The requirements are given to me slowly, last week. My weight must stay above 105, and I must be eating at least every other day. But what I hear is: "You can weigh 105.1, and fast half of the time."
The Doctor 1 tells my mom she wants at least six more sessions with me. The Doctor 1 tells my mom that I should continue treatment when we move. The Mother shakes her head and declines. The Mother says everything is over, she decides that everything is okay. The Mother controls, while the girlDog smiles and nods, blond curls and blue eyes and smiling. the girlDog does not speak, she is not trained to.
Dakota calls me crying at least every other day. I can't do anything but be silent and talk her through it. She moved a week and a half ago, two hours from where my new house is. Her life is tearing at the seams. I miss her, but I'm secretly glad I'm going to be near her for years now in just a couple months.
I tell her, in slow words, in dribbling-poison words that stain my lips red; internal bleeding red, gash red. I tell her about the eating/un-eating, how it happens over and over again and I can't get out. She says a lot of things, sad things, soft things. But all I really remember is 'It's sad you feel you need to do these things' and 'Promise me.'. I promise. I put on the silver heart she gave me last month, wear it around my neck like an amulet to ward off demons.
Dakota is my only really close icantellyoueverything friend. The Friend only wants to be around me when I'm happy.
I can't handle the supermarket. We went, and I don't know why I went. Everytime we do I cry. I know I cry everytime.
I decline so many things. Mom throws up her arms in the air. "I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to even bring her." Daughters are so much better when invisible.
At lunch I cry too. I cry over noodles in bowls, and dump the noodles in a baggie that goes in the trash. I stand in the bathroom and breathe myself through the close encounter.
347. -0.4 pound.
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