disgust

The feeling of being here is just like being in a fish bowl. Watched and ignored. The water around me is the fat and my stomach is the tiny fish that swims around, waiting for the food that’ll never come.

Dr. Monroe just stares at me waiting for a response to his question. I close my mouth as soon as it opens again. Fish. With big beading eyes, swimming in an on going circle. My fins brush past Dr. Monroe, with hopes and dreams that he would notice me. Will anyone ever notice that I’m dead? He doesn’t and just sits there glancing at the timer, hoping it’ll go off soon.

If he really cared about his job he’d really want to help me. He wouldn’t let this silence come between him and me like it has been for the past fourteen sessions. Mom and Dad couldn’t afford these visits and I was throwing their money away.

“They think twenty visits will help but even thirty won’t fix you.”

The voice I hear is mine. I let myself down. I punish myself. My long legs stand in front of my own fish bowl. I evaluate myself. I am the critic of my own body, my own thoughts and actions.

“Noelle, you never answered my question,” The doctor knocks me out of my haze, “How’re you feeling today?” I blink once. Twice. Dr. Monroe places his pen in his mouth and folds his knee right over the other. The deep brown eyes bore through me, he felt sorry for me. A patient.

Joey Monroe ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He said a few words that I couldn’t comprehend and smiled, writing on his clip board. I’d made him restless and now I wasn’t progressing. How worthless could I get?

Sweat dripped down to my lip. Water ran down the clear fish bowl. I licked my lips and tasted the salt on the tip of my tongue. I swiped the dripping water from the plastic bowl. It was the first thing I’d tasted in hours. Days even. The feeling of wanting something salty edged in the back of my brain.

Dr. Monroe stood from his swivel chair and walked to his mini-fridge behind his desk. He pulled out two containers of salad. Monroe sat next to me on his tacky polyester 60’s styled couch and handed me a Tupperware and a plastic fork. Salad, I could keep this down. I don’t even need dressing.

I open the lid the same time the doctor does. I don’t look but could tell he’s already gnawing at the green lettuce and tomatoes. An image of green paper like food stuck between his pure white teeth stick in my brain. I swallow hard then pick at the tomatoes. Allergic.

“Good, less calories.”

I bite my lip and look at the leafy goodness again. There is no fish food near the bowl. Anything a fish can eat is never put in the bowl. The fish is punished for bad behavior. I’m punished. But it’s over, I can eat right. It’s been two days.

“Eat up Noelle, all I ask for is one bite.” So I take the bite. And another and another. One more. I’m done. I’d eaten the whole Tupperware of lettuce, disregarding the tomatoes every now and then. The vegetables float in my tiny fish stomach. Its full and I can already feel myself bloat.

My mouth still salivates for more. Something more. I think of a nice homemade chicken breast. Nothing over 220 calories. I could baste it with olive oil and let it simmer for a while. My mind wonders and thinks of chicken process. A cute little clucker bobs its head right near my feet.

My nice little fins want to swim around for some exercise. But my stomach won’t have it. The small kangaroo pouch inside me doesn’t like what I’ve put there.

“I feel fine, Dr. Monroe.”

“When are you going to stop telling lies to the people that you trust?”

I ignore myself. I smile at the doctor and stand from the couch. I look at the timer he has set on the coffee table in front of us. Fifteen more minutes. “May I go to the restroom?” I try to ask the question as sweetly as possible. But each word comes out croaked and dry. I’d been out of water too long. Fish don’t belong out of water.

He nods his head, reminding me of the rules. Phone stays with him, check my pockets twice, keep the door unlocked. Before he could even remind me of the fourth and final rule I run to the back of his office and hurl myself to the white toilet bowl.

The food pours out of me. It doesn’t stop until my throat has had enough. My fingers had stayed in their rightful place. I did not disobey rule number four. Don’t purge.

I cough up whatever was left in my mouth. The taste of bile and lettuce stays with me. I could smell the puke rising from the toilet to my nostrils. I cough again and look at my raven hair. Chunks of green and yellow stick to certain strands. My shirt is wet from dirty toilet water and my chin is covered in grotesque liquids.

I’m too tired to stand. To weak to think. I hug my knees and rock back and forth on the now wet tiled floors. The lights flicker on and off over head and I can faintly hear Joey Monroe rapping on the door with his bony fingers.

The fish has over eaten. I’ll have to go buy a new one. A prettier one with vibrant colors and a larger stomach.

“You’ve now reached the lowest of lows. You can’t even keep your food down.”