Walcott's Star-Apple Kingdom

     The only good thing about the place was the food.
     It wasn't normal hospital fare, and you could order an array of delicious items. However, if you happened to have an eating disorder, you had to be advised on your order. That wasn't a concern for you, but you were irritated in being told you couldn't talk about the food. (You always pondered this decision of the administration's. Do they not realize that in the real world, people will talk about food, it will just happen? How are these people supposed to learn to cope if they get no experience in dealing with whatever upset is caused by the mentioning of food?)
     Well. Whatever.
     Carolyn is the only one here that's like you. She's leaving.
      On her wrists, there are thick scars. They aren't scabs, they're all healed up, but you swear they're all at least half an inch wide and seem to almost go all the way around her wrist. You almost ask how she did it, but you figure, "butcher knife or hacksaw?" probably wasn't considered appropriate.
     This place confuses you. You don't understand it. The theory is that it will be conducive to "healing" but almost everyone is there for some form of eating disorder, and the doctors and nurses switch every day. Carolyn and you are on our own, and you haven't had the same nurse once while you've been here.
     You have to wear a special bracelet. You also have to sing or count in the shower or bathroom. It's absolute hell when you have a shy bladder, and if you have to towel off your face, you know they'll knock on the door to check on you since your voice will be muffled.
     You spend the days doing more lying than you've done in your entire lifetime. You only want to get out of here. It isn't helpful, and you think the doctors know that. In group talks, they sort of leave you out. You're the odd one. The weird girl who tried to off herself. You weren't starving yourself or purging to the extreme, or some other eating disorder thing. You were a strange organism who thought being dead was better than life. It's awkward. It's obvious they don't know how to deal with you. These professionals treat you like you're delicate, fragile, and the thing is you're really not. You've been strong for a really, really long time. Yeah, you fucked up, but only once. And it isn't like they actually do anything here to help you. They give you the normal meds you got at home and made sure you didn't try to kill yourself with a crayon. That was the sum of it. There was no "treatment" to be given. You remember they tried once to talk about coping mechanisms with you, to see if you even knew what that was. You guess they didn't expect you to have a real vocabulary and then explain in detail the healthy coping mechanisms you already did. So instead they tell your parents to hide and lock up the medications and sharp objects in the house so you can't get to them. You wonder if they realize what a reflection that is on them. Do they know they're worthless at this, and figure you'll do something again since they did nothing to help? You understand they don't know what to do, but does that really matter? They got a PhD just to pat you on the head and tell you what a good kid you are. So you lie, because you'd rather go home. "Sorry, won't do it again", blah blah blah.
    Your parents visit, so does your older brother. You figure your older sister is probably off fucking her current boyfriend of the time. Your older brother appears awkward, something you aren't used to seeing. He barely speaks, and you aren't used to that. Your parents are strangely sedate as well. For your whole life, the majority of your dad's vocalizations involved yelling and screaming. To have him so quiet is a complete upheaval of your world. Disturbing. But also disgusting. After all, you had been begging your parents to help - you verbally informed them that something had to change and you needed help - but they brushed you off. Why do they care so much now? They didn't give a damn before. You don't understand that, not really.
     Like, you're pretty sure they would miss you at first. But then you think, they'd be okay. You aren't all that important to any of them, not the way others are. All you do is give and do your best, but it hasn't ever been enough, so you figure, if you take a hike it'll be okay. Probably some tears and sadness, but in the end, they'd be fine without you.
     You don't have much going for you.
     Sure, you get told you're smart, pretty, things of that ilk. But the thing is, it doesn't really matter if you're a good person. Because people don't actually realize it, just expect it of you. If you happen to slip up, no matter how minute, you can bet your ass they'll be pissed off about it. No recognition for being good, but if you stop for a single moment, there is hell to pay.
     Friends? Maybe one or two real friends - the kind you trust with secrets. You've never had a boyfriend, guys have never had an interest in you like that. Correction, no one has ever been interested in you like that.
     Yes, you know what you want to do with your life, but is it worth it? You feel lonely and isolated for so long, it starts to grow. It grows and expands to fill you up with that blackness, takes over your muscles and bones, your blood and marrow, until you aren't anything but a speck within a blanket of darkness. It doesn't eat away at you, instead it becomes what you are, and it's so hard to pull yourself out of that. You'd been cutting for weeks without covering up and no one noticed. Not family, friends, or teachers. When graced with this knowledge, at least they have the decency to look ashamed. You have scars all up and down both inner forearms, the most cliche place to cut, and you didn't cover it with long sleeves and not a single fucking human being noticed.
     It's when they look at you with pity that you can't stand, because a little too late for that now, isn't it?
     At least your dog licked some of your scars.
     Your pets are the only reason you've gone on this long. You know if you didn't have them, you would have been gone a long time ago, exit stage left. But you held off, because you told yourself you couldn't leave them. They loved you and you loved them. But then your parents did what they did, and you begged and cried and pleaded with them not to. But they brushed you off like normal. It seemed as good a time as any to take the next step. They didn't really care anyway, so why not?
     Back in the day, you were blamed for anything, everything, and in the end, ultimately, nothing. You were the most obedient child, rather tame. You didn't do things that were bad and wrong, not on impulse and not for the thrill. But your dad yelled all the time - not just at you, he shoved your brother around, slapped your sister, but... The yelling. Fuck, that did you in. You never told anyone about many of the things that happened when you were a kid, because, well, you were afraid it would be your fault. Bad stuff happened, things you still struggle to talk about, and you never told.
     What sweet irony: your parents were pissed at you. It's funny, if you think about it. They tell you it isn't your fault, but they're angry with you anyway, so in the end, it is your fault. How awesome is that? Your mom says she noticed a change in you after the main event you kept secret, but figured it was one of those kid phases. Your dad didn't notice shit, he was a workaholic and angermaniac. He was absentminded and OCD and had to be in control.
     Sometimes, even now, you get the urge.
     Once upon a time, you had this horrible, weird urge to grab a knife and dissect yourself. You never told anyone, because you know what a whackjob that makes you sound like? It wasn't about killing yourself, it was about understanding the reason your family seemed to not really care about you. Why were you so unlike others your age? Inquiring minds wanted to know, and that meant you wanted to get a kitchen knife and open yourself up. You thought, if you could just pull away your skin and visceral tissue, you could figure out what the problem was. Take away the layers, see whats inside that's wrong and messed up. Obviously, there must be some subtle difference you didn't notice but the lizard brains of other people did.
     You never did it.
     But one night, you went to bed, went to sleep. And then came to consciousness, standing in the kitchen with a hand hovering over one of the steak knifes. You couldn't even remember waking up and walking out there. That terrified you, but you still didn't tell anyone.
     So maybe now, yeah, you're mostly okay. But sometimes, the urge strikes you, so you turn the lights off and curl into a ball on your bed, cover yourself with a blanket, and shove your face into a pillow until the urge passes. Sometimes your nails tear at your skin when you do this, and you just can't stop it, but you figure... Well. You're mostly okay now. That's what's important, right?
     Right?
     At least the waffles there are good. But you can't talk about the syrup.