featherlight ✅

realization

"And nothing else matters"

Another day rolls in, and although I'm slowly being weaned off my Fortijuice and weigh-ins, I still feel like there is a constant thundercloud over my head. Okay, maybe not thunderclouds, because that's too energetic and strong. Which I am not. I'm more like a dreary fog. If there's any road ahead, I can't see it past all the gray. 

My dad and Ava brought my phone in yesterday. I don't really see the point of having it, to be honest: no conversation I'm having recently seems appropriate to have over text. It was full of notifications, though; texts from Em and Polly and Gabe, worry and please get better soon and we miss you. And dozens of voice calls from Ashton dated on the day I was admitted here. I haven't swiped them off my lock screen, like I've done for the others, and they sit there staring at me each time I turn my phone on out of habit. 

A couple of hours before lunch, there's a knock on the door and a nurse comes in. She's the main person who takes my blood pressure and heart rate and gives me smiles when she comes in, small and friendly. "There's someone who wants to see you," she says. 

It seems to me that ever since I've been hospitalised, I seem to have gotten more interesting. My mom keeps getting calls from other parents asking whether their kids can come and pay me a visit. 

Like they cared before I was put into therapy. 

"Who is it?" my mom asks. 

"Mateo, he said his name was."

Mateo. That's one person who I really want to speak to. Need to speak to. "Tell him he can come in," I say. I then, turning to my mom, I explain, "He's the one I was talking about the other day. Remember, the guy from the support group?" 

By this point I've told my parents everything. Practically everything, anyways, including the support group. They were so shocked that I'd been going there for weeks and weeks without telling them; without even showing that I'd been anywhere, but I guess they're also used to the fact that I'd lied about a lot. Resigned to it. 

My mom smiles. "I'll let you guys be alone."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I'll go grab a coffee or something. Just text me when you're done." 

Which involves opening my phone and looking at those notifications again. Missed call from Ashton McCoy.

"Yeah. Okay." Sometimes I don't really know how to talk to my mom. Because I know it's stupid, but I feel uncomfortable talking to her about this eating disorder. I'm scared she'll freak out and start crying uncontrollably again, and that makes me feel awkward and like it's my fault and I need to stop telling her things because she'll panic every time I tell her. 

Mostly, though, it's fine. We haven't even had that many arguments over my eating. It's mainly the occasional well do you really think it's sustainable that you're not eating enough? or if you're going to refuse to finish that, Katherine Greene, then I'll just ask them to put the IV back in and feed you through a tube.