What She Needs

10. Keep Breathing

Keep Breathing- Ingrid Michaelson

Addison

4 days have since passed since Meredith's encounter with her mother. They've gone something like this:

Day 1

I come down the stairs, flicking on my coffee machine as I waltz through the kitchen, feeling the cold tiles on my bare feet. I really need to buy some slippers.
I'm expecting Meredith to sleep in late. We were up until the early hours again as she had such bad stomach pain from the dinner I made her. I was worried she was having some kind of allergic reaction, but after some 'hugs and honesty' as we've coined it, I found out that Meredith hasn't eaten a meal in over a month. Her daily calorie intake has floated somewhere around the equivalent of a meal and a half, made up of small snacks as and when she needed them at work. Her belly is simply not used to digesting a normal amount of food in one go. I'm going to try and make the meals smaller for her, so we're eating little and often. I'm worried the concept of eating that many times a day will stress her out but after reading about refeeding syndrome in textbooks- even seeing a few cases in the ER, and I don't want to put her fragile body under any strain.

I whip up some scrambled eggs and spinach on toast when I hear movement upstairs, signalling Meredith is awake. Unlike any other guest, the smell of cooking won't bring Meredith downstairs (if anything, it'll cause her to hide) so I make my move to retrieve her.

"Breakfast, Mer!"

Meredith is perched on the edge of her bed, shivering like crazy as she tries to gather the energy to find a jumper to put on.

"I'm so tired Addison."
She mumbles, as I bring her the clean washing off the radiator and wrap her shaky body in a warm fuzzy college sweater, which I think belonged to Derek at some point.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" I question, and Meredith reveals she isn't "that kind of tired." It takes me a moment to realise she's not just physically beat, but mentally too.

I don't have the heart to push her at breakfast. She just pushes the toast to the side and plays with the eggs on her plate extremely lethargically, not even trying to hide the fact she's not eating. Every now and then she takes a tentative bite, chewing extremely slowly, before staring into space for the next few minutes- so still that I can barely see her chest rise and fall with breath. This catatonic state is freaking me out, so I feed her the rest of the eggs myself, just to (selfishly) feel like I'm doing something to help, when in reality I have no idea what she needs.

The blonde slowly mumbles that she's going back upstairs and moves at a snails pace in the direction of her room. I give her the space. It's a common symptom of depression- the lethargy, the slow movements, the lack of energy making even walking and talking seem like a mammoth feat.

After a couple hours have passed though, I feel the need to get out of my own pyjamas, and I find Mer lightly sobbing in the bathroom. My bathroom. The one with the lock on the door. I instantly panic, assuming the worst, but at the sound of my voice, Meredith opens the door, having nothing to hide. She's curled next to the bath, naked but wrapped in a fluffy towel having attempted to take a shower, but only gotten so far. It's clear she's been sick too, so I question whether she made herself throw up.

"I didn't. I promise I didn't force myself. I just felt... upset.... and then... nauseous. Used all my energy getting to the bathroom in time."

"What's got you so upset?"

"I... I don't know... just... couldn't stop the tears... just felt... I don't know... empty?"

Wordlessly, I flush the toilet, relived that at least she's not purging, but terrified at the state her emotional turmoil has got her in.