Walls

Chapter 9- Get Me Out

Someone knocks on my door.

"Come in!"

A nurse walks in "It's 6 O'clock. Be in the Rec room in an hour. Bring anything you'll want with you. You won't be allowed back in after we lock the doors."
She leaves and I spring up and make my way over to the bathroom. I turn the water to the highest heat setting and bring in all of my hair and body care products. I run by fingers through my hair, massaging the shampoo in as I go. The hot water burns my skin, but something about it is comforting. I do everything else, except shave my legs because this hell hole doesn't allow razors. I dry my hair as best as I can with a towel and then throw it up in a bun. I put on sweats and one of ed's sweatshirts. By the time I do that and brush my teeth, it's 6:50. I put on my favorite fluffy slippers since we can't even wear proper fricken shoes, and I go to the dining hall.

Same as the night before they shove way too much food down our throats and won't even let us have coffee. We all go sit in the rec room and I read for a little bit. After knocking 6 chapters out of my book I decide to rest my eyes for a while before I'll be rudely interrupted to go to my counseling session. I think Ed is going to come for a visit today.

I walk into my counselor's office. His name is Dr. Sodden. He's not in the office when I get there so I just look around. I go sit on the couch and the first thing that my eyes flick to is the half empty coke can on the table along side a tabloid with my face on it. The headline reads 'Taylor Swift drug rumors confirmed.' Then the subtitle says that Ed checked me in to a drug facility. Gotta love trashy magazines.

I flick to the page that has the story about me on it. Apparently a "Source" tells them that me and Ed have been fighting non stop. So he checked me in here to sort out my supposed cocaine addiction. Apparently I started during tour so that I could be peppy on stage. Hm I didn't know I did that...

Finally the idiot therapist comes in.

"Sorry I'm late Ms. Swift." He notices the magazine on the table. "And for leaving that there. A patient left it in my last session. My apologies."

"It's alright. Nothing I'm not accustomed to."

"So how has your first three meals in treatment gone? How did eating make you feel?"
"Well um I wasn't able to keep dinner down last night. And breakfast was hard to keep down, but lunch was a little smaller and lighter so I could hold it down. But in terms of wanting to hold them down, I didn't want to hold even a bite down."

"Can you explain that? Why you didn't want to hold the food down and just how eating the food made you feel?"

"Well I... Every time I eat, all I can think about is the calories, and the fat packing on to my stomach and hips. All I can think about is how ugly it makes me. Eating makes me feel sick and ugly. No ugly is not a strong enough word; revolting. It makes me feel defeated and like I failed. It makes me want to die. I hate eating. I hate it. I hate my body." I said tearing up.

The session soon concluded. Nothing he said was of any use. Not a single word helped me. Not one.

I am sent back to the rec room. They force all of us to eat a muffin for snack. I have to choke it down, but the whole time all I wanna do is spit it out.

A few hours later Ed came by. He didn't stay for long and the conversation was pretty stiff. The whole day was just sitting around and getting fatter.