The Beginning, Middle, but not the End

Day 6,128 (July 28th)

A knock on my door wakes me up. Mom comes in, holding a tray with a plate and cup on top. "You need to get up and eat, but if you won't go downstairs you have to eat here," She sets the tray across my lap after I sit up.

It's not a big breakfast thankfully, it's some orange slices and toast. This used to be my favorite sick meal when I was little. I can do this, I can eat. I have to. My stomach gurgles, begging for something. I want to deny myself of this, I mean, why shouldn't I? All I've done is make everyone's lives miserable. I'm a waste, I shouldn't be eating this food.

Dr. Xavier's words start to invade my mind. I am a living body and I need to take care of myself. I need to set these awful thoughts aside for one second. I can do this.

"Honey, you have to eat. You need to," Mom rubs my head and walks over to my window. She opens up the curtains, letting in little rays of sunlight. The slivers of light scatter across my bed, and feel warm on my skin. The goosebumps slowly go away as the light dances on my arms while mom adjusts the blinds. Mom sits by my legs on the bed as I pick up a piece of the toast and take a bite. The sweetness, from what must be melted butter, satisfies my mouth. My taste buds feel alive and happy. I eat a slice of orange, and the taste makes me smile.

An unwelcome gurgle comes from my stomach, making me feel a little nauseated. I take a moment away from the food, and drink some water. It burns my throat slightly, but I ignore it. My stomach is alleviated, I can't remember the last time I felt this good. "Slow down, you don't want to get more sick," Mom faintly smiles at me.

"I'm sorry," I set down the cup and take a deep breath.

She shakes her head at me, "Don't be sorry, there isn't a thing to be apologetic towards. I just don't want you to throw up. You need to let your digestive system take care of things naturally. Okay?"

"Okay." I slowly start to eat. My stomach growls with delightment. I thank mom again, and she takes my dishes away. The sunlight still stretches out to my arms and tickles them with warmth. Without thinking much of it, I push my legs over the bedside.

I walk to the bathroom, and draw myself a hot bath. But before I know it, I'm heaving over the sink. My stomach hurls itself hard, and my back arches as I force the rest of my meal out. I open my eyes, which are puffy and filled with tears, and wash my vomit down the drain. I rinse out my mouth in disgust and wipe away the slobber strings that hang from my mouth.

I've watched movies before of people recovering from depression and grief and such, and how their loved one's nurture them back to health, but this isn't pretty like in the movies. This is ugly, sickening, and vile. It's never really occurred to me how romanticized these sorts of things are. I tried eating again for the first time in what feels like ages, and I can't even keep it down. This is repulsive.

After stripping myself of the dirty clothes, I look into the mirror. I'm not thin enough to see my bones, but it is noticeable that I've lost a bit of weight. The pudge that was once on my stomach has minimized alarmingly, like a cup of water evaporating. The baby fat on my cheeks has shrunk to a bare minimal, defining my cheekbones like cliff edges. This is not pretty, this is sick. I'm sick, and I'm sick of being sick. I place my hand over my heart, the way I did a few days ago with Dr. Xavier. A pulse moves my hand slightly with each beat. I look down to my wrists, and examine the entwinement of veins that are barely visible through the skin. There is pumping blood in those. I once read in an article that four quarts of blood in a woman pumps at an average speed of three to four miles per hour. So in my veins, there is blood constantly flowing at about walking speed. My body is alive, it is nature's apparatus to sustaining life.

I dip my foot in the tub. The water isn't too hot, so I submerge my body into it, limb by limb. The warmth reverberates through my body, making me more aware of my heartbeat as it grows quicker by the second. Soon, I am lying in the tub entirely. I close my eyes and hold my breath as I dunk my head underwater. Everything here becomes muffled, sounding miles away. I rub my hands on my face, washing away any dirt in the water.

Three, two, one. I emerge from the water, taking a deep breath. My lungs inflate and deflate with each inhale and exhale. I reach for my sponge, and pour a lot of soap onto it. Lightly at first, I begin to scrub my skin. The longer I do it, the more vicious my scrubbing becomes. The past few months full of darkness and despair diminishes from my skin, the water turning a murky, white color. All the dead and dry skin comes off easily, like peeling a hard-boiled egg. Before draining the tub, I decide to quickly shave my armpits and legs, leaving my body as smooth as a snake. I stand up, and let the overhead faucet pour hot water over my body like a waterfall in a sauna.

The shampoo that I lather my hair with foams with bubbles. My hands can't stop, the more I clean myself the more alive I feel. Every rinse and scrub reverberates a sense of being through my bones. The conditioner doesn't foam up the same way. Instead, I let it settle in my hair while I wash my face with acne wash. The exfoliators scrape the dried skin cells off of my face and the wash stings my skin, signaling its success. My face feels smoother after I rinse the face wash off. The conditioner washes out rather quickly and easily too.

I turn off the water and walk to the sink. There's a soft, blue towel hanging on the back of my door that I wrap around my body. My teeth feel rather gross, the layers of plaque have become apparent just to the touch of them with my tongue, so I brush them at least three times. I don't think I've ever been this excited about getting clean. After I finish brushing my teeth, I comb through my hair, and wrap it in a gray, microfiber towel. Usually I opt out of this because I'm too lazy to actually find it in the cabinet under the sink, but I'm on a roll.

I walk back into my room. The air conditioner chills me, so I walk over to my dresser to find some sweatpants and a shirt. I return to the bathroom. The mirror fogged over during my bath, so I take my hand and wipe away some condensation. I look less dead than before I got into the shower. Now, instead of the sick, grimy girl that used to look at me, I look only like a sick girl. It seems as though I have the flu or something, not my self-neglecting problems.

After I get dressed and let my hair down, I feel new. I feel less sick, and a little more alive. Instead of retiring back to my bed, I strip it of everything. I find a basket on the other side of my room, and pile the blankets and sheets onto it. They need to be washed. I feel so much cleaner now. Maybe Dr. Xavier was right, I can do this.