Une Fleure Fanée

Week 8 Part 1 (Sunday)

     "Lilly, you have to drink," Sarah sternly says, noticing that I haven't taken a sip in a while.

     "My appetite isn't the greatest. Sorry," I reply, hanging my head down in disappointment.

     Sarah quickly backtracks and hastily remarks, "No, no, no. It's okay. I'm just concerned."

     I chuckle and nonchalantly say back, "No, it's fine. I'm used to people dictating my diet."

     Back when I was in bulimia recovery, I could only eat at certain times, even at home. I never understood why. I still don't understand. My problem was throwing up my meals, not eating them. Maybe it was the binging.

     Sarah's face goes pale and she hugs me really tight. I give her a pat on the shoulder and return my focus to the movie. I don't like it when people take pity on me. My past eating disorder doesn't define me, and neither does this one, even though this one fully consumes me.

     You're nothing without me, Lilliana. You're nothing anyway. The movie is at least temporarily a distraction from the hopelessness I'm feeling. I don't find it particularly amusing, just a simple haters-to-lovers movie filled with tax and a boring dude breaking away from the autonomy of life, but it's good enough.

     We finally make it back to the ALDC and I'm so tired. I was awake for fifteen hours, and even though I got twelve hours of sleep, I've missed hours and hours of sleep over the rest of the past week. I want to go back to sleep. But I have to hold off falling asleep again until I get back to the apartment.

     I carpool with Pressley. I don't know if she's been throwing up more. She didn't seem to throw up her pizza a couple of days ago, or the breakfast and lunch that everybody had managed to stomach for competition day. But I really can't rule out that she won't do it again.

     Pressley is beautiful. She shouldn't have to do this. You are not, Lilliana. You're disgusting and fat and you should throw up. I only throw up if I eat over my calorie count or I'm sick. I can't do that. I can't believe I drank an entire pink drink. It's only 110 calories. I snap my hair tie on my wrist a couple of times, but it doesn't help. Of course, it doesn't help.

     I'm really distant on the car ride. I don't want anything to slip and I don't want to talk to anyone. Whenever Pressley says something, I just respond with a vague answer like, "Cool." The good thing is, Pressley doesn't want to talk either! It's a very quiet car ride. It can get quiet with two traumatized kids.

     I don't plan on doing anything today. We're all so tired. I hope Mom won't order takeout because that's fast food. I can't eat it. It's too scary. I'm so overwhelmed and depressed and just... crazy. Maybe drawing will help. I enjoy drawing.

     As I grab a piece of paper, a sharp sting goes through my fingertip. Great, a papercut. But suddenly, I notice the depression and all the negative feelings float away from my brain. All because of a papercut. Did I just find a new coping mechanism?

     As I see the small amount of blood forming on my fingertip, I quickly rush to the bathroom to get a JoJo Siwa band-aid. The innocent lavender bandage over something that just unlocked a new coping system.

     I can just cut myself with paper when I need to. Mom would notice if the scissors or a knife go missing from the kitchen or the junk pile. A razor. Dad has cut himself on a razor when he shaves his beard. I search through the medicine cabinet, finally finding a razor. Mom won't notice if one razor out of a 24-pack is missing. I slip it into my sleeve and go back to my bedroom.

     Now to find a place to hide it. I can't just hide it in my nightstand. What if I need to cope during one of the competitions? My suitcase won't work. It would be too suspicious if I went to grab my suitcase every time I was bad. My phone case.