In Body I Trust

by Lauren Dow

  Amelia tied up Luna’s leash to the street pole like she did every other time she went there. Luna was visible through the windowed storefront. That way she could keep an eye out in case anything ever happened. She was only ever inside a minute or two. Amelia kissed the top of Luna’s head and went inside. Louisiana was working the register, smiling per usual.

  “Good mornin’! How’s your day goin’ so far?”

  Amelia’s hair was wet and disheveled, the soaking snarls barely covered by the hood of her gray sweatshirt. Her pink hexagon sunglasses hid most of her face, including her sunken cheeks and the purple bags under her eyes.

  “Off to a bangin’ start, if you couldn’t tell,” Amelia responded with sarcastic finger guns, a vain attempt to keep him at a distance.

  “Oof, I’ve definitely been there before.”

  Louisiana continued to spew out words Amelia couldn’t snatch from the air between them. Normally she loved listening to his delightful Southern accent, but she was so hungover she couldn’t get herself to focus. All she wanted was to smoke a cigarette and have her coffee.

  As she faked a smile to pretend she was paying attention, she heard a desperate wail from outside of the convenience store. Amelia looked out the window and saw Luna on the ground, twitching on her back and yelping at the top of her lungs.

  “Oh my God!” Amelia dropped everything, leaving her debit card and newly purchased cigarettes on the counter, and ran to Luna. She fell to the ground, hitting the concrete with her knees. She picked up Luna’s head and rested it on her lap to caress her face. There was a smear of blood underneath her back right leg in the shape of a dog bite, but thankfully nothing that wouldn’t heal on its own. Amelia shook with a mixture of rage and fear.

  “Who the hell did this!?” Amelia screamed out loud, looking around to find the culprit. She spotted a tall, lanky man with his dog’s leash in one hand and a skateboard in the other. It was Kyle, one of the people who lived in her building. He was always high on something and had an energy that made Amelia steer clear of him.

  His black, German Shepherd mutt sat patiently by his feet, acting as if nothing had happened.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kyle said with remorse barely skimming past his lips. “He’s usually really friendly.”

  “I don’t care! Just get your dog out of here!”

  “Do you need help? Do you want me to pull my car around? There’s an animal hospital just a few blocks up. I can take you.”

  Amelia ignored him. All she could focus on was Luna. Amelia didn’t even know it was possible for a dog to cry, but the droplets drenched the fur on Luna’s face nonetheless.

  Luna curled herself tighter into Amelia’s lap. She lightly held Luna’s mouth shut to get her to stop howling. She petted her face and cooed at Luna to calm her down.

  “It’s okay, shhh, you’re okay,” Amelia reassured her, even though she knew Luna wouldn’t understand what she was saying. After another minute of laying on the sidewalk together, Luna finally slowed her breathing and fell silent, resting in her mother’s lap.

  “Here’s your card and smokes, everythin’ alright?” Louisiana came up behind her to see if he could help without getting in trouble for leaving the store. Amelia exhaled deeply, realizing that in an attempt to calm Luna down, she’d forgotten to breathe herself. She extended her hand to accept her items she’d left behind that he’d graciously brought out to her.

  “Ya, she’s okay. I think she was just scared because that stupid dog bit her. Thank you though I really appreciate it.”

  “Wait one second.” Louisiana ran back inside and within a few seconds, jogged back over to hand Amelia a tissue. Holding Luna in her arms like a baby on the dirty cement, Amelia didn’t notice she’d been crying.

  In theory, the idea of something bad happening to Luna seemed impossible. But Amelia never understood the detriment it would cause—not if, but when—something bad actually happened to her. She wanted to protect her child and would do whatever it took to make sure that she was okay. That she was safe. That she was alive.

  After a few more minutes on the ground, Amelia tried to encourage Luna to stand up.

  “Slowly,” she said out loud to Luna in the same way she prompted herself through her own vertigo. Luna hobbled for a few steps and immediately found her puppy-pep again. How simple.

  If Luna can do it, why can’t I?

  They walked back to their building, up the three flights of stairs, and into their apartment. Amelia took her shirt off and used it to dab the blood off of Luna’s leg. The dog winced every so often, pushing deeper into Amelia’s side for comfort.

  I wonder if this is what Luna felt last night. She almost lost me, and I almost lost her. What would I have done?

  All this time, Amelia had been searching for purpose, for someone who needed her. And all the while, Luna was by her side every single day. Connection. Like everyone else she ignored and pushed away. Other people she’d let go of and excommunicated from her life. Amelia wasn’t alone, she chose to be lonely.

  Time was going by fast and Amelia needed to shake off the jitters from the morning’s fiasco. She didn’t want to leave Luna alone, especially after what just happened. But if Amelia was going to find a way towards a healthy recovery so she could take care of Luna and be there for the long run, she had to take care of herself first. Amelia needed human connection. She needed her group. Her ED—eating disorder—family.

  When it was finally time to leave, she smothered Luna with kisses, trying to instill certainty in Luna that she’d soon return. Ten minutes later, she pulled up to a parking spot a few hundred feet away from the front doors of the Eating Disorder Foundation (EDF). They were a nonprofit in Denver that provided support groups, mentors, and other resources for those with eating disorders and their loved ones. It was an old house that was renovated with a few office spaces, but still maintained a homey feeling.

  Amelia sat in the driver’s seat, trying to find an ounce of willpower to get her out of the car and through the front door. It reminded her of the first time she went to group therapy sitting outside those same doors.

  She remembered being buried inside an oversized, neon yellow sweatshirt and her usual gray sweatpants with her hair clipped back in an unkempt bun. Dominic had dropped her off because she knew that if she went on her own, she’d never be able to get herself inside. Amelia spent the next hour and a half sitting quietly in the corner of the room with her legs pulled up to her chest and tears pouring down her cheeks while she listened to men and women talk about their experiences. She didn’t share, she only listened.

  This is not your first group session. You’ve done this before and you can do it again. You’ve got this.

  Amelia finished her pep talk, turned off the car and walked towards the house. A bell chimed above her as she opened the door. A jovial woman sat at the front desk.

  “Hey! I’m so glad you’re here!” Amelia let out a slight grin, thinking about Miranda and her very similar comforting welcome. The woman’s name was Naomi and she had been there for Amelia’s very first introduction to EDF. She helped her sign the confidentiality paperwork and sat with her so Amelia could express any fears or anxieties she had about being there. Naomi was warm, with long, blond hair and adorable, brown, square-framed glasses that sat perfectly on her face.

  Amelia still had a few minutes before the group started so she went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. The kitchen on the downstairs level always had mixed nuts, pretzels, peanut M&Ms, and granola bars. The pantry was always stocked with coffee and creamer and was open for anyone if they needed a safe space to eat without fear of judgement. The foundation was more of a community than it was a support group. It was another home for Amelia, even if it was one she was still hesitant to accept.

  Amelia grabbed her cup of coffee and headed up the stairs. Inside the support group meeting room was a table, about ten chairs, and five giant bookshelves that were filled with self-help books, literature, and a
rt supplies for the Thursday art therapy group. Amelia tried it a few times, but drawing was never really her medium for expression.

  During one of the art sessions, she drew an eyeball crying, creating a wave that grew from the roots of a tree with the sun shining above. When the group shared their responses to her sketch, Amelia’s picture received so much more love than she’d expected. Each person was able to take away something different from it. Amelia framed her picture as a reminder that, no matter how terrible a situation may seem, everything boils down to perspective.

  There were about eight people who regularly attended the group, all of whom were individuals who provided her with new and different outlooks on living with eating disorders. They ranged from twenty-eight to sixty-nine and came from different walks of life.

  One person had Dissociative Identity Disorder (once called multiple personality disorder), another attendee was on her last few rounds of chemo. There was a young homeless man with his service dog who lost everything he had from his disorder after hiding his sexuality from his family for years. Some attendees were retired teachers, some were unemployed, and some were successful business leaders. Regardless of where they came from, they all had one thing in common: food ruled their life.

  She’d forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by such diverse people with different stories, all trying to negotiate with the same inner monsters as she. An empty lounge chair sat in the back corner of the room, the exact same chair from her first visit to EDF, inviting her to have a seat. She waved hello to her fellow group members, took off her shoes, and made herself comfortable.

  The moderator walked into the room and sat down at the head of the table with a bright, white smile slapped across her face. Her brunette pixie cut and relaxed demeanor eased any last traces of Amelia’s discomfort.

  “Hey everyone, I’m so glad you all are here today,” she said to the room. Just like Naomi and Miranda. “I see some new faces, so for those of you that don’t know me, my name is Carmen. I’m a psychiatrist here in Denver and have been running this group on Saturdays for a few weeks now.” Her voice was soothing, providing comfort to each person in the room.

  Every group session started with the guidelines. Each person would read one of the bulleted rules and pass the list onto the next attendee who was comfortable reading out loud. Once all the rules were read, the checklist was handed back to Carmen so she could facilitate the meeting.

  “I don’t know how everyone has done this before,” Carmen said, settling back in her chair and taking off her own shoes, “but I personally prefer the ‘popcorn’ style. If you are ready and want to speak, feel free to chime in. Share your name, your pronouns, and your highs and lows for the week. Whatever you need to talk about, this is a safe space and we’re all here to support one another.”

  The room fell silent. Per usual. No one ever wanted to be the first person to speak, regardless of how many times they attended. Finally, an older gentleman started talking.

  “I guess I’ll go first. My name is Rob. He, him, his. I’m sixty-nine-years-young, or at least I like to think. My wife on the other hand, not so much. I’m just going to start by saying this week has been a rough one.”

  Rob didn’t fit the stereotypical image of a person with an eating disorder, i.e., a white female in her twenties seeking validity in a diet-cultured world of social media acceptance. Rob was, in some regards, the opposite. He’d lived with his experience for decades of under-eating and overexercising, believing that his only means of self-worth came from being “manly,” just like his parents expected him to be. It wasn’t until his son was born that his life changed, and then even more so when he had to get knee surgery making him completely immobile.

  Amelia knew Rob as well as you can know someone from a weekly hour and a half meeting. He always brought a laugh into the room, even when the ambiance otherwise screamed turmoil and awkwardness.

  Rob was honest and vulnerable when he spoke. After years of dealing with his eating disorders, he knew that he needed inpatient treatment. However, being a man in his fifties in an eating disorder recovery center made him the odd ball out. There were a few other males there, but no one of his age. According to Rob, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  “I hear these stories you all share here, especially the young women, and my heart aches. I just want to protect you from all of the hurt and pain that you’ve gone through, that you’re going through now, and know that I can’t.

  “But that experience has also made me see how much work I need to do as a man in our society. I carry so much guilt for the way I’ve treated people, especially women, throughout my life. I need to stop being a part of the problem and start to be a part of the solution. It’s shameful, but I have to own it.”

  Rob’s genuine desire to make amends for his past was clear—his poor behavior as a father, husband, and a human of his generation. They were catalysts for his eating disorder and knew he had to address these issues if he wanted to sustain his recovery. Amelia understood that. There were layers beneath her surface she was still pulling back, trying to see why she had this disorder in the first place. The lesson behind the pain.

  A few more people, including Amelia, shared about their weeks. Some were optimistic over new jobs, achieving their weekly meal plans, or getting out of treatment. Others were more solemn, struggling to understand why they couldn’t manage to have a functioning relationship or were falling back into disordered behaviors after years of managing them. Each story was unique, yet all were too familiar.

  An hour and a half later, the group ended and people began to file out the door. A woman about Amelia’s age came up behind her.

  “Hey, Amelia.”

  She turned around to see a beautiful girl with a head of voluminous, brown curls, bobbed right at the shoulders, approaching her. “My name is Jen, but you probably already knew that.” Amelia didn’t. She was terrible with names. “I wanted to say that what you share in the group resonates a lot with me. I also have bipolar disorder and when you mentioned that a few months ago I wanted to make you something. I just haven’t seen you around to be able to give it to you.”

  Jen handed Amelia a piece of black construction paper, maybe a little larger than a postcard. On one side she’d pasted a photograph of a colorful porcelain toilet, jauntily placed in an overgrown garden of weeds and wildflowers. On the reverse was a note written with a white glitter gel pen.

  “You don’t have to read it now, but I put my phone number on there in case you ever want to grab a coffee and talk sometime. I feel like we have a lot in common and wanted to let you know how grateful I am that you come here, even if we haven’t had a chance to get to know each other. But I really hope that changes.”

  Amelia was stunned. A complete stranger had done something thoughtful for her, just like Emmett with his cardboard Horror. But Jen wasn’t really a stranger. At the end of the day, these people in her group knew her better and more authentically than most people she’d known her entire life. They knew her inner demons. They understood the feelings she had in her darkest hours because they’d all been there once, twice, or fifty times before. Her eyes welled up with tears.

  “Can I hug you?” Amelia always asked permission. Hugging could turn some people to dust.

  Jen didn’t hesitate to open her arms and embrace Amelia with her frail, beautiful, recovering body. Amelia folded herself tightly into Jen. She’d never hugged someone else with an eating disorder before. She wondered if this is what other people felt when they hugged her. It felt so good. All she could do was cry and ignore the fact that she’d been probably holding onto the hug for a little longer than was socially acceptable.

  They exchanged their goodbyes and Amelia walked out of the room. Rob was slowly making his way down the stairs, holding onto the railing for support.

  “Hey Rob, mind if I help?”

  He smiled at Amelia in a fatherly way and extended his left arm for Amelia to loop hers through. They took t
heir time, going down each step with precision, until they made it outside and onto the sidewalk. Rob stopped abruptly.

  “Is everything okay?” Amelia asked, concerned his knee might be bothering him.

  “No, everything is fine. I just want to say I’m so glad you come to these groups.” His hands were shaking, not from nerves, but because his aging body barely had control anymore. “Ever since I first heard you speak, you’ve changed so much for me. Your words are so inspiring. I’m so glad I met you and am privileged to have you in my life. Thank you for sharing what you do.”

  A smile grew across Amelia’s face. This had to be a sign from God. Both Jen and Rob were like lanterns that had finally been refilled and relit, guiding Amelia through the dark. She asked for permission to hug Rob and with open arms he accepted.

  It was unbelievable how much could change if she simply allowed people in. In just a few short hours, her entire perspective had shifted. There was a warmth inside of her she hadn’t felt in so long: she was needed by others. They needed her, not the other way round.

  Luna needed her alive. Her extended family found significance in Amelia’s words. More importantly, Amelia’s definition of purpose—her reason to exist for which she’d been searching—was in front of her face the entire time. She’d been too caught up in running away from her inner demons to see it. Amelia knew what she needed to do next.

  She needed to talk to Emmett.

  Chapter 13

  The faint sound of the radio played in the background as Amelia gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The love she’d received from her group refueled her and she wasn’t ready to give that feeling up just yet. She rolled down all four windows, plugged her phone into the auxiliary jack, and hit play on the song “You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon. It was her life anthem, the one song she’d always turn to when everything else seemed in disarray.