f o r t y
“Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles
is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?”
—John Keats
A new doctor visits me in my room the next day.
She has short hair, dark skin and the most luminous eyes. She introduces herself as Dr. Eleanor and wears a white lab coat. As striking and friendly as she looks, I’m uneasy when she enters. Doctors usually mean bad news.
“I’m only going to be your doctor for a little while. You’ll mostly be at a treatment center for your bulimia,” she says. “Though I may come to visit...” She looks at a clipboard, then makes eye contact with me. “Yesterday you spoke to Doctor Rodriguez about your condition. He asked me if I would come talk to you about the cuts on your legs because I often work with patients who engage in self-harm.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I say.
Did anyone else see my scars? Or do only the doctors know? I feel naked right now. The sheet and my gown don’t feel like enough protection. I want to crawl away. I want to be invisible, but I am about to have this conversation whether I want to or not.
“You’re five-seven and 98 pounds. Your BMI puts you at very severely underweight. You already knew that though. You’ve been purging for months.”
“I went out drinking and lost an extra couple of pounds,” I say.
I consider the numbers. Ninety-eight pounds. That’s all I’ve wanted for the past year, but I still feel empty and unfulfilled. I’ll never be happy no matter how small I get.
“You don’t have to lie to me. I’m not here to grill you about your weight or your cuts,” she says. “It’s not like that. I’m not here to punish you, or make you uncomfortable. And if it makes you feel better, I used to be a cutter.”
“You did?” I say, feeling more at ease.
“For many years,” Dr. Eleanor says, looking down at her clipboard. “By the look of the notes on your scars, I was a more violent cutter, and for a really long time. I was even a cutter while I was a young doctor. It was horrible at times. I don’t know how I didn’t lose everything I had.”
“Why did you do it?”
Though I know that I probably know the answer, I want to hear it from someone else. I want to know that I’m not crazy. I might be sick, but I’m not crazy.
“Anxiety, depression. Punishment for my failures. You name it. I was looking for answers and sometimes I felt I could only find them through self-destructive behaviors. It’s not uncommon. Especially for girls facing a lot of social pressure.”
“But how do I stop?” I really want to know this time.
Dr. Eleanor lets out a breath. “Therapy. Lots of it.”
I don’t like the sound of those words.
She must be able to tell what I’m feeling by my face because she says, “Yeah, I didn’t like the idea of that either. Believe me. I resisted for a long time. But you have to understand, people like us are complicated, it takes a lot for us to understand why we do what we do, but we have to get to the bottom of it if we want to get better. You have to care about the hurt you do, and by the looks of you, you care a lot about life, family, your career. I can see career girl all over you. Women like us want to control our own worlds to the point where we control our pain centers.”
I consider her points. She’s right about wanting to control my pain, to harness it. The problem was that when I got so thin, everyone complimented me, which made me want to purge and starve myself into being skinnier. It’s so messed up. The smaller a girl is, the more visible she is to the world. The more she makes herself disappear, the more she matters. It’s all a trick.
“Do you feel like you can be open-minded to getting help?” Dr. Eleanor asks.
“I think so,” I say.
Why did I believe starving myself was going to make me feel better? In my mind, I can see all the meals I skipped, all the food I vomited up and flushed into the toilet. I was destroying myself from the inside out, thinking that people would love me more, thinking that I would love myself more.
“Look, we girls have to stick together. I’m certain we’ll see each other again. And when we do? We’ll give each other this look. I don’t know how to explain it, but it will mean, yeah, we have secrets, but we’re the strong ones. We’re the ones with scars, and they’re fading.”
“I like that thought,” I say, sitting up in my bed a little. I’m cold and pull my sheets up over my shoulders. Maybe I’m not really as alone as I thought.
She pulls her clipboard to her chest like our conversation is almost done. “Me too. I like the sound of your voice. I hear confidence in it. Is it okay if I come see you again?”
“Sure,” I say. “It would help to talk to you.”
“It’s not as good as therapy, but you’re a good kid and I’m happy to do what I can to help. Try to see the good in yourself that everyone else already sees in you.”
After she leaves, I’m told by a nurse to get myself up and around by taking a walk out of the room into the hall and back. I’ve regained a lot of strength and need to test how well I’m able to do with normal activity. Doctor’s orders.
I’m slowly passing the nursing station with my IV stand in tow when I run into Antonia. She looks shocked to see me standing up.
“Liv,” she says. “What are you doing out of bed?”
I give her a hug but still feel so frail. “I was going for a jog.”
She smiles. “Maybe you should hold off on that.”
“Want to walk with me?” I ask. “Doctor says I have to make myself useful. I’m slow but able to make my way... I heard you were here all night that first night. Sorry I didn’t wake up. I must have scared you pretty bad.”
“We rushed you to the hospital pretty fast. Sam drove. Have you seen him?”
“Not yet.”
“He’ll come. He’s pretty upset.”
“I can imagine.”
“You know, it’s really all my fault—”
“No,” I say, slowing down. “Walking is tiring me out already. Let’s turn around.”
“Okay,” Antonia says, helping me with the IV stand. “I’m really—”
“Stop it,” I say. “It’s not your fault. I’m not mad at you. I did this.”
“I didn’t realize you were as sick as you are. I’m so angry at myself for not noticing. For not paying closer attention. You’re my best friend.”
“My problems have been going on a long time,” I admit. “I was never totally honest with myself about how serious they’ve been.” Antonia’s face shows a look of pain, but she lets me continue talking. “I’m only now starting to see how I was destroying myself. I’m still figuring all of this out.”
We get to my room and Antonia helps me back into the bed. I’m starting to get tired of being in the hospital. I want to go home. I want to move on to the rest of my life and leave all this behind.
Antonia sits on the bed next to me. “What’s going to happen next?”
“I honestly don’t know. I just hope Sam will forgive me.” I pause a moment, thinking about how much I want to share. “I think I might have feelings for him. And if I’m being honest with myself, I always have.”