September


the psychiatrist

dr. mantell,
the psychiatrist’s
nameplate shouts.
i fight the urge
to ask if his name is
printed in loud uppercase
letters to drown out us
lowercase people and our
lowercase lives.

his scalpel-gray
eyes dissect me,
quarter me, sternum
to pelvis, left breast
                                               to right,
wrench me open, reach
inside, find all the
nothing
i’ve eaten since yesterday.

                                                                      evie,
the muscles in my body contract
and freeze. i sit, still and staring:

portrait of a girl afraid.

                                                                      evie,
                                                                      do you know why you’re here?


why i’m here

because of the tests.

they took my height and weight,
took my blood, took my heart
rate, took my pee,
took my family history,
then a man in a lab coat took
my parents aside
to tell them i failed.

i’ve never failed a test in my life.

because my mother says
this is an important
appointment. we are lucky
a cancellation let
capital-t Them
fit me in.

because sometimes
i get a little sad and overwhelmed.
because sometimes i feel
like falling asleep and never waking up.

because my parents and my sister and my friend darcy and my dog would probably be happier without me. because all i do is try and try to be a perfect daughter and sister and friend and student and person but it doesn’t make me any less scared of living. because i would be happier without me.

because sometimes
i have trouble
eating
and my mother and i
argue over dinner plates
                       just three more bites
like i’m a misbehaving toddler.

i slouch down in my chair,
glare at the doctor,
refuse to speak.




why i’m really here

because of my lies.

the first:
                        i’m on a diet.
wrong,
i’ve been on all of them:
mediterranean,
keto,
raw food,
low-fat,
gluten-free,
atkins,
vegan,
paleo,
south beach.
whatever let me
restrict.
intermittent eating with frequent fasting.

second:
                        it’s only one more . . .
sit-up,
push-up,
squat,
mile.
that i wouldn’t add
one
plus
one
plus
one
plus
one              
                        until
my muscles ached,
body broke.

third:
i’m in control.
i can stop whenever
i want.




professional opinion

                                                                      your height and weight
                                                                      are very low
                                                                      for a fourteen-year-old,
dr. mantell says
                                                                      same with your hemoglobin,
                                                                      and your electrolytes.
                                                                      you have all the symptoms of
                                                                      extreme malnourishment.

pride flutters in my chest.

i nod along benignly, glare
at the office door my mom
stands behind. i missed school
to be here. does no one
care about my GPA?

                                                                      the results from your EKG
                                                                      indicate
                                                                      bradycardia.

bradycardia?

                                                                      a slow heart rate.
                                                                      thirty-eight beats per minute.

i nod. i don’t want him
to think i am a stupid girl.
i am not a stupid girl.

                                                                      do you understand?
don’t blink.
yes.

                                                                      evie,
                                                                      your heart is so slow
                                                                      it could stop
                                                                      at any moment.

the offbeat drumming of said organ
floods my ears.
dr. mantell observes my reaction.
me the frog, his eyes
the scalpel. see the ease
with which they slit
my pale, white skin,
my muscles,
my rib cage,
until my empty guts
spill out.

                                                                      you are,
                                                                      in my professional opinion,
                                                                      anorexic.

that word

anorexic.
it lodges itself
in my coronary artery.
heart palpitates. thousands
of excuses
dam up my mouth:
i eat,
i’m fat,
i’m not obsessed with my looks,
i eat,
that’s not the type of girl i am.
i come from a good family—

but i eat,
i squeak.

                                                                       do you eat enough?

i think about
the ice cream i don’t eat.
the chocolate,
the potato chips
i also don’t eat.

the avocados,
bananas,
cookies,
french fries,
granola,
hamburgers,
marshmallows,
peanut butter,
spaghetti,
tacos,
yogurt,
an alphabet of off-limits food.

yes?

dr. mantell leans back in his chair,
scrunches his white face in thought,
impatiently tap-tap-taps his pen against
the notes he’s been taking.

                                                                      i think we should get
                                                                      your mother in here.


my mother

she barges in
with as much restraint
as a freight train. this woman
who gobbles firewood
so she can keep
running and running and
running along
her one-track mind.

my diagnosis derails her.
she fires coal-hot questions:
                       what does this mean?
                       how does she get better?
                       can she get better?
                       what about her heart?
                       how do i make her gain weight?

i think she’s really asking,
                        what do i do
                       with this damaged daughter?
                      


drowning

mom and dr. mantell
position me as a
problem
to solve.
say words like
program,
therapy,
refeeding.
i’m stuck on
anorexic,
ANorexIC,
ANOREXIC.

it floods me, fills my lungs.
i can’t shout, can’t breathe,
only flail. fail.

drown.
too weak to
surface.


i’ve drowned before

when i was five, at a beach
that’s more dream than memory.
bubble-gum-ice-cream-blue sky,
chocolate-brown lake.
i ran, reckless,
into calf-deep water.
splashed in waves left
in motorboats’ wakes.
another girl, eight or nine,
joined me, chanted,
                                                                       follow me, follow me,
                                                                      i will lead, so follow me!

powerless against
this pied piper,
i followed, the water
reaching my shoulders,
my neck, my scalp.
i followed, until I couldn’t.
my feet floundered
for lake bottom.
my left foot found
ground. stepped
down and sunk, stuck
in deep muck.
scared, limbs swinging,
i struggled, stomped,
trapped my right foot.
panic pounded
in violent waves.

                                                                       come on,
my new friend giggled.
my head barely breached
the surface.
restless ripples
muffled my screams.
help!

only silence answered.

my last thought as
static clouded in:      
this is all my fault.

warm hands grabbed
under my armpits.
hauled so hard
my side-body ached.
                                                                       evie! you know the rule,
                                                                      don’t go in past your waist!
my dad hissed through
gritted teeth.

he carried me              
to safety,
where my rules have kept me
ever since.