Pretending (Westshore Series #1)

Chapter Sixty Two: Growth

*NOT EDITED

I find out quite quickly that the inpatient care I'm at only accepts a few patients at a time and costs a lot of money. I didn't know this when Warner dropped me off, and I assume he didn't tell me because he knew I would freak out at the price. Especially since he is covering all of the costs. The counsellors and Doctors won't discuss money with me so I can't figure out the exact amount but I know it's a lot.

I was upset about being sent so far away to a place none of my friends were allowed to visit but now I know why I had to go three hours away. This was the best of the best.

I am greeted with patience and soft smiles in the hallways, in the garden, or when I am completing my school year with my tutor. But when it comes to eating and talking, the staff never let us forget who is in charge

The name of my primary counsellor was written in my welcome packet, which included my daily schedule, the rules of the facility, a map of downtown Barrie for the days we go into town, and a sheet of paper with a layout of the house.

Kayla, my counsellor was adamant about the fact that everything I told her was confidential.

There were no games this time. No midnight exercise parties in the shower for me. No dumping my food in the plants or sticking it in the garbage when nobody is looking. I avoid the drama of some of the other girls here, running away from the pain as fast as they can. I hope they figure it out.

The concept of eating is scary. The nasty voices are always on call, eager to pull me back down but I do not let them. I put all of the bites in my mouth and try not to count. It's hard. I take half a cinnamon bagel. and the numbers jump out at me, boo! Half a bagel (165). Whole bagel (330). Two tablespoons of full-fat cream cheese (80).

I breathe in slowly. Food is life. I exhale and take another breath. Food is life. And that's the problem. When you're alive, people can hurt you... It's easier to lock everybody out.

But it's a lie.

Food is life. I reach for the second half of the bagel and spread cream cheese on both. I have no idea how much I weigh. This scares me almost to death, but I'm working on it. I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.

I read a lot. I write awkward, random poetry. Our floor goes on a field trip to a restaurant. I eat a waffle with syrup, and I ask for more.

The first time I went a day without crying over calories I felt a release so beautiful; I could have cried.

I like my therapist here. We talk until the dams burst and the tears flow because I'm angry. But nobody storms out of our sessions. Nobody uses nasty names. We all take turns shovelling through years of muck. Sometimes I think my skin will burst into flames. I'm angry at my mom. I'm angry at my bullies. I'm angry that I starved my brain and that I sat shivering in my bed at night instead of dancing or reading or eating ice cream or kissing my boyfriend.

I'm learning how to be angry and sad and lonely and joyful and excited and afraid and happy.

I am learning how to taste everything.

I don't lie to the nurses. I don't argue with them or throw anything or scream. I sometimes argue with my therapists, but they listen. Take notes.

There are no visitors and I'm not allowed a personal cell phone so I do most of my communication through email or letters.

My friends email me almost every day and I can tell they're trying not to talk too much about all the fun they are having without me, but the happiness practically leaps off the pages of their handwritten letters, and I smile when I finish reading them. They deserve to be happy.