Bones

Ch. 1

Stepping on the scale, I don't know what I'm hoping to see. Things were easier when I wished my weight would decrease, but I realize I'll never be satisfied. Watching that number go down felt like a passion or even an addiction.

It's been dangerous, I'm severely underweight. My nails are so brittle, they easily peel off, and my hair breaks leaving it looking constantly disheveled. Wounds never seem to heal, bruises take over my arms and legs. I'm constantly exhausted and light headed. If I don't eat enough, I throw up stomach acid. If I eat too much, I throw up what I ate. I dug myself a hole and can't escape.

In front of the mirror, I look over my bare chest. Cringing at the pile of bones, I'm unhappy with my disgusting body. Staring at my reflection makes me feel nauseas. I'm uneasy viewing the details of my skeleton. Wishing I could just crawl back into bed, I instead change into some baggy clothes. Sweatpants, a t-shirt, and oversized hoodie to top it off.

I'm very uncomfortable with my skin being exposed, it always seems to draw attention to my withering body. I'm bothered when people comment on my weight, I can't help getting defensive. Food is also a sensitive topic and I can't control getting emotional about it. A simple question like what am I going to eat today sends me reeling - I never have an answer, I no longer have an appetite. Hunger cues disappeared long, long ago.

I receive a text from Mike, saying he's arrived to pick me up. We were going to record at the studio today, but I wasn't aware he was going to drive me. He knows I get anxious behind the wheel and sometimes would go out of his way to let me carpool. I never know how to accept Mike's generosity, he's far too kind towards me.  Leaving the house and locking the door, I give Mike a little wave before getting in the passenger's seat.

"Thank you," I smile at him and he grabs my hand, giving it a little squeeze.

"Of course," he grins and starts driving. "How are you?"

"Good, you?" I automatically respond.

"Hey, we've talked about this," he reminds me. "I know you just say good, so you don't have to talk about things. I'm you're best friend, however, and you're not getting away with it that easily. Give me the honest answer."

"You know, the same old. Hopeless, depressed, whatever," I shrug and knew what was coming next which reminded me why I never just asked Mike for rides in the first place.

"Did you eat today?" That simple question I hate the most. I'm getting tired of it.

"Yes, I ate. I had a full breakfast of eggs, toast, and bacon. For lunch, a big ass salad," I lied through my teeth. I'm aware that I'm wasting away, I don't want to be reminded. Sometimes I wish Mike would ignore me entirely. It's hard to understand that he cares for me, but I know he does, it feels like too much at times.

"Really?" His lips thinned as he clearly didn't believe me.

"Yes," I insist and he smiles. Guilt begins setting in, I shouldn't have lied.

"I'm proud of you, that's a huge step," he grabs and squeezes my hand again before releasing. We pull into the parking lot of the studio and step out. "Seriously, Chester, it makes me so happy to hear that you're eating. I've been really worried."

As we're walking up to the building, my head starts to rush. My legs go weak and I buckle over as my vision turns black and noises grow faint. I get a headache from the pain and can't help groaning. Mike's at my side, his voice sounds far away, but I can hear him.

"Chester? Are you okay? What happened? Fuck, I need to call an ambulance," he grows more and more distressed as I slowly feel myself coming back. I manage to hold myself up as he's dialing on his phone.

"I'm okay, Mike," I weakly try to reassure him. My senses are gradually returning, but I feel absolutely awful. The pain I feel everyday makes me question why I'm still living. "I'm sorry."

"Chester, you almost passed out from walking," he reminds me and I shrug. "You're destroying yourself."

"I'm sorry," I mutter, unsure what else to say.

"I don't want to lose you," he admits with tears in his eyes. He's tightly gripping the phone in his hands. "That scared me to death. I think you should go to the hospital."

"I'm okay, Mike. It'll get better, these things take time," I attempt to reassure him again.

"You lied to me about eating," he points out. "I didn't know you got this bad. Every time I bring it up, you tell me you have it under control."

"I'm sorry, Mike," I continue to apologize. It's not as black and white as people seem to think.

"I can't let this go on anymore. I'm taking you to a hospital if you don't get help. This isn't just appetite loss like you originally told me."

"Treatment would involve in or outpatient, either way I wouldn't be able to travel or tour. I can't do that to our fans."

"They'll understand. I think they'd rather you get healthy than watch you pass out in front of them," he counters. "I'm serious, make an appointment by tomorrow or I'll take you myself."

"Mike, you can't force me to go and I told you that I'm okay. This was a one time thing. It's not as serious as you think. We can get something to eat together after recording if it makes you feel better," I offer. I don't like eating in front of others, but I will if it gets Mike off my back about it for awhile.

"Fine," he sighs in defeat. "But if something happens again, you're going to the hospital."