Collarbones

3 - Thighs

My thighs are like two trees that have grown too close together. When the wind howls, they brush up against one another. They don’t seek warmth or refuge. Instead, they wish to grow apart.

When I was in group, I would sit at the very end of the table with a Poptart and an apple juice. I would fiddle with it the entire time, breaking off pieces and brushing away stray crumbs. Before I even arrived at the small brick building just off of the hospital, I would open the bottle of apple juice, pour it out into the gravel, toss half of the Poptart into the bushes.

And everyday, the therapist would watch me from her seat at the end of the table. As soon as she walked into the room, she would look to see if I had brought food with me. My seat was right next to hers and in the beginning, I found it almost impossible to hide the fact that I wasn’t eating. Then again, in the beginning, they all thought I was an anorexic-turned-bulimic who also struggled from depression.

The only time I escaped her scrutinizing gaze was when the others would talk. At the beginning of each session, she wore a hard look but by the time we had gotten around the table, having updated her on our progress or lack of progress, she looked as if she had fought the battles with us.

At some meetings, there were tears. Others contained bits of encouragement.

But at all there were lies.

I told them everyday that I was getting better, that my sudden wish to return to anorexia had disappeared and I kept a little more down. The scale was never a problem because I knew that bulimia added weight. I had just chosen not to believe it.

By the time my ten days in group therapy were over, I had almost convinced myself that maybe I could fight it. That idea even lasted for a few days. Though everyone else in the group was struggling with things that were darker than my own personal battles, they still found compassion in their hearts. They encouraged me to eat again, to seek out the help they had honestly come to believe they needed after being in group for more than a couple days.

Unfortunately, the monster that lived within my head wasn’t quite done with me. For the few days that I fought against it, my family had tried their hardest to pretend that it hadn’t gotten so bad that my dad had had to take me to the emergency room, where I once more lied through my teeth.

I wonder now if I’ll ever stop lying.

“Hey, Ainsley,” I look up from my book when my father's face appears before my bedroom door. He sticks his head into the room, smiles at me like everything’s fine. “You ready for dinner? Your mom ordered pizza.”

“Uh, yeah,” I nod at him. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay,” He grins at me. He begins to walk away, but then stops. He wraps his fingers around the doorjamb. He looks back at me, smiles wider than ever before. “We can go out and get that strawberry ice cream you love so much after we’re done." He pauses again, his grin even softer. "It’s so good to have you back, Ains.”

I nod my head at him, forcing a smile onto my face. He doesn’t seem to notice any hesitation and before I know it, he’s gone. All I can hear are his footsteps echoing down the hall until they suddenly veer off. I listen as he clomps down the steps, whistling a happy tune that pierces my heart.

My stomach gurgles and I fold the corner of the page in my book. Tossing it onto my bed, I unfold myself from my seat. Pushing myself to my feet, I tuck my hair behind my ears and unroll the sleeves of my baggy shirt. Walking out the door, I follow the same path my father took.

I’m on the stairs when I hear them down below, the sound of a happy family together. I swallow hard, listening as my father lets out one of his booming laughs, causing my younger brother to burst into the childish laughter that makes my skin crawl in nostalgia. My mother says something to them and I hear the floorboards in the living room creak.

Biting my lip, I shake myself out of the funk that I’ve somehow put myself in and hurry the rest of the way down the stairs. When my bare feet meet the carpeting, I can smell the pizza. Its scent is intoxicating and I can already imagine taking a bite out of the cheesy pepperoni-covered heaven that’s sitting in the box on the coffee table in the living room.

My brother’s already sitting on the couch when I enter, folding a piece of pizza before shoving it into his mouth. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I enter because he’s too busy watching the television. My mother looks up at me when I make my way towards the table and watches as I pick up the plate of pizza she’s already dished out for me. I step over her feet and slide between her and my father on the couch.

I sink against the worn cushions and slowly begin to eat. I try my hardest not to feel self-conscious as I put my empty plate down and reach for another piece. They make no comment, but I can feel them exchanging looks over my head.

For the rest of dinner, we sit in silence and watch the tv. I feel myself cringing about the fact that I ate four pieces as I watch an add for a makeup commercial. I recognize the model almost immediately and as I watch her thin figure dance around the screen, I glance down at my stomach. I feel bloated and gross.

I try to ignore it as the commercial passes. When a beer one follows, this time presenting two stick-thin girls in full jumpers with the zippers pulled down between their breasts, I cross my arms over my chest. I ignore the plate that holds the crusts, the remnants of the pizza I’d eaten, and feel that familiar clink.

I swallow hard and try to push it away. But as I try to get rid of it, it just comes back, louder with each drop.

It comes to the point where I cannot stop it and feel the need of release. I stand up, holding the paper plate in my hand. I climb over my mom’s feet, taking her plate with me as I go.

I’m in the doorway when she addresses me. “Ainsley, where are you going?”

I turn to look at her. She’s looking up at me with big eyes, like she knows what I’m about to do. I give her a smile, one that I hope convinces her that I am fine. “Um, I need a shower.”

“Okay,” She says this uncertainly, like she almost wants to follow me to the bathroom.

“Don’t forget about that ice cream later, Ains.” My father calls after me.

I nod my head. “Sounds good.”

But it doesn’t. The thought of food makes me want to hurl.

With my arms wrapped tightly around my frame, I head into the kitchen. I toss the plates into the garbage as quickly as I can, trying not to look at the bowl of fruit that sits in the middle of our island or the clear jar of cookies that adorns the top of the fridge. I hurry across the tiling and into the hallway.

I take my time up the stairs, not wanting my parents in the room below to think I was in a rush. I feel the nausea in my throat as the climb up the stairs feels like it lasts an eternity. When my feet meet the landing, I all but run for the bathroom that separates the two bedrooms.

Once inside, I lock the door behind me. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to talk myself out of what I am about to do.

You don’t have to do it, Ainsley. I say as I stand with my back pressed against the door. What you eat doesn’t define you. You’re perfect.

But I’m not. I know I’m not. After last night with Alina and the boys, I realize I need to change myself again.

If I was thinner, I would have more confidence.

And that is why I make my way across the bathroom. I pause in front of the shower and reach in. Turning on the water, I watch as it streams out of the showerhead and splashes against the wall. With the door left open, I turn to where the toilet is and take a few steps. Kneeling down on the tile before it, I open the lid and then wrap my fingers around the bowl.

And so the cycle begins again.