A sparkly blue fidget cube transfers from my left to right hand and I click the light switch button on it back and forth nervously for what feels like an eternity.

So many extremely thin girls are walking through the doors.

Click, click, click.

I do not belong here. 

Click, click, click.

A familiar face, my dietitian, greeted me at the door moments ago, but she is gone now and I fervidly wish she would come back and be with me. I want to slip away unnoticed. Parents of extremely thin girls gather and for a second I wish one of them was mine, and we jumped back in time by 15 years.

I’m not breathing. I’m going to pass out. Breathe.

Click, click, click.

The therapist doing my assessment appears and warmly shakes my right hand with both hands which I always find both comforting and intimidating.

“Tell me about …” Her voice trails off but the questions are easy in the beginning and I can answer mechanically. I’ve done this enough times now.


“Do you have suicidalthoughtsorideation?”


Click, click, click.


“I’m sorry that happened.”

“It’s ok. …. thanks, though…” I barely manage to say, because my body is rejecting her sympathy.

She must think I’m a terrible person.

“[My Real Name], B r e a t h e.”

The room is closing in on me.

“I need you to take a breath with me. You forgot to breathe there for a minute.”

“Can I use the restroom?”

When I return, she has a couple more questions and tells me about the program/group I will join next week and we are practically done but I can’t contain my tears any longer and they just come without any warning. She doesn’t know what I need (and I cannot say) is for her to  give me any sort of physical connection. I need a hug or even just a hand on the shoulder–something that lets me know I’m here and loved and it’s ok. I wish I didn’t need this validation so badly in these moments, but I do, and I leave feeling completely rejected and alone.

When I get to my car, I cry for 75 minutes. I am frozen and cannot drive, as much as I want to get out of there as quickly as possible, I just cannot get my right leg to move so my foot can touch the gas pedal. I cannot will my shoulder joint to elevate even a little for my arm to extend and my index finger to reach the ignition button.  I tearfully watch almost everyone leave the building. Office lights go out one by one and I feel more alone with each stranger’s exit.

I need anyone right now.



2 thoughts on “Another Intake

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