Sinking Through the Cracks

Therapy

I'm standing in therapy. They have these sessions in the hospital and you can choose whether you want to go to group therapy or a session that one on one. I've mostly chosen the group therapy because you only have to talk if you want to, so I spend that 2 hours just looking out of the window in a back corner. They've recently started to let me wear my own clothes instead of a hospital gown. The food tube is still in my nose, but they're slowly making me eat normal meals instead of pumping them into me against my will.
Today though, I chose not to eat. Then I found out that group therapy was full today, so I have to do one on one. I'm expected to talk. I can't remember the last time I heard my own voice.
Instead of talking, I've been gaining weight. The nurses seem to have a soft spot for me, so even though they aren't supposed to, they show me my weight each time I get a checkup. I've gained over 20 pounds.
I've never felt worse about myself.
Walking into the therapy room today, I immediately notice the mirror.

Mirrors aren't allowed.

It's absolutely huge. I feel vomit rising in the back of my throat. The large empty room suddenly feels claustrophobic. A voice in the room distracts me. The mirror is half covered by a clothe anyway and I can't see myself in it from where I was asked to sit in the room.
"So Ally, how have you been feeling? How has your experience been so far?"
I don't look into the eyes of the women speaking. I look down at her shoes. Black pointed toe heels.
Next her skirt.
It's a black pencil skirt that hugs her hips and thighs.
Next her shirt.
It's a white button up. She's got the sleeves rolled to her elbows. A colorful necklace sits tucked under the collar.
Her hair is drawn into a right bun. She's blonde. She's pretty.
I look down at my lap, zoning out, wanting to run to the mirror. My thighs touch now. Sitting or standing, they touch. My fingers are rounder, I think to myself, starring down at my folded hands.
"Ally? You in there?" she asks, waving her hands a bit.
I look up at her in response.
"Want to go to the mirror?"
I stand and she follows suit, gripping my shoulder as she walks over to it. She pulls down the sheet in one swift motion. I hear her heels walk out of the room, the door closing, but I can't look back to see where she's gone. My eyes are trained on myself.

I lift up my shirt and turn to the side. Fat. I glare at my thighs. Fat. Tears begin to well up in my eyes as I stare at how round my face is. There are dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep. My calves are huge. Nothing is good. Everywhere there's fat. I scream at my reflection, the tears falling so fast that it's hard to breathe. I slam my fists against the mirror and it suddenly cracks. I hit it one more time and bits fall to the floor. I kick it as hard as I can, falling to the floor as the pieces come raining down. My hands find a huge shard and without thinking, I run the sharpest but into my arm. The cut it leaves it deep. I hear sneakers squeaking as the run down the hallway.
This is my last chance.
I press the glass in at different spots as hard as I can force myself to go. There's blood everywhere. I'm screaming. Hands clamp painfully around my wrists and arms and legs and I thrash, pulling away from these men. The voices of nurses are trying to calm me, but I feel wild.
My hair whips into my face pieces wiping through my blood that has spread everywhere. I can't breathe. I can't see. I just cry and scream until I feel the needle pierce my shoulder and feel the cold sedative flowing through my veins.