The rainbow dots of my vision started to swirl from the light I just stared into for far too long, blinking rapidly away at them as I concentrated on a new object to distract my mind. My parent's letter regarding my prolonged stay here at Blue Waters Rehab slowly started to rip in my iron tight fist of my right hand. My rapid breathing increased, bringing along shaking shoulders and a quivering stomach with it. My two front teeth bore down on my bottom lip so hard that the cold, metal taste of blood started to leak into my saliva. I tried everything I could to restrain myself from beating the shit out of everything around me.
My mind couldn't process the reality of my situation, it was refusing to comprehend with the facts. My parents were abandoning me here for eight more months until I am eighteen. The hurt in my chest was worse than any binge or hospital stay. It hurt more than the swollen glans of my throat or the burning callouses on my knuckles. All the words from my mother's hand written letter were tearing me apart from the inside out like a sickening disease that was slowly killing me.
Progress was sure to be slow with me, that I clearly understood. It's hard transitioning from a daily routine of nine years to a brand new way of living for the rest of my life, and all my mother has to say is she doesn't think my rehabilitation would be an acceptance in her home at this time? So it would be better to finish out the remaining eight months of my stay? Ten fucking months in this place was long enough. The anger that started in my thoughts eventually reached my nervous system, and I was now darting from my seat in Headmistress' office, down the First Hall's main staircase and out the front doors.
Pushing past the rest of the fuck-ups around me, I broke into a sprint towards the girl's dorm. Each hard slap of my shoe against the broken cobble stone only made the tears and cuts on my feet worse, each scab reopening, burned skin rubbing against more burned skin. That pain alone wasn't enough to suffice the malaise in my chest, heaving below a volcano of animosity that threatened to erupt any second. I felt physically ill as I started up the dorm stairs, through the empty commons of my floor and when I reached the pink and green, deteriorating bathroom there was no hope.
Before I could think over my actions, I was on my knees before the toilet with my fingers wrist-deep in my throat. Just like that, I felt the gagging of emotion pour out into a physical form of disgorge into the pink latrine. My eyes squeezed shut as tears fell over the ducts that tried so hard to refrain them from spilling, my knuckles white as I gripped the edge of the facility. I pressed my knees into the tiled floor the more abhor I became with myself, hoping for some form of sense to kick in and stop me from proceeding. As soon as I caught a whiff of that acid reflux burning in my flared nostrils, I was at it again.
The more disgusted I became with myself, the more I purged. After a while, my throat went numb and I couldn't feel myself breathing any longer. I pushed off the toilet seat and onto my butt, leaning against the tiled wall. A fine line of sweat broke out along my hairline, the substance a cool reminder of the deathly work out I gave my body over a selfish deed. Did I feel any better? No. Actually, I just felt shittier.
There used to be a time when I would depend on this stupid shit to make me become numb and just forget everything. A time when I was back home in France and my mother was purging as well while my father spent many hours in his office making deals. A time that I didn't know what I was doing was wrong because I was only looking up to mommy dearest.
Throwing up was never for losing weight or a dependency for when things got rough. It was something I thought I was supposed to do, and then when I realized the ecstasy it used to make me feel when I was down, I increased my vomiting to a dangerous degree. Now? Well shit, I just felt like a weak, underweight foreign girl with no home or family. I couldn't cry, couldn't be angry with anyone but myself. And maybe my mom.
“Chromelia?” Beatrice's voice rang outside the door I forgot to lock. I didn't respond when I knew she would say what I knew was coming anyways, “You're on two weeks of watch.” I heard her quick pads down the hall away from me. I finally closed my eyes and breathed. The sheer pain of torture was still lingering beneath my skin, but at least now I realized that throwing up wasn't making anything better. And, if it took me ten months to figure this ordeal out, then maybe staying eight more wouldn't hurt anyone.
