Sick

Illustrated by Ella Clayton.

You still cup the heel of your foot in your hand when no one can see you. 

  You’re doing it now while you lie on your side, repositioning so that the capsule camera in your gut can float around all your squeaky-clean grooves, your very own tiny spy. The padded metal belt you have to wear is itching against your back. Squeezing over your stomach. You don’t like the kind of warm heat that is festering in the ward. It makes you feel like your skin is shedding. Rejecting you. Sky-blue paper curtains that don’t look like the sky and aren’t really blue. Circled by old men. Hooked up to screens and wires. You are breathing in their air and they are breathing in yours. You try not to think about the snake they will push down your gullet if this doesn’t work. You try to lower your heart rate by exhaling out though pursed lips. The monitor pulses. 80. 76. 71. 71. You aren’t quite ready for the nurse to come back in. Wait. Not yet.

                                                                        ***

You are sobbing in a Victoria’s Secret changing room because the fitter has just told you that you’re down two sizes like it’s a good thing. 

   She is impressed by how willowy you look now compared to the old picture of you that you’re showing her on your phone. You can’t remember the name of that plum set they used to make, so you’re just showing her the picture because why not. You are told the Wicked Unlined Balconette in Envy will look way better on you now. You are told you wouldn’t have got away with that shape before, that it wasn’t flattering. She gives you a complimentary striped bag to smuggle your dead bra out of the shop. It’s faded pink underside looks up at you through the tissue paper. You are being judged by the severed mannikins bejewelled in diamanté corsets. You feel girls your age forming an opinion about you as they try and slip seamless briefs into their handbags. You know they can see your thinning hair popping out from the base of your ponytail, even from where you are standing at the till. Thick socks that don’t go with your jeans to keep your feet warm. You’re looking at your sunken eyes mirrored back at you from the black lacquered wall behind the till. You swipe the other card. It goes through.

***

You forget to hide the army of drugs and herbal supplements on your kitchen counter. 

    She looks at them and then at you and then at the floor. You don’t want her to know that you are unravelling. That bits of you are switching off. That you are shrinking away from her empathy. Her kisses. Touches. You feel your chest cave in as she smoothes her palms over your waist, her thumbs nearly meeting in the middle. You’re always too tired. You ache too much. You know this isn’t what she signed up for. It’s okay. You understand. You know it’s not okay really. It’s not meant to be this hard. You know you breathe deeply when she leaves the next morning. Hurt and relief. 

***

You are feeling sick of being poked and prodded. 

    You don’t want to have to explain it to another specialist from the beginning again. No. You just want him to take you seriously and read your clinical pathway. You aren’t a guinea pig. You aren’t crazy. You are angry at your own body for deciding to stop working. You would be crazy if you weren’t angry. You don’t want to wait on hold any more. It drains your phone battery. You are trying so hard not to scream as you walk across the road and up the staircase to the sliding doors. You don’t want to look after yourself. You don’t want to pick up another prescription from the Outpatients Pharmacy. Send it to my GP. It’s a controlled drug. You don’t want that half-smile of pity from the receptionist. You don’t want to be asked if you would prefer it as a liquid or a tablet. Tablet. You thank her anyway. See you soon.

***

You are trying to run along the old path through the woods. 

    You are stopping every few minutes. Paracetamol in your bumbag. Your Mum’s voice is crackling through your headphones. Just in case something goes wrong. You don’t admit that you are more scared than she is. You feel like everything is still changing too fast. You haven’t been anywhere on your own in a long time. You don’t know if you can. But then, you spot a tan and black and grey dot emerging from the trees. You stop. Walk closer. The woman sheds her towel. She didn’t fold it but let it just fall where it was. She has grey curls escaping from her swimming cap. Wearing one of those old-fashioned swimming costumes, elastic sagging at the shoulders. Using the rusting railing to slowly lower herself to the pond’s edge, she walks straight in, chest out. She doesn’t flinch at the cold. She falls backwards into the water. Doesn’t give a fuck about the lane swimmers. Lets herself drift. You are wondering what it would feel like to be swallowed like that. If you could ever be held in your totality. 

She opens her arms out to the sky. Sandwiched calmy between the elements. 

Maybe hope creeps in.