Love Fast: A Work of Fiction (under construction)

I used to think that everyone loved me. I used to dance in a fairytale where we lived music, and food was always pure. I used to live. There was a time when I loved myself, and I loved the world, and I loved life; I loved to dance. I used to love, and I loved loving, and dancing, and feeling, and eating next to my sister on Thanksgiving. But that was so long ago. I once sat in my empty dorm, on the chair my sister gave me, and tried to starve away all the memories of what I used to do. It wasn’t long before my parents found me; now I sleep in a hospital bed and think about my sister.

I didn’t want to come to this stupid hospital, but my parents threatened to stop paying for college if I refused. Unfortunately enough for them, I didn’t care; I wanted to drop out of life anyway. My parents weren’t willing to let their last daughter rot to death, so they took me to court and took my rights away. I’ve never genuinely hated anyone before; I almost lost myself when I realized that I hated them for saving me, and I hated myself for hating them.

I hate this place. Everywhere I go is via wheelchair because I’m “severely medically compromised,” but that’s just one of the many categories Dr. Katzov put me in. Everyday I’m ushered in a different wheel chair to see my therapist, then she inaccurately analyzes me, and I pretend to agree with her. I met her about three weeks ago on my third day here. She came to my hospital room because I was too “medically compromised” to even leave my bed. She knocked timidly on the door and shot me a nervous grin. “Hi, Kristen?” she said. I couldn’t say anything. All I could do was give her half-a-nod to clarify that she was looking for me. I just stared at her, baffled that this girl of about four-foot-seven—even with four-inch heels—was going to help me get out of here, or as Katzov would say “on the road to recovery.”

She came in and sat down—on the same dumb chair that every room had—and went on to discuss with me all of the hospital clichés: “it’s not about the food” and my “symptoms,” “the treatment plan,” and my personal favorite, “the road to recovery.” The more she talked, the more her tense smile grew unbearably annoying. Even still I couldn’t help but pity her. She seemed so afraid of me, so I pretended to ignore her desperate attempt at talking to me, rather than the tube in my nose. I probably deserved it though. She knew what I was thinking when she tiptoed through that door. It was all over my face.

I was fifteen the first time I was hospitalized. Since then I’ve been in and out of seven different treatment centers, countless times. Each time I resolved that it would be my last time, and I would finally be more honest. Instead I always spent most of my time focusing on how much I gained and wishing I could talk, really talk to somebody. I was starved of a real human connection. I wanted a friend almost as bad as I wanted to be thin. Even still, I wish I could just say all the things I tried to waste away. I wish I could tell my therapist she doesn’t know me. I wish I could slap her the next time she says the word “control.”

I remember being told in my 8th grade health class that anorexia is “about control.” True: anorexia is about wanting control and needing it. It’s about losing control to find it. But it’s also about fear. And it’s about anger, and beauty, and perfection, and love, and lust and secrets. It’s about guilt; it’s about my sister. But what does it mean? It means more than slow motion suicide. It’s my best friend; it’s trying to kill me. It’s a language; it’s trying to say something that no one can understand.

I stopped eating when I was twelve because I wanted to be like my sister. She was everything perfect in the world, but she died because she couldn’t see that. Everyday I have to wake up and remember she’s dead, but I’m still alive. And now I have to live, and keep living everyday without her. There are still nights when I have a sister in my dreams, and I go back to my fairytale that used to be real. But then the nights come when she dies again and I wake up to my face smothered in tears and my heart crashing into my chest, and the sound of my voice screaming her name.

Anna. She was seventeen when she died. And every time I’ve been discharged from a hospital, I go right back to my old ways, just to think about her a tad less, but I’ve always ended up back here—or some other facility—where they make me think about her all day long. And I’m too ashamed to talk about her. I hate hospitals. I just want to get out of here and be numb. Still, even when I’m numb I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop thinking about the day she died. I can’t stop hating myself. I can’t stop wishing I could go back and save her. God, I wish I could go back and save her.

That morning, mom woke us up and gave each of us breakfast in bed: a cup of tea, three apple slices, and a tablespoon of peanut butter. The way we looked at our plates you would think our mother was making us eat a live fish. “Come on, eat,” she said, “You’ll need your strength today.” I held my breath as she waved the peanut butter under my nose, careful not to somehow inhale any calories. Anna looked at the two plates and smiled. “Thanks mom,” she said and had her apple slices and tea. I was surprised to see her eat the peanut butter too. Any other day I would have stopped her, and she would take a deep breath—exhaling her hunger and inhaling her self-control—but that day she looked so pale and thin. We both knew she needed it. And she needed it more than I did. “I’m not hungry,” I said. My mom begged me to have a glass of milk at least. I took the tea out of her hand and took a sip.
“I’m not thirsty anymore”
“Kristen please, just a glass of milk?”
“Mom we’re gonna be late.” I paused to look at her. She looked so sad, so I finally gave in. “Fine. One glass of milk.”
I drank the glass of chocolate milk. Then I threw up in the shower. Everything was so easy then.

When I got out of the shower Anna pulled me aside and casually asked if I got rid of the chocolate milk. “How did you know?” I asked. She laughed at me—the way she did the time I was in tears, asking her if I was going to die from the chickenpox. “Just relax,” she always said. She knew everything at the right time. Now that I’m older than she ever was, those two words say everything. She always knew what to say; she knew too much for seventeen.

I was putting my hair back for the eighth time in a row when I heard Anna yell, “Krissy let’s go! We’re gonna be late!” I figured it would waste time to yell back, so I promised silently to myself that I would only redo my hair once more—no matter what. I was so weak; I nearly collapsed running down the stairs and to the car. “Krissy what took you so long? You know I have a solo.” I remained silent, thinking to myself how much time I wasted with the chocolate milk. Then she laughed. “Your hair is a mess. How many times did you do it, like seven?”
“Nine,” I said.
“Nine? I haven’t done my hair that many times since the eighth grade.
Remember? That time Brad came?”
I laughed. “Oh yeah. I can’t believe you ever liked him.” I took my hair out to try again. Then I scolded myself for breaking my promise.
“Krissy, I was joking. Your hair is fine. What are you freaking out about?”
I smiled and said, “Nothing. I hate chocolate milk.”
“Don’t we all,” she said.
She turned up the music to drown out the silence. She hated loud music in the morning, but she just wanted me to relax.

I was much more relaxed once we got to the studio and started to dance. But after two hours of dancing on pure adrenaline, I could feel my body breaking down. Right before the sixth re-run of her solo, Anna looked at me, and her eyes asked me if I was okay. I took a moment to look around the room, full of girls just like me—pale and thin and afraid. Then I closed my eyes to breathe. It was the only break I allowed myself to take. It was the break my sister never took; my selfishness saved my life.

We were so hungry on the way home, so we took our weekly trip to reward ourselves with a feast at McDonald’s, only to throw it back minutes later. We got back in the car, and she started looking for her car keys. Then she paused to look out the window. There was nothing there but the McDonald’s that I desperately wanted to get away from, before we did it again. “You know,” she said, “Danielle died from this shit last year.”
“What? Driving cars?”
“No, all that stuff we learned in school about girls like us. It killed her.”
“No,” I said, “she was in that car accident. Remember?”
“She was the only one that died. I’m telling you this shit killed her. I know she was still doing it after she stopped dancing. And what happens when we stop dancing? Normal girls don’t do this stuff.”
“We’re better than them, Anna. We’re pure.”
“Yeah,” she said, “Pure.”
I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or not until I heard her laugh. “I guess I’d rather die pure than a fat cow,” she said.

When we got home that night, I was so gone I could barely take off my shoes. But Anna just kept going as if she didn’t feel a thing. We told our parents we ate dinner already. Mom was skeptical, but Dad told her to leave us alone; we had a big show the next day. They left us alone to do our bedtime routine. I stepped on the scale to find that I had lost a pound since the day before. Anna still weighed ninety-three. At that moment, her world ended. Her hard work didn’t matter anymore. Everything she had ever done burned to dust because she taught me everything I knew, and I did better than her. “Well I guess you don’t need me anymore!” she yelled. Fights like these were rare. Normally we fought about which one of us Mom likes better, or who’s smarter, but never about this. “Don’t you have anything to say? You never do! You never think about anyone but yourself! I can’t believe this shit!”
“Anna, calm down.”
“Fuck you Krissy! I don’t want to see your stupid face anymore!”
“Are you kidding me? How was I supposed to know this would happen?”
“You should have stopped me at breakfast Krissy!”
“You needed it!”
“Yeah, you were sabotaging me. You’re a fucking backstabber.”
“Whatever. I can’t deal with you right now. I have a show tomorrow.”
“All you ever think about is dance!”
“That’s all I am!” I was so frustrated and hurt and confused. All I could do was keep pulling my hair and yell, “Just go to bed!”
We didn’t sleep in my bed that night, like we did before every show. Anna stomped to her room, the maddest I had ever seen her, and I was horrified.

My anger and hunger pains left me staring at my clock all night. And then came the sound that still haunts me daily. The sound that still has the power to instantaneously control my every move when it rings in my nightmares, daydreams, and journal entries. The sound the hospital makes at mealtime. It was the sound of weight gain. It was the sound of bad news.

Mom knew we had a fight, but she was utterly clueless, so she left us alone. Years later, she told me she was getting her nightly “two-A.M. snack” when she decided to check on us. She came to Anna’s room first. She crept through the door—careful as not to wake anyone—and walked over to her bed. She stood there, smiling at her sleeping daughter. She pushed her hair back, and bent down to kiss her forehead. In an instant, her skin turned into dry-ice, and she nervously pulled away. She tried to wake her. “Anna,” she whispered, “Anna do you need an extra blanket? Anna…” Anna didn’t respond. She didn’t move, she didn’t speak, and she didn’t breathe. My mom, getting more worried, took her pulse everywhere she could find, but there was nothing but the chill of her skin. And then came that sound. My mom let out the most neurotic scream I’ve ever heard in my life.

That night I learned what fear sounds like when it’s blended with guilt, and sorrow, and love, and anger and trauma. I jumped up from my bed—expecting orders to kill another mouse—and ran to Anna’s room, where I found my dead sister on her bed, and my mother desperately longing to trade with her. I’ve never asked to be told the story, so I don’t know exactly what happened the rest of that night or the next day. All I remember is the sound ringing in my head. The sound kept me from reality. But it was so real.

My sister died of a heart attack when she was seventeen. My sister who never took breaks, or told herself to relax, or believed she was ever good enough. My sister who had the power to freeze time after her death; four years later I’m nineteen, and I still worship her seventeen-year-old self. My sister whom I want so much more than I want to be thin. My sister never graduated high school. My sister was beyond high school in too many ways.

We were supposed to live our lives together. We were supposed to travel the world as dancers; we were supposed to live in a fairytale. Now I live in hospital beds, and therapy sessions, and groups--with the same sick girls from dance class. I don’t tell anyone about her. I know it’s my fault. I should have tried harder. I should have told her to relax more. She’s gone forever. I just want to disappear. I don’t want anyone to love me. I want to tell someone, but I know I never will. Instead I’ll just finish the remainder of my life tainted by guilt.