Good Enough

by Jen Petro-Roy

  Meredith drew a mad face on the bag of fluid with a marker. (She got into trouble for doing it, too. She had to eat her evening snack in a separate room for “tampering with medical equipment.”) I don’t think Meredith cared, though. Because tonight was so much fun!

  For the first time since I got here, I didn’t feel like I was in the middle of a nightmare. We were just a bunch of girls goofing off together. Ali made fake feet out of construction paper and painted the toenails pink. Brenna wheeled Ali and her IV pole around and pretended to dance with them. Laura took a turn, then taught us all to waltz. (Her mom is a ballroom dance teacher!) I partnered with Meredith, who made me feel like a total oaf. When (if?) she recovers, she’s going to be an awesome ballerina.

  Aisha grabbed a lion mask off the wall, one someone probably made in art therapy years ago, then held it in front of her face and asked the IV pole questions about itself, like she was a news reporter and it was her subject. She kept roaring, too. It was the funniest thing I’ve seen in forever.

  For a few minutes, I almost forgot where I was. It was just me and a bunch of my friends. And here’s the weird thing—these girls are starting to feel like my friends, even though I just met them a week ago. (Okay, not Ali. But I’m trying to forget about her. She hasn’t been that bad today.)

  I thought that treatment was going to be awful. I thought everyone would make fun of me, like they do at school.

  I’m starting to realize that the awful part was before, though. The worries and the obsessions, the scales and the nutrition labels. The running and moving and hating.

  Dressing up an IV pole may be silly. Talking about my feelings might be cheesy (extra-cheese-pizza-level cheesy). But I’m happier than I was before. I like myself more. I’m drawing more.

  Maybe I’m not in the middle of a nightmare, after all.

  DAY EIGHT: MONDAY

  Laura tried to throw up after breakfast. I was walking past the bathroom and Heather was standing outside, scrolling through her phone. Laura was counting inside the bathroom. After she said “thirteen,” the counting stopped.

  All the staff have bathroom keys on colored bracelets around their wrists. Heather’s is bright pink. She ripped that bracelet off superfast and threw open the bathroom door. I know I shouldn’t have peeked inside, but I did. It’s not like I wanted to see Laura, but I couldn’t help it—the door was open. She was bent over the toilet, her curtain of hair hanging down to cover her face. Laura didn’t even stop when Heather got near her.

  I wonder if Laura got barf on her hair. Gross.

  I ran into the group room then. I didn’t tell anyone, but everyone still found out. There’s no way to keep a secret in this place. I haven’t seen Laura since. I wonder if she got kicked out. I wonder if she’s going to the same place Rebecca did. I still wonder where Rebecca is. I wonder if I’ll ever find out.

  I’ve never purged before. It always seemed gross to me. But it’d be nice to be empty inside.

  I miss being empty. Being hungry. Light. Clean.

  But it’s nice to be full, too. My stomach doesn’t hurt as much anymore. I eat and I digest. It’s almost like my body is doing what it was meant to do.

  * * *

  In group today, we talked about self-esteem. Sixty minutes of why we’re so wonderful the way we are and how our bodies were made “to be, not do.” Sixty minutes of affirmation after affirmation. (Which are basically brags you’re allowed to say.) The counselor made us go around in a circle and say something we loved about ourselves.

  Ali said she was a good friend. (I tried not to laugh when she said that.)

  Brenna said she had a nice laugh. (She does! It’s deep and vibrates through the room.)

  Laura said she liked her fingernail polish. (I wasn’t sure that counted, but no one said anything.)

  I went last. I couldn’t think of anything for like five whole minutes. Okay, it was really only five seconds, but it felt way longer. Especially since I was blushing. “My pale skin” is definitely not something I like about myself.

  I haven’t been a good friend lately. Or a good sister. Probably not a good daughter, either.

  I finally blurted out that I liked the birthmark on my ankle. Everyone stared at my ankle, which was covered up by my sock. “It looks like a heart,” I explained.

  We had to do some worksheet after that, where we listed things we hate about being sick. It made me feel like I’m in school again. Weirdly, it made me miss school.

  It even made me miss homework.

  DAY NINE: TUESDAY

  I’m so hungry. I eat more in one meal now than I used to in one day. Why am I hungry? I shouldn’t be hungry.

  When I was at home and hunger pains clenched my stomach in their fists, there was a mantra I recited to myself: Strong, stronger, strongest.

  I chanted it until my mind was focused enough to conquer my body. Until the glasses of water and the cans of diet soda and the constant running quieted the grumbling inside. Until everything stopped hurting so much.

  Strong, stronger, strongest.

  My body yelled that it needed calories and energy. It begged me to listen. But I thought I could conjure energy out of thin air, out of sprints and sit-ups, starvation and failed attempts at sleep.

  I did conjure energy for a while. I was in control. I made magic. I was stronger than the pain. My mantra isn’t helping me in here, though. There’s nothing to fight back against. They won’t let me be hungry. They’ve taken my eating disorder away. It’s trapped inside my brain, screaming for freedom.

  When I tell it I want the noise in my head to stop, it gets louder.

  When I tell it I want to get better, it tells me I’m weak.

  I tell myself that I’m not my body, that I’m strong enough to beat this. I tell myself so many things, but I’m still scared. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to make it to the finish line.

  * * *

  I want to tell Willow how I’ve been doing crunches. She says I need to be honest for her to really help me.

  In our last session, Willow talked about “accountability” and how my eating disorder thrives on secrets. “Imagine planting a seed in the ground,” she said.

  I made a joke about being an awful gardener and how I killed the birthday rosebush Grandma gave me last year. Willow smiled, but she didn’t laugh.

  “This is important,” she said. “If you water and give that seed food, it will grow. If you give it sunlight, it will thrive.” Willow pointed to the plant on her desk, the one that’s green and lush. “This plant is like your eating disorder.”

  “Huh?”

  “Eating disorders thrive on secrets,” Willow said. “Secrets make them grow. Deception makes them strong. If you don’t give your eating disorder what it wants, if you ignore it and starve it—instead of yourself—it will die. The seed will stay a seed.”

  “So it’s good that I’m a plant killer?” I joked again.

  This time Willow did laugh. “It’s a start,” she said. “Just remember that I won’t judge you. I want to hear your secrets so we can deal with them together.”

  I want to confess, but every time I try, the words skulk back into the shadows, ducking and hiding behind my shame.

  Ed: If you tell Willow, she’ll get mad at you. She’ll make you stop.

  Healthy Voice: But I want to stop. And right now, I can’t stop myself.

  Ed: If you tell Willow, she’ll be disappointed in you. Everyone will.

  Healthy Voice: If I tell Willow, she’ll be proud of me for telling the truth. She’ll help me get better.

  Ed: You don’t want to get better.

  Healthy Voice: Maybe I do.

  * * *

  Ali got her IV out this morning. I guess she’s hydrated enough to not need it. Or nutrient-full enough. She’s still full of mean, though. This morning she told me I looked healthy. She had this annoying half smile on her face when she said it, because we both knew what she meant.

  “Healthy” doesn’t me
an that I’m not sick.

  “Healthy” means that I’m fat.

  That all my fears are coming true. That even with the crunches, I’m gaining weight in here. I’m gaining too much weight in here.

  Ali’s comment made me not want to eat. It made me want to tell the counselors that I’m done with this, that I need to leave.

  What’s wrong with me? I say I want to recover. I wrote yesterday that I don’t want to be sick anymore. But I’m still scared of gaining weight. I’m still doing crunches. I’m still keeping secrets.

  And what’s wrong with gaining weight anyway? We talked about that in group this morning, how the world thinks fat is the worst thing ever, worse than disease and pollution and even death.

  “People call me all sorts of names,” Brenna said. “They make fun of me because I’m fat. When I told my soccer team I was going in here, half the kids laughed because they didn’t believe someone like me could get an eating disorder.”

  “You’re not fat,” I said quickly.

  “I am fat,” Brenna said. “I’m fat because that’s how I was made. I’m not meant to be skinny like you, Riley. And not just because I binge. Because I’m me.” She looked to Heather for approval, like her words could break into pieces at any moment.

  “You’re right, Brenna,” Heather said. “What’s so bad about fat anyway?”

  No one answered.

  “Does being skinny make you a better person?”

  “Does eating less food make you more kind?”

  “Is eating too much food a crime?”

  It feels that way.

  “That’s what we want you to realize in here.” Heather’s voice rose like she was onstage giving a speech. “You’re all meant to live in different bodies, bodies you’ll naturally have without stuffing or starving or punishing yourselves. You may end up in a body that’s fat. You may end up in a body that’s muscular or thin, curvy or straight up and down.

  “It will be your body, though. Your body that you live in and love in and play in. You can still have friends in that body. You can still have fun in that body. You can still live your life in that body. Because you are so much more than your size.”

  “I don’t want to be fat,” Ali said.

  Brenna glared at her. I glared at Ali, too. I still think the same thing a little bit, but Heather makes sense. Wouldn’t I rather be fat than miserable?

  Ali didn’t notice our glares. I bet she forgot everything Heather said. Because right now she’s dancing around the group room, waving her arms and wiggling her hips. “No IV, no IV!” She’s chanting it like she’s a cheerleader. Everyone else is giggling. Everyone else likes Ali. No one else sees what a faker she is.

  I used to want to be like Ali. I don’t think I do anymore.

  Brenna’s words keep echoing in my head: I’m not meant to be skinny like you, Riley.

  Am I meant to be skinny? Yeah, I’m skinny now, but I only look this way because I’m sick. When I recover, I’ll look different. I may not be skinny.

  I’ll still be me, though.

  And I think that’s a good thing.

  * * *

  I got mail today! Two things, actually. One was a postcard from Julia. I laughed when I saw it, because it reminded me of the summer when I was nine and Julia was eight. That’s the year Mom was between jobs and Julia was starting to get serious about gymnastics. She didn’t have practice every day, so it was okay to go to Cape Cod for a week.

  Okay to spend every day at the beach instead of in the gym.

  Okay to splash in the waves without worrying about what my body looked like.

  Okay not to have to wear a two-piece to be cool.

  Okay to eat ice cream twice a day.

  Okay to have fun.

  That’s the summer Julia and I went to the country store around the corner from our rented cottage and picked out postcards to send to everyone back home. We tried to find the silliest pictures: the lobster with one eye bigger than the other, the sea otter in sunglasses, Santa fishing on the end of a pier.

  Today I got a postcard from Julia. It had a big blue whale on the front, with GET WHALE SOON in bright yellow letters. On the back she wrote: I miss you. I hope you’re home soon. The postcard made me happy. Because Julia was thinking about me. Because Julia didn’t hate me for being such an awful sister.

  The other thing I got was a letter from Emerson. It was super short, just a bunch of stuff about track and school and tests and how I’m so lucky I missed our unit on Industrialization last week because it was so boring.

  The best part wasn’t Emerson’s letter, though. It’s what was in the envelope with the letter: a newspaper clipping. It reminded me of the letters Grandma Archibald sends us, with an “only funny to old people” comic from the newspaper attached or an article about how important sunscreen is.

  Emerson’s clipping was about an art class at the community center, one that starts next month.

  I’ll do it with you. It’ll be fun! Emerson wrote on the bottom, next to a big smiley face.

  Emerson didn’t write anything about me being sick. She wrote to me like I was a regular person, someone who used to love art. Someone who could maybe love it again.

  I keep thinking about that class. It’s scary to think of someone looking at my drawings. But Mom won’t be there to criticize them. And I’ve been drawing more the past few days. Not televisions, and not even my usual dragons and animals. I’ve been drawing more people, like we did that time in art therapy. I still haven’t been able to draw my face, but I drew Brenna’s. Aisha’s, too. I used pencil and worked on shadow and light.

  I think they’re okay.

  I think I’m okay.

  Maybe I could get better.

  * * *

  Brenna’s definitely my best friend in the hospital. Last night we did a puzzle in the group room before bed. There was a picture of a kitten with fairy wings on the box, but the inside was full of pieces from all different puzzles. So we pieced together what we called a “mutant puzzle.” There were pieces with cars and trucks, pieces with a mermaid, and pieces of the Eiffel Tower. The final result looked hilarious.

  I bet in real life I’d be friends with Brenna.

  This isn’t real life, though.

  When I get out of here, I’ll probably never see her again. Brenna will live her life and I’ll live mine. The hospital will be a memory.

  I wonder if that day will ever come, when I barely remember these walls and this hospital food. When I’m so happy that I forget what it’s like to be this scared.

  Tonight I asked Brenna if she was happy. They talk a lot about being happy here. Happy with our bodies. Happy with who we are. Happy with our life. I never feel happy, though, not all the way. I’m always waiting for something to go wrong. Are there people who are happy all the time? Is that even realistic?

  Brenna shrugged. “I guess. I’m happier than I was before. At least I know I’m not the only one like this.” She pulled at her pixie cut. “I’m annoyed with my hair, though. It’s growing out so weird.”

  I need a haircut, too. They don’t have a stylist at the hospital. We don’t even have hair dryers. Hair isn’t a huge deal to me, though, not as much as it is for Brenna. She says she feels more herself when her hair is short, that long hair makes her feel fake.

  “When I have long hair, I feel like I’m playing a part. And I only like playing parts when I’m cosplaying.” We giggled. Brenna showed me pictures of her at Comic-Con. She dressed up as Batgirl and as a steampunk Cinderella. She won an award for the Cinderella costume and took pictures with tons of famous people!

  Brenna doesn’t hide as much of herself as I do.

  Brenna’s way braver than me.

  “But how can you be happy when you’re still big?” Whoops. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean that.

  Did I mean that?

  Brenna bit her lip. Her shoulders slumped.

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean there’s anything wrong with your size. I
’m an awful person.” Apologies flew from my mouth like Silly String from a can. Why would I say something like that? I don’t care about weight. I don’t want to care about weight.

  Brenna took a deep breath. “No, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she repeated, like she was reassuring herself. “It’s okay. I am bigger than you. And even though I’ve stopped bingeing in here, I don’t think I’ve lost much weight.” Another breath. “That’s okay, though. I guess I’m realizing this is who I am.”

  Brenna gestured down at her body. “And that this isn’t all I am. Plus, eating gets easier with time. Your body will feel better with time. I promise.” Her eyes brightened. “Plus, now that I’m doing better, my dad is planning a trip to Disney World this summer. I can’t go if I’m still sick. I can’t do Comics Club at school, either.”

  That’s what I’ve been realizing, too: How much I’ve been missing out on. How much I’m going to miss if I stay sick. If/when I recover, I can take that art class. I can have fun at sleepovers and go to school dances. (Even though school dances are totally silly. They have them after school in the cafeteria. Where we just ate lunch three hours ago and where it still smells of overcooked green beans. Three hours and a few rolls of streamers do not cover up the stink of green beans.)

  “I’m still nervous about food, but I’m not miserable,” Brenna said. “I don’t want to throw up or binge as much, and I’m actually excited about things now.”

  “Does that mean you’re recovered?” I asked her.

  Brenna laughed. “Yeah, right. Did you see me this morning?”

  We laughed. Brenna cried this morning when they gave her a bagel instead of an English muffin. People lose it over random stuff in here. Last night Aisha had a panic attack because her slice of cake had more frosting than Meredith’s. Meredith went around all smug for the next hour until Aisha told on her.