The Art of Drowning

Chapter One

Song for this chapter - Funeral by Phoebe Bridgers

I'd always been a procrastinator.

Ever since I was little, I had always left anything I could until the very last minute, even if it was important. It didn't matter how much my mother would beg or plead, nothing would work. Maybe some weird part of me thought it was thrilling, to give myself no room for imperfections. Or maybe I just enjoyed pissing my mother off. But for whatever reason I procrastinated, it seemed to be one of my only talents. That and my 'inability to be quiet', or so my parents say.

Maybe my talent for procrastinating was the reason why I was such a good anorexic.

I talk about it in the past tense, not because it's in the past, because it is isn't. I refer to my eating disorder in the past tense because I need it to be; I need to convince not only myself but everyone else that I'm ok. I haven't been doing a great job of that so far; I got caught.

I fainted at school, which could've been avoided if I wasn't being extra harsh on myself that day; I had gone out of my way to walk everywhere I went, to rigorously count my calorie intake. I'd even taken an extremely cold shower, in an attempt to burn off any extra calories, and I'd paced around whenever I wasn't doing anything. The one mistake I made in the midst of all the calorie counting was that I'd forgotten to stay hydrated. I'm usually pretty good with drinking throughout the day as it distracts me from the hunger, but for some reason on that fateful day in January, I wasn't.

Well, I was taken to the hospital, 'standard procedure' they said. 'Standard procedure' my ass. I knew they were onto me but it wasn't like I could run away, I was trapped. My parents were called in and everything, it was really dramatic to be quite honest.

Anyway, you can guess what happened next; the doctors concluded I was severely malnourished and my diagnosis came shortly after that. Of course, my mother freaked out in her usual fashion and by mid-February I had landed myself in the Eating Disorder Ward in St. Mary's Hospital. I stayed on the ward for about two months until they finally discharged me, on the condition I would have weekly checkups, even more therapy and attend a support group every fortnight. I was also prescribed a lovely little bottle of serotonin in capsule form.

Other than the lack of other sick people and loud machines that kept you up all night, being back home wasn't much different to being in hospital. It was kind of like a prison actually; my mum started homeschooling me so she could 'keep a closer eye on me' and I certainly wasn't allowed to go anywhere that wasn't part of my treatment plan.

It's now May 13th and suffice it to say I'm bored. I miss my freedom. Most of all I miss my eating disorder. I know I'm not supposed to but I can't help it, I'm nothing without it.

I've been able to cut calories here and there but it's not nearly enough. They're going to make me fat and I can only regain any kind of control over the situation if I can get rid of the treatment plan. You see, today is my final checkup and my doctor has to believe my story. If he does, I'm free to restrict relatively in peace, and if he doesn't, then I have to be admitted again. It's what I agreed to if the treatment plan didn't work.

And so, I don't have a choice but to lie to him. He has to believe my millionth 'I'm fine'.

It's not that I can't accept that I'm anorexic. For a very long time after my diagnosis I'd tried to refute that fact but it got to a point where even I couldn't deny what I was doing to myself. All the evidence needed was in the dark bags under my eyes, my sallow skin and brittle hair. As it turns out having an eating disorder wasn't as great as I thought it might be. Who knew, right?