"I'd describe myself as...different." The words echo in my head, the words I'd told the therapist earlier.
"Why different?" She asked. Her name was Dr. Hansen. My mom had made me make an appointment with her because she was 'worried' and 'didn't want me to do anything stupid.'
"I dunno," I mumbled. "I mean, look at me." I shrugged. What other word could you use to describe a girl who's nose is pierced, hair is dyed, skin is tattooed?
"Everyone is different, Emma," Dr. Hansen said.
"I know. But I feel like I'm more different. I guess."
"Do you think that's a bad thing?"
"Sometimes," I admitted.
"Why do you think that, Emma?"
I zoned out for a moment, getting lost in my thoughts. I have a wandering mind, one that never rests. I could be thinking of what I'm going to have for dinner tomorrow night and suddenly I'm thinking about designing a pair of shoes that let you walk on rainbows.
This time my mind wanders from 'why do I think being different is bad' to 'do I care what people think of me?' to 'I only care what he thinks.'
It always came back to him.
"Emma?" Dr. Hansen called me back to reality.
"Oh, sorry, I guess I zoned out...um, well I guess I care what people think of me?" I phrased it more as a question.
But really... I only think what he cares.
one hour later
I sit on my bed, looking at myself in the mirror. I was made thin, but three years ago I didn't think I was thin enough. I stand at only 5'2", and weigh a mere 104 pounds. In my junior year of high school, I started skipping meals and caring more about the calorie count than what I was actually tasting. Late in my my senior year, I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa. While I've overcome that, I'm twenty years old now, and my collarbones and hipbones still stick out. My stomach is flat now, but it was concave.
I stand up and pull my hair into a high messy ponytail, then walk to the mirror to examine myself. My dyed blue hair is growing out, and you can see the deep brown coming in underneath. Rather than just looking at myself calmly, I rip off my clothes and stare at myself, naked.
I hate my hip bones. I hate my thigh gap. I hate myself. Most of all, I hate that I can't gain weight back.
After my body dealing with anorexia, it doesn't take food the same way as it did. I've only recently overcome it; it's been a mere five months since I've "officially" recovered. So my body is still slowly getting used to taking in a normal amount of food every day. It will be a few years until I can gain weight normally.
I try to force stomach outwards-it doesn't go. It barely bulges, and I hate it. I don't want to be fat, no not at all, but I hate looking dead. I look like a walking skeleton.
The voices in my head take me over. They tell me I'll never be good enough. Why can't I be good enough? Slit your wrists, they tell me.
I obey.
thirty minutes later
I lay on my bed and cry. I've been crying for so long. I wanted to be perfect. I still want to be perfect. When will I be perfect?
A knock on my window.
I check my phone. It's almost nine o'clock. I know who it is. I know what he wants to do. What I don't know, however, is if I'm up for it.
I walk to the window apprehensively, pulling my sleeves down further on my hands. I bite my lip and close my eyes, wondering if I'm willing. I decide in a moment I am. My heart beats faster at just the thought of him, and I open the blinds and throw open the window.
"Emma," he says, his mouth curling into a smile. It's mid-October and the sun started going down about an hour ago.
"Joe." I whisper. I don't want him to see my scars. I don't want him to see my body, and I doubt he will if I object. He never forces me into anything.
"Help me in," he says, extending a hand. I barely do anything, and I'm fairly certain he just wanted to hold my hand, because he says, "Your hands are cold,"
"Not as cold as yours." I say, forcing a smile.
"What's wrong?" Joe asks, smile fading.
"Nothing." I say. "Really, I'm okay." I fake another smile.
"Emma..." He says, clearly seeing through my lie.
"Joe," I raise an eyebrow back at him, trying to get him off my case. "Let's go watch TV. Do you want a snack?"
He shakes his head. He starts to walk out of my room and into the living room when I tell him I'll be right there.
Soon enough we're laying on the couch, making out like there's no tomorrow. He has my arms pinned above my head, and I'm totally into it, until the next second I'm not.
Depression hits at the most inconvenient times.
"Emma?" Joe asks, sitting up. "What's wrong?"
"Joe. What are we?" I ask, pulling my knees to my chest.
"What do you mean?" He asks me, sounding distracted yet concerned. I sigh.
"I can't keep going on like this." Suddenly every bad memory comes back, tearing me apart. I bite my lip so hard I'm afraid I'm going to draw blood. And I cry.
"Why do we have to be something though?"
"What?" I whisper. How could he be so insensitive?
"I don't know why we need to be a thing for this to mean something."
"Joe, how...you come over almost every night and we...we kiss and we make out but I just need to know who we are! Are we officially Joe and Emma? Are we just friends with benefits?"
"Emma, we haven't even done anything."
I scoff.
"You call this nothing? Does this mean nothing to you?" Joe starts to speak but I stand up, interrupting him. "Get out of my house."
He looks shocked as I repeat the words.
"Emma, I'm sorry, I just..." He trails off.
I push him away and run to my room, slamming the door behind me. I grab my razor and go to the bathroom. I start pushing down, and Joe comes in behind me.
"Emma!" He yells, grabbing the razor out of my hand. "Stop it!"
"You hate me! I hate me! Let me die!" I yell, tears falling freely down my face.
"Emma! I don't hate you! Look at me! Look at me, okay baby?" The way he says it somehow, impossibly, calms me down.
"I don't hate you." He pulls me into a hug, my face buried in his chest. "I couldn't imagine hating you." I sob, my tears wetting his shirt.
"Just tell me what we are. Am I your girlfriend?" I pull back and look into his eyes. He bites his lip, then smiles softly.
"If you want to be, I'd be honored to be your boyfriend."
