I awoke to the chill of the overly air-conditioned cinder-block building. I had no need to wear shoes, but I put on socks and rose from the now barren bed. I stared at my reflection, hollowed cheeks and pale flesh, in the mirror resting on the wooden dresser. My eyes were swollen and bloodshot from the tears I had wept until I fell asleep. A lash rested on my right cheekbone. My quivering frail fingers inched up my face until lifting the fallen lash. “I want to go home,” I whispered to my lash and blew it away. I watched it briefly fly away and then crash to the ground as quickly as it had taken off; I envied it.
The clock struck seven and the ring of first meal bell brought me from my trance. Distant knocks were being made down the hall. As I grabbed the door handle to exit the room, a shiver shot up my arm. Two nurses wearing wrinkled white uniforms were advancing down the hallway after speaking to each patient.
“Good morning, Olivia. Here are your vitamins for today. Did you sleep well?” Nurse Veronica, the woman who provided the pills, handed me a four-ounce paper cup and two vitamins. I nodded softly and took the the poisonous-looking purple pills from her hand. I swallowed, feeling them scoot down my throat and scrape my insides.
“Alrighty, before breakfast Nurse Shelby here is gonna take you to the restroom,” Veronica said, pointing to the woman beside her. Shelby smiled at me; I stepped forward, head down, keeping eye contact with the floor.
The sound of our footsteps echoed throughout the building. The noise carried on until Shelby stopped outside the bathroom doorway, arms crossed. I opened the creaking stall door. All outside noise quieted once I was inside, and the surrounding silence exaggerated each breath I took. As I sat, my tears returned. A droplet caressed my cheek and rolled down and off my face, descending into the toilet bowl with a loud drop. I looked up, shaking, peeking out of the bathroom door crack to catch a glimpse of Shelby’s face on the other side. I unleashed both tears and urine downward, emptying myself of all that was left. As I exited the stall, Shelby stayed watching me until I had finished washing my hands.
“I know it may feel uncomfortable, but I have to make sure you aren’t doing anything you’re not supposed to do.”
Four lifeless women already sat at the oval table staring into nothingness by the time I entered the eating room. In the back right corner lay the last vacant chair without a patient. I walked past a short-haired blonde, vigorously tapping her foot and rubbing the sweat from her palms onto her bony shoulders. Sitting down in the chair, I realized just how warm the bedroom was. The chill of the seat frosted my thighs. I yearned to be back in that room, my sixty-one pound body wrapped in a ball on the sterilized mattress, crying until I fell asleep or fainted.
During the meal, silence was only broken by the slow chewing of trembling women and the mangling of their breakfasts. The blonde beside me made eye contact with another patient across the room and began mouthing words and subtly motioning her hands. I stared, realizing she was trying to communicate how many calories she estimated the buttered biscuit was.
“Two seventy-five,” she mouthed, holding up two fingers, then seven, then five. The patients across from her widened their eyes and slowly looked down at the biscuit. She gulped, as her pupils began to lose the life inside them. A drop of sweat rolled down one of the women's forehead.
With each bite, my stomach protruded a little more. With every swallow, my thighs began to expand and press harder onto the chair. The nurse's eyes continued to watch my actions carefully, as I neared the end of the pile of what was fed to me that morning. Remaining sat a Horizon single-serve container of milk and a slice of red velvet cake.
I detached the plastic straw from the box of milk. Pushing the straw inside, I lifted it towards my lips. My eyelids weighed heavily and soon closed as I began to sip. The loud, crackling slurp of the last few drops leaving the carton startled my eyes open. At this point, my stomach had been filled in all of its capacity. I felt my muscles crack and rip open in excruciating pain. I could no longer think or breathe. I tried to gasp for air, but it felt as though there was no room left in my body for oxygen.
Doctors had been gradually increasing my calorie intake as part of the recovery. When I first arrived, they told me my stomach had shrunk to the size of a child's fist, about three times smaller than the size a twelve-year-old girl’s stomach should be. On this third week, this Wednesday morning, I was on a 4,500 calorie meal plan. Four inches away from me awaited a slice of red velvet cake.
I lifted my trembling arm and reached for the dessert plate and neighboring plastic fork. As I swallowed the first bite, I felt every crumb inch its way to my stomach and land on top of the undigested weight of the eaten breakfast. Tears streamed down my face and showered the cream cheese frosting beneath me. It broke everything inside me—the strength I thought I had, the ability to think of anything but the tearing of muscle inside me, my stability.
“I can’t. It hurts so bad! My stomach hurts so bad, I can’t eat anymore!” I screeched, choking on my own breath. I wanted the pain to take my consciousness. I wanted to slip through the arms of the chair beneath me and fall into a numb abyss.
“You have to finish your meal, Olivia. You finish your meal or you are marked as restricting. There are eight minutes left of eating time.” Shelby’s gentle smile from outside the bathroom had long vanished. She aggressively scribbled notes on her yellow pad, every so often looking up at me to document my expression. Every word she wrote, I felt carve into my skin.
“I’m trying! I’m not restricting, I just CAN’T do anymore! It hurts so bad, it hurts so—!” My stomach burned and erupted into what felt like the depths of hell. All control over my body was lost. I wept and launched my upper body over my knees, pulling at my hair until clumps of locks were falling at my feet.
“Are you choosing to restrict? If you restrict at this meal, you will be put on an IV for twenty-four hours.” Where is her smile? I need her smile back. I need my mom’s smile, right now. The image of Shelby had deteriorated to a blurry figure through my tearing, glazed eyes. I pictured the near future: needle up my arm with a fatty liquid, the color of vomit, shooting into me, travelling with me everywhere I went. I pictured the other patients before me that were put on the IV, poles hovering over them during group therapy, and the lifeless look on their face, staring into nothingness.
“I can’t.”