I step on the scale, shoes off, head high, heavy jeans and cotton t and silky bra and full tummy and all. I ate normally (what the hell is that?) before I came so my vitals would be good. I am drinking a bottle of water.
I step on the scale. -17.2 pounds since last time I was here. She doesn't bat an eye, just writes the number down, takes my height, and asks me to step off.
I exhale.
She asks me questions, asks me all the stuff a doctor should, schedules me three more appointments with specialists. I smile and bat my eyelashes through my lies. I nod. Yes, yes, everything is just fine. I am just fine.
She turns to my parents and smiles. "Well, obviously she's doing much better."
Obviously.
I need to go to a dermatologist for my scars, a cardiologist for my weakened heart, and to an ED specialist to give me a certificate of wellness. I have to go see my psychiatrist too. I don't like him. A year ago, he cracked open my ribs, pulled out all my ugly things, showed them to me. I didn't notice him open my brain with little white pills and long blue pills. I was too busy paying attention to his minionnurses he'd commanded to have stuff me full.
I dig my nails into my palm and smile. I am fine.
Hopefully 50-90 calories tomorrow. Lose that 0.8.
i won't let you say goodbye, and i'll be your reason why.
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