Room 18C

The First Note {Alice}

Dear Garrett from Room 18C,

I found your note underneath one of the pillows on the couch of the waiting room. I had to see the "fat bitch" during lunch time today which I was grateful for. But the session was the same as always. Talking about how ways I could change my life and do better for myself. To start eating.

I am diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and have been ever since I was the age of thirteen. My father left my mother by the time I was born so I guess she blamed me for it. She had slept with another man and my father knew about it. He knew that I wasn't his baby. That I was another man's baby. That other man had happened to be my mom's close friend. After all, we were supposed to be a perfect family. She taunted me more than she ever did my sister. She always told me that I was soft. That I was emotional. That I cared about what people thought of me. Mother was right. I was soft and weak. I could never be like her or my sister. So confident and perfect and skinny. My sister always called me a fat cow and I believed her. My mom soon joined in. Even the kids in school started calling me horrible names because my sister told them to.

So I punished myself by not eating. I don't deserve to eat and nourish myself. I was a stain on my family name. Well, they weren't really my family. The cuts came right after. My mom put me in the following year after she found me attempting to slit my wrists and I've been here for three years. I feel more comfortable here than I had ever been in my whole entire life. No one judged me here because we were all crazy in some way. As far as the "fat bitch" goes, I talk to her. Not all the time. Sometimes, I just cry and she hands me tissues.

I know every inch of this hospital. I read in your note that you've only been in here for a year. You're practically a newbie. Sometimes, I skip on taking my night medication and sneak into the fat bitch's office to go read my file. I don't read anyone else's file because that's very invasive of privacy. Turns out, she thinks I suffer from paranoid personality disorder. She might be right. And you might be a rapist. But if you aren't, write back. I like talking to you.

Sincerely Yours,

Alice from Room 17B