Page 1 of Toxic Wishes

1

Abigail

“Where the Words leave off, music begins”-Heinrich Heine

The nurse comes in to check my weight for what feels like the tenth time today already.

“Did you eat all your food?” I look over at my plate of food that’s barely touched, then back at the nurse with a raised eyebrow. “If you guys want me to gain weight, can’t you bring me a pizza or something worth eating?” I ask.

“Has your mom not visited you yet? You're welcome to eat outside food. We can’t order it or bring it to you personally.”

I shift my gaze to the white cement floor. “She said she would be back in an hour.” That was three hours ago.

“Okay, c’mon on.” the nurse says.

I throw the heavy white blankets off me. I’ve been in here for a week now, and I am so ready to go home, but they had to get my heart stabilized and my body weight up before even considering letting me go.

The nurse makes me step on the scale and takes my weight.

Eighty-one pounds.

“Okay, you can use the bathroom now.”

“Thank you so much, your Majesty,” I say in a snooty-sarcastic tone. I instantly feel guilty for being rude, but I’m tired of being treated like some psychotic patient who has to be monitored every hour. I can’t even take hot showers since they cause you to lose weight, which makes no sense to me, but doctors' orders. The nurses and psychologists were making me out to be part of an intervention project. I’m no different than people who were prescribed drugs and got addicted. I didn’t plan to get this way; I simply wanted to lose weight, so I cut out all processed meats, bread, white rice, sugar, and anything that came in a package or can. My diet consisted of cottage cheese and apple sauce for breakfast, grapes and a salad for lunch, and for dinner, usually, a hot dog with broccoli or a type of protein with some kind of vegetable, and popcorn was the only snack I could have before bed. And I did it all over again.

It was six months before my mom noticed I looked like a skeleton, not that I was trying to; I didn’t even notice I looked this skinny. Not until a friend at school mentioned it to me and one of the teachers said something to me, full of concern. My mom or dad didn’t say one word to me about my weight, not until now, of course. I wouldn't consider losing weight if it weren’t for my dad.

Months ago, when I cut up a banana and put a spoonful of ice cream on it, he asked if I should eat it. You better start watching what you eat at night, or else you’ll have more complexes than you already have about your looks. His words rang in my ears like a vibrating drum. I told my mom about it, but she said I was overreacting.

Her response didn’t surprise me since I was invisible to my parents, so losing weight wouldn’t make much of a difference. I might as well be considered dead.

I plop back on the bed, grateful I don't have an IV stuffed down my nose anymore. They had to feed me Ensure, a nutritional protein drink, as soon as I arrived. I was so malnourished I had to be fed slowly, non-stop, over twenty-four hours, for four days.

Five days ago, when my mom brought me in, she tricked me. I’m not going to lie; I put up a fight when she tried to get me to go inside the hospital. I was so scared when I realized what was happening. Terrified really, I didn't mean to lose this much weight, but I got used to the routine and liked it. I liked the control I had over my life since I never had any. I told the doctors I took it too far, and I'm ready to gain weight, but truth be told, I just wanted to get out of here, and I am willing to say or do anything if it gets me out of this glorified prison.

“I brought a chocolate muffin,” my mom says as she opens the door just as the nurse is about to leave. “Oh, ma’am, she needs more nutrition than that.”

“Isn’t that what I'm paying you guys for? I thought you were giving her that protein drink.” She waves a hand in the air and holds up the muffin. “This is just for gaining weight. I mean, who doesn’t like chocolate muffins?” my mom says with a smile.

“Yes, but she’s not eating the food we bring her.” The nurse explains.

My mom looks over at me. “Really Abigail? I mean your father and I are paying a fortune for you to be here? You need to eat whatever they give you. Obviously, you don’t care about taste because I know cottage cheese and applesauce wasn’t that damn tasty.”

Her tone is cold and sharp. Piercing through my skin like daggers. I don’t say anything. I sit silently and let my stomach eat my insides, a feeling I’ve gotten too used to.

“She mentioned how a pizza sounded good.” the nurse said with a chipper tone.

“Ya, like that is any healthier.” My mom sneers.

“Ma’am,” the nurse moves closer, “food is a very delicate matter. I would encourage you to be more understanding regarding her eating habits. This is serious, not just some cry out for attention. This is a disorder.”

The nurse speaks in a whisper, but I can still hear her. My mom nods in agreement and then looks over at me.

Sighing she asks,“What kind of pizza do you want, Abigail?”

“Philly cheesesteak,” I respond quickly. If I'm going to gain weight, I might as well eat something worth the calories.

“Well, in the meantime, you can have this for dessert.” She places the muffin down on my table. “I’ll call the pizza in now so it will be ready.” My mom dials a number, puts the phone to her ear, and walks out the door.

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