My Blood, Your Bones - Phan

Chapter 3 - Fatty Philly

Phil's POV

I laid down in bed, my backbone uncomfortable against the stiff springy mattress. My eyes were heavy. I had been living in First Step for a year and a half. It was a rehabilitation center. My parents left me here when I began to lose weight. I didn't just loose weight – I ended up barely half of what I was supposed to be. I was only "bones, skin, and a beating heart," as they described me.

A long time ago, when I was in school, a boy began making fun of my weight, and I didn't really care too much. Others joined in, and gave me the nickname "Fatty Philly," or something like it. I felt bad. I was a healthy weight back then. Then I began to cut back. I didn't eat lunch at school where they could see me. I was getting hungrier, but they stopped messing with me for a while. Soon, rumors that I stuffed myself like a pig surfaced again. I felt worse, and began skipping meals, until I was down to close to nothing a day. I dropped weight, which made me happy, and made the others stop being mean to me.

But another problem happened – I couldn't eat again. I began to fear food, worried it'd make me fat. I wanted to eat, but couldn't. My body began to reject whatever I ate, and threw it up. My friends tried to help me eat, but it came to be so uncomfortable and terrifying that, if my stomach didn't do it for me, I felt I would have to purge. Upon finding out I made myself throw up, my friends avoided me. I had no one, and I was continuously loosing weight at an unhealthy pace. My skin became tight. My bones began to show. I still couldn't eat. My parents didn't seem to notice for a while – always so busy with work to check up on me. By the time they did, my cheek bones where beginning to show. They sent me here to get better. I have been here for a year and a half, with no hope for recovery.

In fact, I know I will die here. I have malnutrition, so my body doesn't have enough nutrients to support itself. I can't eat a thing. I'm weak with no energy. The nurses try to help me, but they can't. If I don't get back into eating properly, my body will give out. I'm on a path for death – my second greatest fear. Food was too intimidating, however. Swallowing anything only made me think about how fat it was making me. 

A nurse opened the door. "Good morning, Phil," she sang happily.

"Hi, Beth."

She must've been almost thirty, but was still the closest thing to I had to a friend. "How are we today?" she asked.

"I'm ok."

"Feeling like breakfast?"

I shook my head.

"Are you going to have anything today?"

"Probably not."

"You have to, Phil."

"I had something yesterday." I put my hand on my stomach, forgetting what I exactly had, but remembering that I had something. I prayed I would just digest it quickly, and it would get out of me.

"But you need something today, too."

"I'm ok, Beth."

She knew I was stubborn about food. I didn't want to be, and I would apologize frequently. No one understood me – I was afraid to die, but afraid to eat. I knew I couldn't have it my way for both. I ate just what I needed to to survive, but they constantly reminded me that it wasn't enough, and I'd never be let out like that.

"Phil, I care about you, ok? You need to eat. How about I get you something completely fat free? Would you feel more comfortable with that?"

I shook my head, and rolled over. She knew my worries about becoming fat, and tried to get me to eat at least fat free things. It was a nice gesture, but not enough to convince me.

"Please? Just a bite of something? You need energy for the day."

"Why? It's not like I'll be doing anything today." I never did anything. I sat alone in my bed in the small room they provided me. As a patient, I did nothing but walk around the halls, greeting the other patients. No one wanted to see me or befriend me. They all knew I wasn't going to live very long anyway. I was pathetic.

"You could try."

I didn't say anything.

"You're eighteen, Phil. If you don't eat enough, you might be stuck here when you turn nineteen too."

"I made it this far."

"But you don't have to. You could go home. Live your own life, and feel comfortable eating whatever you want. Come on, please just try?"

I didn't know if she cared about me at all, but she sure made believe she did. "When am I going to die?" I asked her. We had conversations like this all the time, but I never asked her that question, "How long do I have, Beth?"

She shook her head. "Don't ask that. You just need to focus on gaining back your healthy body mass, ok? Not fat. You get in the normal weight range, and you'll be just fine, ok?"

I nodded. "I'll do my best."

"I know it's not your fault. Anorexia is a difficult battle that you can't win on your own. But you can beat this, Phil. I know you can."

I smiled. "Thanks, Beth."

She hugged me, and left. "I will be bringing you something to eat in a few minutes. I promise you, no fat. Only healthy things. Be right back."

I nodded to her and stretched. I lifted my loose bed sheet and looked at myself. My ribs were visible. My stomach caved in. My arms and legs were scrawny. My cheek bones were sharp. I knew I had rings around my eyes too. My hair occasionally fell out from not being strong enough. I didn't like what I became. Maybe I could be normal again one day. Maybe not. I couldn't see the future, only the present and past, both of which hurt too much to bare.