trigger warning: discussions of purging, calorie counting, & body image
Consequently, I didn't get out of bed for two days.
I knew I was at risk for being sent to in-patient, at the nearby psych ward, but what's the point?
The Bulimia voice is too loud. Jeering, mocking, taunting. I'll never be rid of the constant mental gymnastics.
I didn't bother glancing over to know that it was Dr. Rivera.
"Let's go on a walk." She dangled a pair of my Adidas in front of me. "Not a request."
"I can't." At least it felt like I can't. My body was too tired, my head too foggy, the amount of effort it would take to crawl out of this bed would be too much.
And again, what's the fucking point?
"Find a way that you can," Dr. Rivera said. "I'll see you downstairs in five minutes."
As she left, my phone buzzed next to me. A FaceTime request from Ryan.
A phone call from Ryan.
A few moments of silence, and then a phone call from Caden.
Pushing myself up vertical, I cradled my head in my hands as I tried to clear through the mental fog.
A phone call from Caden.
"Take a hint," I said, as I answered the phone. "Not a good day."
"I was hoping hearing your voice would clear things up," Caden said. "But you sound like shit too."
"Again, not a good day."
"It's only 9:30 in the morning," he pointed out. "Do you want to talk about it?"
There was nothing to talk about. "Working on honesty, Dr. Rivera is waiting for me to do the same thing. And I can't do it twice."
"Gotcha," Caden said. "Ryan wants to stop by and drop off some stuff for you later today. Text him later, either a thumbs up or a thumbs down."
YOU ARE READING
The Art Of SeriesShort Story
This is a spin-off of several works I have completed or are currently underway. This series of short stories will follow a few of my characters through the rehabilitation process until they have their moment of clarity. Some issues dealt with in thi...