It's been 4 days since The Incident.
4 long, awkward, stressful days.
I haven't cut. I'm relieved about that, I haven't really felt the urge.
But I haven't really eaten either. And that's a problem.
I've been wearing extra layers under my uniform to school the last couple of weeks so that they wouldn't notice, I mean I didn't think they'd see a difference, I thought I might have actually put on weight, last time I looked in the mirror.
Anyway, they noticed, and I'm in shit again.
Deep shit. I mean, obviously they haven't seen me naked and I wear a lot of clothes but they insist I've lost too much weight.
I've never really worried about my weight before, I've always been slim and fit because I do a lot of athletics, I'm the captain of my relay team and we train three or four times a week. These days I'm not so sure.
So that's how I got to where I am right now.
It's half 4, and I'm supposed to be following this eating plan that Dave made out for me. If I don't follow it exactly for the first week, I have to go see Nick Kurian. Nick's a doctor that used to work in Dave's clinic but now he specialises in this treatment unit for teenagers with eating disorders and mental illnesses and stuff. A few months back, the first time I self harmed, I had to spend a week as an inpatient, and I've had sessions every week since with Kester, who works with Nick too. It's ages since I've been there and I'm in no hurry to go back.
'We've been here 10 minutes and you haven't touched your food,' Dave leans back against the marble countertop opposite me with his arms folded. He's dressed for work in a smart striped shirt and black suit pants, his stubbly face looking at me expectantly.
'I have' I sigh, 'I just don't want the bread, I'm not even hungry' I shrug. My stomach groans.
Dave pulls out a chair and sits beside me. 'Come on, you can do this, think about your running, you need fuel, and you have a competition on Saturday,' his voice is gentle.
A tiny voice in my head is telling me that he's right, that I'm in control here, that I should no better than this stupid carry on.
But there's another voice in my head saying that I'm fat and I shouldn't give in. That if I do this, they'll leave me alone.
And that voice is much, much louder.
I finish the soup and manage half a slice of brown bread, deciding I can make up for it later at training.
'Can you still give me a lift to the meeting?' I ask.
'Yeah, course, half 5, yeah?'
'Yep, are my skins washed?'
'They're in your kit bag'
'Thanks, I'll just get changed here, to save time' I bluff, grabbing my kit bag and heading up to my room.
I hop out of my skinny jeans and baggy jumper and pull on my skins leggings. They're not quite as skin tight as they used to be, and even with a long sleeve top under my team bomber jacket, its loose around my shoulders and my collar bone is visible where it's not zipped up fully.
I tie my wavy brunnette hair back in a loose ponytail and it still reaches way past my shoulders
I grab my runners from inside the hall door and shout to Dave that i'll wait in the car, before he gets a chance to comment.
As I walk down the slope to the track, I can see my team standing around chatting waiting for the coaches to do the register.
I'm glad to be here where nobody yet knows how fucked up my life has gotten and for once I plan to revel in the glory of being the best.