Before I Go

Chapter 42- You Need To Eat

It's a bit ironic how everything in your life can seem so unbelievably good in a given moment, and then minutes later, everything seems... so incredibly bad. I know that nothing truly lasts forever; I just wish those good moments could last a bit longer or at least balance out more evenly with the bad ones. Life is all about perspective--if you think it's good, then it's good. But if you think it's bad, then... Well, you get the picture.

Unfortunately for me, my overthinking, anxiety-ridden brain has me almost constantly thinking that it's the worst kind of bad. There's this heavy, looming presence that turns practically everything into something negative, even when the good things outnumber the not-so-good things. If I'm wholly honest, I absolutely hate it with every fiber of my being, so much so that it actually physically hurts sometimes. Even with all the good moments I've been having lately, my anxiety has been unmanageable, uncontrollably taking over every single aspect of my life.

It's like my brain is desperately trying to tell me something is terribly wrong.

"Are you okay, honey?" my mother asks, her worried gaze searching my face. "You've hardly touched your dinner," she adds, gesturing to the still-filled plate of food sitting before me on the table.

As I disinterestedly move my peas around on the plate with my fork, I mumble in response, "Yeah. I guess I'm just not that hungry right now."

"Morgan, is everything alright with you lately? I've noticed that you've barely eaten dinner all week, and I have no idea whether you're getting any food into yourself while I'm not around. Do you even eat at school? You need to eat," my dad says.

My mom looks at my dad with a strange expression I can't really identify, and I'm momentarily stunned by his unusual rambling. He doesn't typically voice his concerns in such a way; it's a bit of an unsettling change, if I'm honest. I nod slowly, taking a bite of my food to humor him, even though the mere thought of eating has my stomach doing nauseating somersaults. I haven't seen my father angry in a while, and I certainly don't want to anytime soon. Definitely not right now. "I'm fine, Dad," I reply, forcing myself to gulp down another forkful of the dinner my mom so lovingly prepared for our family.

Dad looks me over for a few seconds before responding, probably trying to find the best way to get to the bottom of whatever he thinks is the problem here. While he does so, I do absolutely nothing to help him out, pretending to the best of my ability that the food before me isn't making me feel sick to my stomach. "Okay, good," he finally says, returning his eyes to his own plate and leaving me feeling instantly relieved at the small reprieve from his burning gaze. "I am quite concerned, though," he adds, causing my breath to catch in my throat. "I expect you to start eating more, Morgan; you're going to get sick if you don't."

With a short nod of understanding, I easily lie, "Okay, I'll do better." I don't even feel guilty as the untrue words leave my lips, knowing that no matter what I actually intend to do, this singular statement is the only thing that can get my dad off my back right now. I don't have the mental energy to deal with a lecture or to confess that I've actually been intentionally starving myself lately. No, my mind is far too busy trying to make sense of this mess I call life to add anything else to its priority list. As much as I don't usually like to take the easy way out, I feel it's entirely necessary right now. My parents don't need to know what's going on with me while I'm still trying to figure it out myself; that would only make things more stressful, right?

The rest of dinner passes slowly, and I try my hardest to consume enough of my food to keep my parents from becoming overly suspicious. However, as soon as I'm officially excused from the table, I bolt upstairs to relieve myself of everything I've just eaten. My eyes fill with tears as I empty the meager contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl, and I'm suddenly flooded with overwhelming hatred for myself.

Why can't I just be normal...?

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I lean my back against the wall in my usual self-pitying spot. Allowing the coolness of the tiles and the familiarity of the precise location to soothe me, even if only slightly, I let the dam burst, and the water pours down my face.

There's this saying... Something about how things always get worse before they get better? I don't really know the exact wording. However, I grasp desperately at the idea that somehow, someday, everything will actually be better... That I won't be like this forever. That at some point in my life, there will come a time when everything is just... Okay.

Wouldn't that just be something?

What I wouldn't give to just wake up one morning and feel okay. I wouldn't go as far as to ask for unbridled happiness or even contentment; just simply being okay would be enough to satisfy me.

A deep sigh leaves my lips as I unsuccessfully try to shove aside the realization that that probably isn't in the cards for me; fate likely has a much different, much less appealing plan for Morgan Feldman.

And, regardless of what that plan might be, it still doesn't change my plan--I'll still be gone by the end of the school year.

As nice as it would be to fill my remaining days with joy and all things positive, I understand it's a lot to ask for. I suppose it shouldn't really matter, then, right? My days are numbered anyway, my time limited... therefore, the suffering will soon be ending, anyway.

Right?

I just need to finish off that stupid list, and then... I'll finally be free.