The Way We Get By

13 // Alex

Therapy this week was a flop. A completely mortifying flop.

First off, when my mom took me to therapy on Monday for my second appointment, she recognized my therapist. They went to high school together, apparently, which made the fact that I ended up crying in front of this woman even worse.

I broke down in the middle of the session, and ever since then, it's been replaying in my mind like a broken record.

"I don't have an eating disorder," I spat back, adamant on my sanity.

It seemed impossible, for me to actually be that fucked. For there to be something truly wrong and messed up inside of my head.

"Alex, I've already talked with your parents about this over the weekend," my therapist explained, leaning forward with her studious eyes. She examined me closely and waited for me to accept it and move on, but I couldn't.

I've replayed the session over and over all week, thinking about her bullshit diagnosis and the awkward conversations my parents have been trying to have with me about it since.

"Alex?" Reece, the therapist, asked. "Do you understand that you have an eating disorder?"

I scoffed, still very much in denial.

"Whatever bullshit thing you said isn't even real."

"EDNOS? It's very real, Alex."

"Never even heard of it."

She sighed and straightened herself up in her chair as she held her notepad in her lap.

"It means Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified."

I raised an unimpressed eyebrow and thought about how made-up it sounded.

"That sounds like something people diagnose you with when you're not sick enough."

She nodded, which surprised me because I didn't expect her to somewhat agree with me.

"That's kind of true, Alex, but not entirely. It doesn't mean you aren't sick enough, it just means you don't meet the criteria for other eating disorders. It's like the miscellaneous category."

"Still sounds like it's not serious. So therefore, I don't need treatment," I quipped while falling back into the couch in triumph. I wouldn't let her trick me into getting better, and I wouldn't fall for her stupid, made-up disorder.

"Alex," she stated sternly.

She tilted her head down and stared at me like a mother scolding her child. I looked back at her with a nonchalant shrug.

"EDNOS has mortality rates very similar to anorexia and bulimia. Thousands die because they fail to seek treatment. They think they're not sick enough, just like you do."

She continued to look at me and wait for her words to sink in. They were, although I didn't want to admit it; I didn't want to admit that I understood her, or that I was scared at the thought of having a serious disorder.

I wished to be normal in that moment, more so than ever. The realization that I'm not okay was worse than actually not being okay, if that makes any sense.

"I'm telling you," she admitted honestly, her tone genuine and caring. "This isn't something that can be taken lightly. You need treatment. Do you understand?"

And that's when the tears came. I broke down as the realization of her diagnosis set in. They were slow tears at first, the kind that poke at the back of your eyes and choke you up. They creep up on you in a sneaky, subtle manner.