give me therapy

It really is a lot like what you read about in books or see in movies.

There's a comfy couch in a cozy office with charming decor, including plaques with her medical degrees and signs with inspirational quotes in swirly handwriting. She wears a quirky yet remarkably well-put together ensemble, scribbles in a notepad 'just for personal reference, to put in your file' and mmhmms a lot. It drives me crazy not knowing what she's thinking, wondering if she's about to call the hospital and have me locked up because I'm obviously beyond repair.

I talk about myself more than I ever have, but I also talk about my parents, my sisters, my teachers, you. I cry. I babble. I stare at my shoes trying to find something to say. I get used to it.

She weighs me on their scale, and their scale says 107, and I close my eyes and think how I'm wearing jeans with a phone and quarters in my pocket and a sweatshirt and two layers underneath and converse, and my stomach is full. I hold my hands together and try not to let the feeling in my chest leak out onto my face.

She says food journal, but only if you're going to be honest.
she says no weighing yourself. weekly weighings here, nothing else.
She says three meals a day. They can be small to start, but you need something.
she says 114 lbs by this time next month-
mom says and you can go to disney world
she says if your weight drops below 95, you'll go to the hospital.
she smiles but that's not going to happen.
she says this is going to be hard. it will hurt. emotionally and physically. but it will get better. You will get better.

And I think I believe her.

Caroline
I'm a walking travesty