The first time I met my nutritionist

I hated her. Well, Ed hated her.

She worked out of the front room in her own home.

Real professional, Ed scoffed as we stubbornly inched further and further inside, hand in hand as we always were at that time in my life. Why are we here, again? You obviously don’t need help eating. And he laughed at the way my thighs must have been jiggling and how they barely fit through the threshold of the front door.

Ed was outraged when she weighed me but refused to let me see the wretched number.  He was even more appalled when she started talking.

"So, let’s start out by adding 100 calories to your daily intake. We can increase it steadily like that each week so it’s not as…"

And her voice distanced as Ed flooded my starving brain like a thick, black smoke in a virgin smoker’s lung. But my brain was already stained dark from the tar of Ed’s voice.

Wait, wait, wait. This bitch wants you to eat how much every day? Doesn’t she realize that you won’t possibly fit in your desk at school if you did that? Do they really think this is what will make you happy?

"I…" was all I could muster for lack of strength. My sullen eyes locked in on a conveniently placed table decorated with plastic foods meant to show appropriate portions. I pondered when dinner would be.

What you need right now is me. And if their goal is to turn you into an obese slob to show you how “happy” you can be then fine. We’ll show them. And he curled his black, dying lips back to reveal a smile of razor black teeth.

And he held my hand so tight the entire ride home. He held my hand when my mom nearly burst into tears when she gazed upon the scribbled “X” next to “Anorexia” on the diagnosis sheet that enemy nutritionist had given her. He held my hand and led me right into the kitchen, right into the pantry, and right into my first binge. My first binge of too many.