie and get it over with.

“You tell her whatever you wish.” My reply was instant and monotone. “My time is up, anyway.” I begin gathering my things so I can leave. My bag is thrown somewhere on the floor, with protein bars and fully-filled containers with fruit (that my mom and that awful nutritionist packed this morning for me to consume) sticking out of the top of my bag. I think she noticed, although it’s too unprofessional to mention it, or something. Or maybe she’s as tired of this act as I am. Or maybe it’s Friday and she wants to go home? It might be either.

I’m over the routine. I come in. I sit. We stare. She lies. I lie. The clock runs out. I leave. Healing, apparently.

One lie buys me another week. Please believe me…

I pull out the money my mother told me to give her and smack it on her desk. “Here. You’ll see me next week. Or maybe not,” I say, as I always do. It’s not like I won’t come back, but a small part of me wants to make her sag in defeat, as if to confirm that I’m actually broken. Not that I’d admit it to myself, ever, but seeing others stop trying to help me is like I’ve broken them. Is that weird? Maybe, I don’t know.

I make sure to leave a smile, and her pity is replaced with sadness. I feel a small pang of guilt, but I shut the door quickly, and it jerks me back to my reality. As I leave her office building, I am hit with the cold breeze outside. I instinctively check my phone and open the calorie-counting app I installed years ago. I’ve built an emotional attachment to this app, and it's like my fingers have memorized the number of clicks I need to open the app. My short-lived smile fades.

120 calories today.

70 yesterday.

Pathetic. Fix yourself.

I shove the phone in my back pocket and glare a hole through the pavement beneath my feet, as if it did me wrong. There are a few things I’ve learned about this place, this stasis I seem to have found myself in; this rut I've carved within my mind.

It is easier to stay still than to eat your problems away. I know it sounds stupid, or it doesn't make sense, believe me. My mother made sure to point that out to me. How it’s all for attention, how I’m perfect. Well, I want to scream in her face. I don’t think anyone gets it, no matter how much I try telling them. It’s easier to stay still, and then maybe you’ll disappear. It’s easier to let yourself drown in your mind, in your fears, than to face the real enemy on the plate in front of you. It’s easier to climb a mountain than to stab your fork into the carefully constructed meal on the table in front of you, in front of me. It’s safer, at least.

I sat down on the bus, legs folded neatly, like I was trying to take up as little space as possible. Even the glass seemed thicker than I was. In my mind, I was still the same girl who took up a seat and a half. I smiled to myself, thinking, 'This is what real progress is like.'

Progress.

Progress.

Progress...

An elderly woman entered through the adjacent entrance, only to stop and stare at me, completely aghast. A single flicker of disgust flashed her eyes. The kind that burns through your clothes and skin and bones. I think of how it used to make me uncomfortable, this look. I knew what people were thinking.

The bus halts at our next stop, and I notice a boy come in. One I’ve seen come in to therapy after me sometimes. I never really talked to him before, although I’ve heard the nurses and receptionists gossip about him. They keep talking about how he's tried to end it, how he'd lost his purpose. But he'd changed ever since he came to therapy. It seems that he'd found it now.

I think he notices me when he comes in because he sits down on the seat next to me. I’m sure I looked as unapproachable as ever with my headphones in my ears and my hoodie hugging my head, so I thought he wouldn't talk. I know I wouldn't have. Ergo, I averted his gaze and looked out the window to my left, wishing the time to pass by faster.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and see him look at me; his big brown eyes staring deep into mine. (They reminded me of these stones I’d find on the edge of a river when I was a little girl that had scratches and uneven edges. I always thought they looked perfect.)

“Yeah?” I ask, turning slightly so that I see him properly.

“Ms. Leroy told me to give you this. Apparently, you forgot it or something.” He had this confused look on his face and handed me a brown plastic bag that acted as a wrapper and set it on my lap. The wrapper crinkled as I tore the paper apart, and my nose seemed to light up because of the smell. That sugary scent I’ve missed so much that used to brush my taste buds.

She got me a waffle.

I let out a small laugh, smiling down at the unwrapped food.

For a moment, just a tiny second, I forget all the numbers. The counting in my head, or the rules I’ve carved into my brain. It was just me and this random boy I've seen in that cursed waiting room in which we both happened to be at some time. Weird, right?

“Are you gonna eat that?” he asked, confused at my hesitance.

I blinked. Did he not see the state in which I’m in? I guessed that he didnt, and that made me start smiling.

“Yeah.” I said, smiling. “Do you want some?”

“Sure.” He said, not once telling me I should eat it all because I look like I need it.

And then I realized the irony of my life. Everyone tried their best to push me, but it was never going to work unless i did it myself. Alas, this is certainly not where I’d end up that day, just me and a boy, sharing a waffle, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like a crack in my disease that gets me one step closer to healing. Maybe getting better doesn’t relate to others caring. It probably started when I started letting them.

It’s sad, now that I look back. A little girl who was so fragile that the wind could blow her away - only her defiance made her grounded. She really thought she was disappearing into this sort of perfection. I know now she was disappearing into nothing. In a way, I was protective of her even when she caused me harm, like some sort of toxic and all-consuming relation. It was almost like leaving her behind was the hardest part of all. Nevertheless, I think I forgive her now. She didn’t know better, but I do.