“Everyone has a secret – some are just not worth finding out”
Once upon a time there was a happy little girl who lived with her parents and two brothers. For years, and years the little girl had the perfect life; she had friends and good marks, nice things and a beautiful house, played sports and ran free. One day, her mother lost her job and became very, very sick. The little girl was shocked that something terrible had intervened in their perfect little family. Things would get better, she told herself, the hole will patch itself up. Then, her father messed up and got sent to jail for a long, long time. And to top that all off, her little brother was thinking about doing drugs and was becoming so, so sad. The once happy little girl started to question everything she once believed in. She blamed herself for her family’s misfortunes, and became enclosed in a self-hatred world. She hated her personality, her looks, her laugh, her height – and most importantly- her body. To the rest of the passer-by world, she was still the happy little girl. But underneath the surface, was a nightmare, She kept her true self hidden, and with each passing day, she could feel herself fading away. She kept getting smaller, and smaller until eventually, she turned invisible. What seemed like a terrible end to a tragic life is really only the beginning.
* * *
It is not unusual for a teenage girl to be concerned with the way she looks, however it is unusual for her to be obsessed. At least that’s what everyone keeps telling me. It’s surprising no one’s given up on me yet. Three hospitals, four physiatrists, two pediatricians, five rooms and three feeding tubes over the course of eighty-seven days. Some consider it impressive. I think it’s not good enough.
Recovery is an evil thing. They fatten you up, condemn you to bed rest, and scold you if you are not meeting their standards for mindless zombie.
During the rougher nights, I scream this at them. I refuse to be their zombie. I am a person. I am an individual.
But you are not unique.
I am told to be quiet. There are sick children here. They bring the pills that numb my mind, and make me forget. I tell the physiatrist I can’t remember. He prescribes a new drug. It makes me forget, too.
Maybe it’s better to forget.
Forget the tears. Forget the yelling. Forget the lies.
The ‘team’ loves doing this; torturing me. I guess it makes them feel like they’re helping people when they call themselves a team, but it’s really just a few doctors, therapists, nurses and helpers. It’s not helping me at all.
Lunch comes. It is huge, repulsive, unwanted. I tell Viki, my helper, I do not want it. I am fat. To prove my point I pinch the fat on my stomach that no amount of secret night crunches can tone. She smiles and laughs as if it is one big joke.
Long since has she responded to my words with lies. Nobody can deny I am huge. We continue with pleasant conversation about books and travel as I (unwillingly-forcefully) choke down green beans (25), and a ham sandwich with way too much butter (350).
She begins to talk about my least favorite topic as I sip my milk (130), I try to tune her out as Viki rambles on about food and everything that involves food.
Viki is perhaps the most strict helper. With her, no crumb goes uneaten. I had to get pretty creative with her; hiding food isn’t so easy when you’re being watched like a hawk. And they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
I nod in response to something Viki says. She laughs. I try not to get myself too involved in the conversations with helpers. They may suck me into their recovery vortex and not spit me out until I’m a mindless fat zombie, just like the rest of the others.
The others are thinner. Prettier. Better.
The words slip out as truthful as the sun, “I’m fat.” Viki shoots me an annoyed look. She is a plump woman with bleach blonde hair. She’s always wearing at least one thing that is black, and has an assortment of tattoos around her ankles. Viki looks like the last person who would ever work at a hospital.
She calls me out as I am starring at the remaining food; ice cream (60) and a giant chocolate chip cookie (170), “better hurry up, you’re almost out of time. And I’m starving for my lunch.”
“You can have mine,” I half whisper. She laughs again.
I am funny. <fat,stupid,ugly,useless>
Lunch and Viki go and I find myself alone. I can read, sleep, watch TV, or do crafts. The only thing I want to do is crunches. At two o’clock, there is an endless stream of nurses passing by my door. I would get caught.
And then they’d make me eat more,
MORE
MORE.
During shower time I managed 250 jumping jacks (-125) and squats. 250. 318. 327 (-94). No amount is good enough. I must keep going,
A nurse bangs on the door. Shower time is up. I must keep going.
There is a side of me that wants to tell the helpers about my exercising, about the food I hide. I want them to know I need help. But I don’t want it. That is Lost, trying to surface. I can’t let Lost work itself to my mouth. Lost just screws things up.
There’s also Driven. Driven is much different. It tells me to eat to get home, to lie to get out, to do those extra ten crunches. I like Driven better than Lost.
Sometimes they get too loud. They both talk at the same time and jumble up my thoughts. When Driven and Lost argue, I have to depend on Alex. But Alex is fat. She never makes the right decisions.
I do not see things that aren’t there, or have voices whisper in my ear. Driven and Lost are my mind – and as much as part of me as my own two feet.
Once I made the mistake of telling about Driven and Lost. They wrote down in their silly little notes that I have Schizophrenia. It took me a while to convince them otherwise.
They Physiatrist gives me pills. They don’t make me happy or calm. I think they’re fat pills. They make me huge __________.
The helpers say that is the ‘eating disorder’ talking. I am diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa, but I do not have it. Girls with Ana are thin. I am 99 pounds of fat, failure and weakness. Yesterday, I tried on my size zero shorts. Once loose, they are now tight. It makes me upset and frustrated at the same time.
It is thier fault. <It is my fault.>
STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID.
I must not break. I must be strong.
YOU ARE READING
75 Pounds
Teen FictionAlexandra Morton is in stuck in the hospital. Everyone keeps telling her she has an eating disorder, but that's not what she would call it. She's not sick, not Anorexic, and shouldn't be here. For eleven weeks. And then thrown back into her home wit...
