Outside the Lines (lashton)

(20) +0 -300

It's been a week since I told my mom. There was no point in telling her alone, since she made me explain to my dad what was going on as well. I would have rather sat them down together and done it in one go.

There was no point in telling them in general, since nothing's gotten better. I've only gotten worse. They try to make me eat, but I end up eating nothing. On top of that, after seeing me not eat at all, they called management. They discussed what was going on with me and everyone decided a break would be what's best for me. I don't agree in the slightest. They tried to make me go to my doctor but I refused.

I weigh 60.6 kilograms now. A week ago I was 137 pounds according to the nurse who weighed me. That roughly estimates to 62 kilograms according to Google, so I've lost 1.4 kilograms in a week. I can't help but to feel accomplished. I know now this isn't what I should want, but I can't help the elatedness I feel over losing that weight. It makes me want to keep going.

Before I use to think I'd reach a weight and be happy with it, but that never happened. The number kept dropping lower and lower and it's never enough. It's always just a little bit more.

Each meal is a battle. When I don't eat what they give me, Mom cries and Dad yells. Neither understand what I'm going through. "I don't understand," I'll hear my mum say to my dad through tears in the middle of the night. "Neither do I Liz, but we can't give up on this. He needs us," he'd tell her.

At first it was easier because they thought I was eating, but then they caught me hiding my food. I'd place a napkin on my lap and place food there, throwing it out after a meal. After they found me doing this, I started shoving food into my pockets. Gross, I know, but what else was I to do? A few days later they found out about that as well and now they check my pockets before leaving the table. That's when the arguing started.

"I can't eat this!"

"You can't leave the table until you eat something," my dad would tell me. My mom would have disappeared by this point, unable to watch me do this to myself.

"But I can't," I'd tell him.

"Why not?"

"Because I just can't! I can't let myself eat!" I broke down sobbing.

My dad walked over to me, hugging me tightly. "You can do this, it's all going to be okay," he'd tell me.

"What if I can't do this though? What if I'm stuck like this forever?"

That's what brought up the idea of treatment to my parents. My dad called my mom into the room and we all sat down and talked about what we should do from here, all while I was sobbing. I think this is when I realised I had to do something.

If I didn't, I surely would die. I want that sometimes, but only because I'm so miserable and I see no way out of this. Maybe there is a way out.

"I can call Doctor Wilkes and see what he thinks, or we could bring you into hospital to get checked out to see if everything's alright with your body," my mom says in nearly a whisper.

"That's a good start but, Luke, I've been doing some research, and they have special places that help people with eating disorders. What do you think of that?" my dad questions.

My first thought is I don't have an eating disorder, but I decide to fight my mind and let the idea in that maybe I could have an eating disorder. Just maybe. The first step is admitting you have a problem, right?

"What kind of place is it?" I ask.

"Well, there's two kinds. One is a day program where they monitor you eating and provide therapeutic groups. The other is an overnight program, so you'd be staying there."

That's when I shut off to the idea of treatment. "No, I don't want to do either of those." What if I go and get fat? What if I go and don't get better? What if I get recognised while I'm there? I wouldn't have any of my control. I wouldn't be able to weigh myself, which I have been doing constantly since I've gotten home. This sounds like a disaster.

"How about you think about it?" my mom tries to say gently.

"No, I won't do that, it won't work, there's no point in it."

My parents look at each other hopelessly, probably wondering what to do with me.

"I'm going upstairs," I tell them, a little bit of anger seeping through my tone.

"If you aren't open to the thought of treatment, then you have to eat something," my dad tells me.

I sigh, my anger more prominent, "You and I both know I'm not going to eat anything," I tell him, hoping they'll let me escape. He lets out a long breath and motions his hand, letting me leave.

"Thank you," I tell my dad. I quietly make my way up the stairs, which has become an exercise in itself lately, and head to my room. Once inside, I sink onto my bed and lay there for a few minutes unmoving.

How could this happen to me? I think to myself, reminding me of the Simple Plan song named Untitled. The lyrics seem to fit how I'm feeling right now.

I've messed up my life. Look at where I've ended up. The band is taking a break because of me. How is that fair for the others? Sure, we still get together to write, but all my writing is so depressing I end up scrapping it. And sure, the others still go out for interviews while I'm home, but how long can they continue doing that before people start wondering what's happened to me? Okay, the band isn't taking a break; I am. It just makes it easier to say the band is. That way I don't feel as guilty, like it's all my fault. But it is. It always is.

Fans are already starting to make theories. He's sick, he's too thin, maybe he has cancer, maybe he has a drug problem he's sorting through right now. The most popular theory is that I have an eating disorder though. I keep getting well wishes from fans hoping I'll be okay soon. None of them seem to buy the lie that I'm ill recently. Every time I post on twitter, my replies are flooded with worries.

That's why I don't go on twitter right now. I can't handle disappointing that many people at once.

Might as well do what I'm good at, weigh myself and sleep. I get up from my comfortable bed and make my way over to the bathroom slowly, feeling dizzy upon standing. Once in the scale it evens out to 60.4. I sigh with relief at the 0.2 kilogram loss, and slowly walk back to my bed, getting under and cuddling the covers.

I'll never get better. This is my life. Those as my last thoughts before easily falling into sleep.