Categories > Original > Drama
Warning: This story may be triggering to recovering eating disorder patients. Read at your own risk. There's also some language, so if you're bothered by that you may not want to read this.
"B, it's okay. You're going to be okay, I promise." I sat on the cold, off-white, tile bathroom floor in our three-star hotel room. Brendon sat next to me, holding his knees close to his chest and his head on his knees. I wanted to say something to make him smile; something funny; anything to take his mind off of what was going on right now.
I had caught him trying to puke again. By the time I had reached the bathroom, he was kneeling on the floor, his finger down his throat, but he had only gagged. I had pulled him away from the toilet and talked to him for a while to calm him down. Now, instead of being scared and shivering, he was angry and frustrated. He said that he was mad at me because I can't control his life like this and that he can make his own decisions... anything to justify his actions, even if he didn't believe what he was saying himself. He was also mad at himself because he said that he shouldn't have eaten earlier but he did and it was too late to do anything about it now because I had ruined everything.
I wanted to say that I knew he'd thank me eventually, but for what? He was right; I had ruined everything. I was the reason he was as sick as he was now. I had known before that something was wrong and I hadn't told anybody; I hadn't done anything; I'd barely even talked to Brendon himself about it. I can't help but feel that if I'd tried harder to get him help he wouldn't be where he was right now: in a bathroom with his ex in a hotel at three A.M. while his other bandmates tried to get some sleep, despite his crying and whimpering.
There were so many times before today when I'd been terrified for him, and I had ignored those signs like they didn't mean anything. Those memories stung like needles in my mind every time they came flooding back. I remembered those days like they were yesterday, and I was almost certain I wouldn't forget them anytime soon.
A few months before Brendon had really lost control, I had noticed he hadn't been eating very much. Of course, he'd been eating a lot more back then than he was eating now, but I'd gotten a little curious and a little worried and had asked him what was up.
"I just thought I should slim down a bit," He half-smiled.
"B, you don't need to lose any weight." I'd told him, and then had kind of forgotten about that incident until a month or so later.
Brendon had said that he wasn't feeling well, and I had asked him if he wanted to go to the doctor. He'd strongly objected, and I suggested he eat something and see if that made him feel better. He said no to that, too, and thought it'd be best if we just waited a few hours to see if he'd feel better later.
Those few hours went by and he still looked horrible. His face had no color left in it, he was sweating but he said he was still cold and demanded mountains of blankets, and his temperature kept going up. He still refused to eat anything so I told him I was taking him to the doctor. His brother, Jimmy, and one of his best friends, Sam had wanted to go with. Brendon insisted we take a few blankets in the car with us, because he was freezing. I felt really bad for him, and wanted desperately for him to feel better, so I drove a few miles over the speed limit on the way to the doctor's office.
Like at any doctor's office, one of the first things they do is get your height and weight. Since Brendon was in his twenties, we all knew he wouldn't grow and taller, and we didn't expect him to. What did surprise us, however, came right after. Brendon had lost almost twenty five pounds. If this had been done over a long period of time, like three or four or maybe even five months, and he hadn't been fairly skinny to begin with, this fact wouldn't have mattered much. Unfortunately, this had all happened in only about a month and a half--two months tops--and this had worried all of us, including the doctor.
While he sent Brendon to another room with his nurse, he talked to us about his worries. He had told us we couldn't know anything for sure yet, but that we should keep an eye out on Brendon and make sure that if he was losing weight he was doing so in a healthy, non-obsessive way. I already knew that what he was doing wasn't healthy. When I really thought about it, he'd lost way too much weight in not enough time and I'd noticed that lately, he'd been skipping meals more than he'd actually been eating.
I felt like so stupid for not noticing sooner. One of my closest friends had been doing something like this to himself for over a month--and this wasn't something you could cover up very easily--and I'd been to fucking stupid to even notice.
I hoped to God Brendon forgave me someday... but I wouldn't blame him if he didn't.
"B, it's okay. You're going to be okay, I promise." I sat on the cold, off-white, tile bathroom floor in our three-star hotel room. Brendon sat next to me, holding his knees close to his chest and his head on his knees. I wanted to say something to make him smile; something funny; anything to take his mind off of what was going on right now.
I had caught him trying to puke again. By the time I had reached the bathroom, he was kneeling on the floor, his finger down his throat, but he had only gagged. I had pulled him away from the toilet and talked to him for a while to calm him down. Now, instead of being scared and shivering, he was angry and frustrated. He said that he was mad at me because I can't control his life like this and that he can make his own decisions... anything to justify his actions, even if he didn't believe what he was saying himself. He was also mad at himself because he said that he shouldn't have eaten earlier but he did and it was too late to do anything about it now because I had ruined everything.
I wanted to say that I knew he'd thank me eventually, but for what? He was right; I had ruined everything. I was the reason he was as sick as he was now. I had known before that something was wrong and I hadn't told anybody; I hadn't done anything; I'd barely even talked to Brendon himself about it. I can't help but feel that if I'd tried harder to get him help he wouldn't be where he was right now: in a bathroom with his ex in a hotel at three A.M. while his other bandmates tried to get some sleep, despite his crying and whimpering.
There were so many times before today when I'd been terrified for him, and I had ignored those signs like they didn't mean anything. Those memories stung like needles in my mind every time they came flooding back. I remembered those days like they were yesterday, and I was almost certain I wouldn't forget them anytime soon.
A few months before Brendon had really lost control, I had noticed he hadn't been eating very much. Of course, he'd been eating a lot more back then than he was eating now, but I'd gotten a little curious and a little worried and had asked him what was up.
"I just thought I should slim down a bit," He half-smiled.
"B, you don't need to lose any weight." I'd told him, and then had kind of forgotten about that incident until a month or so later.
Brendon had said that he wasn't feeling well, and I had asked him if he wanted to go to the doctor. He'd strongly objected, and I suggested he eat something and see if that made him feel better. He said no to that, too, and thought it'd be best if we just waited a few hours to see if he'd feel better later.
Those few hours went by and he still looked horrible. His face had no color left in it, he was sweating but he said he was still cold and demanded mountains of blankets, and his temperature kept going up. He still refused to eat anything so I told him I was taking him to the doctor. His brother, Jimmy, and one of his best friends, Sam had wanted to go with. Brendon insisted we take a few blankets in the car with us, because he was freezing. I felt really bad for him, and wanted desperately for him to feel better, so I drove a few miles over the speed limit on the way to the doctor's office.
Like at any doctor's office, one of the first things they do is get your height and weight. Since Brendon was in his twenties, we all knew he wouldn't grow and taller, and we didn't expect him to. What did surprise us, however, came right after. Brendon had lost almost twenty five pounds. If this had been done over a long period of time, like three or four or maybe even five months, and he hadn't been fairly skinny to begin with, this fact wouldn't have mattered much. Unfortunately, this had all happened in only about a month and a half--two months tops--and this had worried all of us, including the doctor.
While he sent Brendon to another room with his nurse, he talked to us about his worries. He had told us we couldn't know anything for sure yet, but that we should keep an eye out on Brendon and make sure that if he was losing weight he was doing so in a healthy, non-obsessive way. I already knew that what he was doing wasn't healthy. When I really thought about it, he'd lost way too much weight in not enough time and I'd noticed that lately, he'd been skipping meals more than he'd actually been eating.
I felt like so stupid for not noticing sooner. One of my closest friends had been doing something like this to himself for over a month--and this wasn't something you could cover up very easily--and I'd been to fucking stupid to even notice.
I hoped to God Brendon forgave me someday... but I wouldn't blame him if he didn't.
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