Chapter 27 : Food talks

“What I really come to ask you though Mi, was what’s your relationship with food like?” Emmet asked a few moments later. This was the most evil of all questions, for even though it sounded genuine in this instance it was rhetorical. It always was when professionals were involved. They didn’t care about my side of the story. They just saw me as too thin. I saw me as too fat.

“Well I’ve snogged a few Hot dogs and dated some rather spectacular tomatoes but you know what, we never seem to hit it off.” I laughed masking the screaming at the back of my head with laughter. Laughter was like snow. It covered everything and made it the same. It camouflaged the real surfaces that hid underneath. Emmet roared with laughter, his body shaking the mattress and slapped his leg hard and for a moment, I thought the diversion had worked. That he might walk away with a smile on his face with his original question forgotten and I could be left free to starve myself into oblivion.

“You’re funny Mi.” He finally said as speech returned to him, but in that moment I knew that wasn’t it though. I new he wasn’t going to pick himself up from my bed and leave me alone. I knew in the end I was going to have to answer what he really meant and the big teddy bear Emmet was going to be replaced by Emmet the psychiatric nurse, who was here to decide what was best for us all. People like Bella, myself and every other young person that was here had lost our voices the minute our feet stepped over the door step. We were just patients in a hospital. They were there to treat our illnesses. whatever that might be.

“Do you like to eat?” He asked. I shock my head. I ate as little as I could so I could remain coherent. So I could do well at school, so I could keep up the pretence that I was “fine” in front of other people, and to keep people off of my back.

“Do you eat?” Emmet asked.

“I’m not anorexic,” I said defensively. The things Bella said to me just 15 minuets before resurfaced to the top of my head. Emmet didn’t engage in the battle I had started in my head. Instead he shot it dead which surprisingly made me a little annoyed. I wanted to fight with him. I wanted him to be angry at me because in the end his anger would hurt me less then his compassion. If I could fight with him, when my war with food conquered him as well it would hurt to see him fall.

“I never said you where Mi, but you didn’t answer my question. Do you eat?” Stunned by the fact he didn’t get drawn into my argument. I bit my lip like a good girl and answered.

“When I have to.” Emmet didn’t respond but continued with his questions.
“What happened with your foster family then. What was their relationship with food like there?”

“Cheerful, I suppose. Very relaxed, of course that was forced but still it worked. We kind of had a system. Annie would cook the food in a happy sort of way assuming I would eat. I in turn I would stare at the food, eating a few bites if I felt very weak. Then the bin would receive the food from my plate. Annie would sigh before trying to talk me into it. Paul would get angry and walk away.”
“That sounds hard,” Emmet commented in a nonchalant tone while leaning back on my bed and propping his head up on one hand as he looked up into my face.
“It’s easier then eating.”
“So why’s that hard? Did they give you food you didn’t like? Or does the food feel funny in your mouth? Are you scared of it?”
“I’m scared of what it does to me,” I confirmed in a soft tone.
“and what’s that then?”

“I weigh 75lbs Emmet. I’m not stupid, I should be tiny. I should be able to look in the mirror and see a half dead malnourished rodent like creature staring back at me but I don’t. I see an obese person with love handles and belly flab. I feel fat. I feel fat all of the time. Even though the weight rolls back on the scales I never get any thinner,”

Emmet sighed heavily. His eyes where flat, his face a grimace. He like all the rest of them couldn’t see what I was on about. He saw the bones that should have been there. He used his charts and saw the scarily low numbers like I did but while they worried him they pushed me forwards. Every pound lost was a pound towards perfect.

“What if I said you had to eat. What if I took all the control away? How does that make you feel!” My insides screamed, my flesh boiled and blistered. My skin melted and pure hot lava pushes up my throat…
“You can’t do that.”
“We can and we’re going too. You need to eat Mi . We need to treat the part of you that has such a distorted self image but we can only do that if you are alive. If you don’t eat, you got weeks to live.

“You can’t, I mean, I’m fine.” I stuttered pulling my body so it was upright. “I’m not going to die, I feel fine and I eat enough keep me ticking over.” I protested.

“No you’re not. You’ve said it your self Mi. You weigh 75lbs and your 5 foot 6 inches tall. You’re dangerously underweight. Mi Dr. Jordan has put you on the same build up menu as some of are other clients with low BMI’s. You will be expected to eat everything that is put on your plates at meal times and you will be expected to start to gain some weight.”