Trigger Warning: This depicts description of eating disorders. If this could be triggering to you in any way, please do not read.
Your POV
Am I allowed to eat breakfast this morning?
Is what I think to myself as I step on the scale. I sigh in frustration at the number.
Nope.
I get off the scale and hold back tears of frustration. I'm not losing enough weight. I'm not even supposed to be losing weight. I'm not supposed to be checking my weight. I can't stop.
I stare at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look terrible. The bags under my eyes are prominent, my skin looks pale and sickly, and I just look awful. I quickly brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair before walking swiftly out of the bathroom, not wanting to see my appearance again.
I walk to our bedroom and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater before going to the kitchen. Timmy stands, leaning against the counter, drinking orange juice and scrolling on his phone.
"Good morning," he says. He's dressed to leave for work - he's filming a new movie. Today is his fourth day.
"Hey," I say, sliding onto one of the barstools under the counter.
"I'm sorry I have to leave in like, five minutes. I wish we had more time together in the mornings," he says, setting his phone down.
"Oh it's fine. I could just wake up earlier." I can't wake up earlier, because then we'd be in the bathroom together and I couldn't check my weight. This is fucking with my mind. Everything ties back to my eating disorder.
His phone dings with a notification
"Oh... awesome! It's Jamie - he says we don't have to come until 10 today!" Timmy says, glancing at the text.
"Yay! We can do something fun," I say. It's Friday, and I only work Mondays through Thursdays.
"We could go for a walk in Central Park. That's always fun," he suggests. Perfect. It will be fun, and it will burn calories. I shake my head. I need to stop thinking like that, but I don't want to.
"Sounds good," I say.
"What do you want for breakfast? I was going to pick something up on the way to set, but now I kind of just want to cook," he says.
"Oh... I'm not super hungry," I say, remembering the number on the scale. He looks at me.
He knows about my eating disorder. A few weeks ago, I finally opened up to him about what had been going on. I've struggled with it for a long time, and he knew about my past issues, but it was hard to admit that it was still a battle. I've been seeing a dietitian and a therapist since then, which puts Timmy's mind at ease. But food is a very touchy subject - he doesn't know where to press me about it and where to leave it be.
"Y/N... you have to eat breakfast," he says softly. He stands upright, no longer leaning nonchalantly against the counter. I close my eyes with frustration. I do not want to have this conversation right now.
"Tim, really. I'm not hungry," I tell him, opening my eyes again. He stands still, staring right at me with desperation.
"Well... please? Just eat breakfast. It will be good. You have to nourish your body," he says. This is one of the most explicit times we've talked openly about this.
I'm going to lose this battle, and worry him by fighting.
"Okay. Fine. I'm just not hungry though, that's all," I say. He nods, but doesn't sway his opinion.
"How about eggs and toast?" he asks, opening the fridge.
"Yeah, sure."
While he makes the eggs and toast, we talk about his movie. But my mind is completely elsewhere. I am planning on how to throw away the food without him noticing. I could bury it in my napkin... or dump it in the trash when he's not looking?
When he puts the plate of food in front of me and sits on the barstool next to me, I freeze. I really don't want to eat this. I hesitate, but so that he won't worry, I take a reluctant bite. He's sitting right next to me - I can't just dump it into the trash can. He continues to talk about his movie while we eat, but all I can think about are the calories that I'm shoving mercilessly into my body. I try my best to smile and nod at what he's saying, but I can't focus on it at all. I'm breaking my rules. I shouldn't be eating breakfast, not based on that number.
When we finish, I quickly put my plate in the sink.
"I have to go to the bathroom, and then we can leave for our walk," I say hurriedly. I try not to allude to what I'm about to do.
"Okay," he smiles and nods.
I try to walk slowly to the bathroom so that it doesn't look like I'm rushing. I shut the door behind me and turn on the sink to hide any sound.
I crouch in front of the toilet and make myself gag before puking up the contents of my breakfast. I am disgusting for doing this. Disgusting. But I feel a sense of pride as I flush the toilet and stand up, my stomach now empty. I haven't done this in a while, and I forgot the feeling of control that comes right after it.
I turn and wash my hands in the already running water before rinsing my mouth out with mouthwash. I smile at myself in the mirror. Mission accomplished.
I confidently open the bathroom door, only to jump back startled. Timmy is standing right there.
His arms are folded over his chest, and he looks... angry? Scared? Confused? I can't tell.
"What did you just do?" he asks. My eyes widen and I freeze. I decide to play dumb.
"Um, nothing," I say. My voice comes out rushed and high-pitched.
"Don't lie to me. What did you just do?" he asks. He's not angry, but there's an edge to his voice.
"Gosh, Tim, I just peed. Can you stop the interrogations now?" I say with what I hope is a relaxed-looking smile. I'm sure it isn't. I try to walk past him but he stops me by placing one hand on my shoulder.
"Y/N. Did you just throw up?" he asks. He sounds scared now, and his eyes are searching mine for some sort of answer. I don't know what to say.
"I-I was just feeling nauseous. That's all," I lie. This time I actually do push past him, leaving him standing dumbfounded in front of the bathroom door.
I walk over to the front door and slip my shoes on. He finally walks down the hallway to me.
"Do we need to get you more help?" he asks.
"What do you mean?" I ask. My heart is pounding, and my voice squeaks.
"I mean... you just threw up your breakfast. Now you don't have any food inside of you. I don't... god, I don't want you to die, Y/N!" he says. He runs his fingers through his curls and strides over to the couch. He sits on the edge of it and places his elbows on his knees, his hands knotted in his hair.
I don't know what to do. I stand motionless by the door.
"I... I thought you were getting better with everything you've been doing, like, your therapy, and the dietitian and stuff. Is that not helping at all?" he asks. He's desperate for answers.
"I don't know," I answer very quietly. He looks up at me, throwing his hands down and rubbing them anxiously up and down his thighs. His eyes are red and glassy. I put that expression on his face.
"Do you need to go to a treatment place?" he asks. This stings. I feel it in my chest. He thinks I'm so insane that I need to be institutionalized.
"No. I don't need to go to a fucking treatment place," I answer bitterly.
"Well, what do you want me to do, Y/N! This isn't working for you! Do you think I don't worry that you're not eating while I'm gone all day? Do you think I'm not noticing how you only take little portions of vegetables for dinner? I can't just watch you do this to yourself!" He buries his face in his hands and starts shaking with sobs, unable to contain himself anymore.
I don't want to stop. I don't even know if I can. But I would try for him. I don't want to be the one to make him feel like this. It breaks my heart.
I slowly walk over to him and sit next to him, staring at my feet.
"Fine," I say quietly. I'll look into it to make him feel better, and if I do end up going, I won't let them change me.
He pulls his head away from his hands.
"You'll go somewhere?" he asks.
"Yes. Let's just... look into it first?" I ask. His green eyes pierce mine, they are red with tears.
"Thank you," he sighs with relief and wraps his arms around me. "I can't watch you do this to yourself. I just can't."
I nod into his shoulder, and he holds me tightly. Tighter than I've ever been held.
"I can't lose you," he whispers into my hair. "I can't lose you."