FicWad

“Guys don't get stuff like that, eating disorders are girl's illnesses. I couldn't have one.” I would argue with her conclusion until I was blue in the face. I refuse to practically lie to a medical professional and get diagnosed with something I most likely don't have.

“Eating disorders are certainly not a woman's disease. Self hatred and destruction know no age, sex, or social status.” My psychiatrist stated flatly, her eyes unblinking as they seemed to glare into the very pit of me being.

My psychiatrist's words rang in my head like the church bells of every service I'd miss going to this “treatment” center (treatment implies there is an issue.) I don't believe I've got a problem, but all this in and out of emergency care, all these feeding tubes pushed in and ripped out, I don't want to deal with that. So maybe I'll just be stuck in this facility until I'm 18 and no one can force me to do anything. I can sit at home and do what I want and no one can make me eat, no one can send me to the hospital, no one can lie and say I've got an issue. This isn't an issue. This is my happiness on the line.

I'm Gerard Way, average anxiety and depression riddled teenager that couldn't give half a fuck about the world that is outside my own. It sounds selfish, sure. You can say I'm selfish. Why not? I've got no reason to be concerned for others, my shit is the only shit I should have to deal with, and I don't even want to deal with it. They say to top off my clinical depression and general anxiety disorder, I have anorexia nervosa and body dysmorphic disorder. How is it even possible for me to only see one body incorrectly, and that body is mine? I know what I see and what I feel. I have fat legs and a chubby gut and enough chins to grow a couple beards. I can pinch all my fat, I can hold it between my fingertips. It's impossible to say it's not there. And there isn't anything harmful about my eating habits, and if there was it's not hurting anyone but me so it doesn't matter.

With my arms crossed tight against my chest, the car my mother drove threw me back and forth and side to side, and this was the only time I wasn’t mad at myself completely. I could feel my ribs and hips jut out against my arms. I know I had too much fat to see them, but I felt the most minute pride when my bones poked me in every day situations. It’s a little weird, sometimes I’m pretty sure I can feel my gut, intestines, and other miscellaneous organs of mine. That’s more creepy than protruding bones.

I glanced at the back of my little brother Mikey's head. He had been going on for half an hour about all the stuff I missed by dropping out of school and all the stuff I'd miss because I had to come here. He's made this a game of infinity(and one) questions. He wouldn't shut up until his lungs started to bleed and his voice box gave out.

“What TV shows do you like, Geegee? I'll DVR them all for you. Don't you like Mythbusters?” He asked, peeking over his shoulder at me, his face scrunched up so he could see out of the glasses that were too big for his narrow face and slid down his nose almost constantly.

“I don't like television.”

“Do'ya like any types of TV? Crime drama, reality, documentaries, comedies, survival shows? What?”

“Not really.”

“What if I found a show about art and stuff? Would you want me to DVR that?”

I rolled my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh, and shaking my head I replied, “Mikey, I don't care. DVR whatever you want.”

“Can we watch it together when you get out? I wont even look up spoilers for the stuff I DVR, I promise.”

What are the perks of having a thirteen year old brother, you ask? There are none. He's in the state between actually being a teenager and still being a little kid. He's got all this weird energy and just likes to move and do random shit. He thinks Youtube let's players are the shit and he hangs out on shitty meme websites, and all this internet vocabulary is half of his vernacular in regular face to face conversation. He's just like every other fresh faced eighth grader on the planet.

“I guess we can, I don't know.” I shrugged.

“That sounds like a cute idea.” My mother chimed in. “You two could watch nice TV shows like you watched movies when you were both little.”

“See, mom thinks it's a good idea.”

Mom thinks everything I don't want to do is a good idea. “Well it depends I gue-” I began before I was cut off.

“What about video games?”

“You are asking me questions like we live on completely different planets and you have only known me for like twenty minutes.”

“You're always like, in your room, doing nothing. You get snippy when I try and talk to you.”

“I'm not doing nothing.” I argue.

“What are you doing then?”

“I draw and I have a blog and shit.”

“Yeah because that's totally congruent to having a life and making friends.”

“I believe you mean conducive, and if you're honestly criticizing my isolation right now when the only socializing you do is with a bunch of 10 year old faggots on Minecraft servers, I'm going to have to teach you the meaning of hypocrisy.”

“Language, Gerard.” My mother scolded. “Be nice to your brother. He only wants to be around you.”

“Yeah.” Mikey agreed, nodding and peeking at me again.

“Yeah anyway.” I mocked, rolling my eyes and allowing my voice to raise a few octaves for emphasis.

After that, the rest of the ride was silent.

I gripped my bags tightly as the vehicle pulled into the drive of the center. The large sign in the patch of grass beside the entrance read Adolescent Eating Disturbance Recovery. Sure, I starve myself, compulsively count calories, measure/weigh myself everything I take in, but that’s more OCD than anything one would assume. Sure, I fear gaining weight but who the fuck wants to gain weight. Yes, I believe every doctor and scale I’ve ever used is wrong in saying I’m only 103 pounds and I fall into the category of emaciated. I can’t see it so someone is lying to me, and once again, how exactly can my eyes only see me the wrong way.

Before the car could even pull to a complete stop I pushed my door open and started out and toward the entrance.

"Gerard what the freak?!" My little brother shouted from the passenger seat, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. Thank god he had those huge glasses to stop them in case they did. "Mom didn’t even stop!"

"So the fuck what?" I snapped.

"Don’t talk to your brother like that, and don’t you dare pull a stunt like that ever again, young man!" My mother shouted.

"Beg my fucking pardon. Oh shit, sorry. Shit, fucking hell I have the mouth of a sailor I’m so damn sorry." I said, my mocking skills getting even more of a work out than they previously had. I’ve got seven months before I'm seventeen, I really don’t understand why I can’t say fuck in conversation with my brother.

To my snide remarks, she had no rebuttal but a fiery glare. I could see a glimmer of disappointment in my brother’s face but I honestly don’t understand why he would be disappointed. At the same time, who ever said I was good at reading emotions. And why does it matter? I won’t ever have to look at his face ever again with any luck. My mother shook her head as a young woman in scrubs came out of the building, the wind sweeping her ponytail away from her shoulder and blowing it around behind her.

"May I have your name?" She asked.

"Gerard Way." I answered.

"Alright Gerard, I’m going to need you to take a seat on the bunch right to your left." She said smoothly, like someone trying to communicate with a child.

"Which right to my left? Your right to my left or my right to my left? How many degrees do I turn after I’ve reached the right I am supposed to reach? Or do you mean right as in immediately to my left?"

She blinked once, twice, and three times before she pointed right to my left and I heard a sigh from my mother. "The bench I am pointing to currently." She said flatly.

I nodded and gave her a completely dishonest smile as I parked myself on my amorphous ass. She shook her head and proceeded to get on her walkie talkie and say I needed to be brought in on a stretcher. I was half tempted to grab the damn thing and tell them I was perfectly capable of walking on my own. When she took it away from her face, she looked back at me.

"Were you dizzy or faint at all upon standing?"

"I always am, I can walk perfectly fine." I shrugged.

"We don’t want you fainting and injuring your head or going into cardiac arrest, so I’ve got to get you off your feet and not moving."

"No, I’m not going in there like an idiot."

"You’ve got no choice."

"Bullshit I don’t." I said, and stood up right as a few men came out with a gurney. "I will walk in with my bag and my pride."

"Gerard would you stop being difficult? You’re physically ill." My mother called from the car.

"I am not fucking sick. I am fat, not sick. I am not fucking sick. Not sick, not sick, not sick!"

"Please calm down and cooperate." The woman in scrubs pleaded and placed a light hand on my arm.

I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. I have no reason to be here, I am not sick and even if I was I am too fat to be sent to recovery. I can’t choose to turn around now, I’ll just be forced back. Breaking rules will most likely only result in isolation. I don’t want to be forced to eat, I don’t want to be forced to gain weight, I don’t want to have to do any of this. I want to stay at home, at least. I’m used to that. At least I don’t have to eat there or eat in front of people. No one could call me crazy if I was in my room all day. I am not fucking ill, I just hate myself. I want to go home, I don't want to deal with this shit.

"I," I choked out. "I am not sick. I am not a sick person. I am just disgusting. I’m not mentally ill, I am repugnant and trying to fix it."

“Come on Gerard, you've got to let us help you. If you're not sick, you'll be out of here in no time, I promise.” She nodded, and in my bout of absolute weakness I nodded and allowed them to help me lie down on the gurney.

---XOX---

My medical evaluation lead to my immediate bed rest. My blood pressure, pulse, temperature and the fact that I'm dehydrated worried them to no end, so they had me wheeled into the room I will be inhabiting for an undetermined amount of time. They only allowed me to talk the short distance from the wheel chair to my bed, ensuring I got up as slow as possible. I'll admit I pitched a hell of a fit when they insisted jamming an IV in my arm. I fucking hate needles. After they got it in, I had them cover it up so I wouldn't have to look at it. They warned me I would have a roommate, as there are far more girls in this facility than boys and there was no sense in wasting space for two separate rooms when a lot of people needed attention. I suggested to them that they remove me from the facility because I don't have an issue, and this simply elicited a small chuckle and a “but you're not the professional.”

There was a briefing of the main rules, that are as follows:
1. No using behaviors
2. No exercise
3. Any measures taken to falsify weight gain (excessive fluid intake before weigh ins, sneaking heavy objects in mouth, hair, under finger nails, taped to feet, etc. before weigh ins) will be met with strict supervision of the patient proved to be doing so.
4. All meals must be eaten within an hour of them being served, and meals must be finished in that hour.
5. Hiding food will be met with strict supervision of the patient proved to be doing so.
6. No self destructive behaviors are to be used in this facility, related to your disorder or not (such as: burning, cutting, scratching, starving, purging, etc.)
7. You must attend all group therapies held after meals.
8. You must attend all individual therapy sessions.
9. Food refusal will be met with administration of a feeding tube.
10. Overhearing usage of behaviors must be reported to staff immediately

They said my roommate's name is Frank. They had a television in the room, and reaching over to change the channel was about the only moving I was permitted to do. I don't like television but I guess that'll be my only source of entertainment until my roommate gets back from wherever he is at. I glanced at the clock. 2:08 in the afternoon. The designated meal times were eight to nine am for breakfast, twelve to one pm for lunch, five to six pm for dinner, and that special occasion events (birthdays and holidays) would have a dessert meal that lasted from eight to nine pm. So that means my roommate was probably not in the cafeteria. He's probably got therapy.

I'm generally not excited to meet new people, but I'm rather anxious about meeting my roommate. It's not the bad type of anxious I get when I'm supposed to meet people my age, I dare say I'm a little excited. He looks very organized, all of his belongings were color coded and placed symmetrically. Every phrase and photograph on his bulletin board was placed as close to level as humanly possible, if not perfectly level which is very impressive. I wanted to get up and explore the room, and I had this strong urge to look through his things, but I understand people with disorders can be very unstable so he may just beat the shit out of me if he catches me.

About twenty minutes had passed and I had became completely engrossed in this show. It was a bunch of loud drunk tan people from all over the place that came to the Jersey Shore to party and get in fights. It was the worst kind of entertaining. I have a feeling this is a program can cure any case of low self esteem, but will send a person spiraling into madness if they spend too long viewing it. I guess you have to decide between insanity and self-hate. Personally I'd choose self-hate if this wasn't the only thing on the television that wasn't some little kid's educational bullshit.

Minute after painstaking minute, drip after god damn drip from that IV and I'm still in here alone with shitty television and no roommate to interrogate. I swayed my feet from side to side. I counted my toes three times even though I already knew how many I had. They said they were going to get me introduced to my room buddy before they got me into anything too serious for the day, which is nice and all, except for the fact they wont introduce me to him. I don't even know if he'll be here for long, who is to say he wont be here for a week or two before I'm in a room all by myself because he's all better and they can't trust me around females?

I tried a lot of things to cure my boredom, writing invisible profanity in my sheets with my finger, trying to poetically recite the lyrics to “Don't Drop That Thun Thun”, digging through my bags (and trying to be sneaky about it because I'm pretty sure that kind of movement is forbidden) to find a book of some description and only coming up with a dictionary to read. I got to askew and had to set it down and release a loud groan. I really didn't want to be here. No laptops, iPods, iPads, Kindles, or Nooks. What the hell am I supposed to do with myself? I'd rather simmer in isolation and immerse myself in Tumblr than be forced to bed rest without internet. Call me a loser, but it happens when you drop out of school, don't make friends, lose interest in family, and reduce yourself to being someone that hits post limit too often and has to have a second blog just so you can keep reblogging pictures of cute people in bands and gifs.

The very moment I thought I would have to drive toothpicks through my eyes to ease my boredom, the door to my room opened slowly and without sound. My attention was fixed at the door, hoping wholeheartedly that this was my bunk mate. My heart thudded in my chest, sending tingles of curiosity up my spine. A small frame slid through the crack in the door, gave a questioning glance at the TV, and then his head shot over to face me, his hazel eyes locked on mine.

That's when I realized no one ever says anything about hazel eyes. Blue eyes always shine brighter than the stars and put the shore's vibrant color to shame. Green eyes make the forest vegetation weep in envy, their color charged with the electricity of a thousand lightning bolts. But hazel, his hazel, people have failed to mention the magnificence of them. People fail to notice how they're reminiscent of a cup of coffee with the perfect amount of creamer that was just poured in. You have yet to disturb it with your spoon or the addition of sugar, and you watch the puffy clouds disperse through the drink. No one has made that connection. No one has made the connection between hazel eyes and the way a clear running stream looks, shiny and a light shade of brown under the clear running water. Nobody's mentioned the tranquil feeling, or the warmth in their color, and I really wish those things did his eyes justice.


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