an-alamort-poet

[an-alamort-poet]

Warning this story is about eating disorders and time spent in the psych ward.

When I was sixteen I was admitted to a psych ward. And there was this girl there that I've never been able to stop thinking about. Everything I say about her is what I've seen; from what people told me about her, she never spoke.

While I was there, there were four people there that I knew were there for having an eating disorder and she was one of the four. she walked around with an IV pole that I watched her nearly trip over now and again.

There were only two single-person rooms, she and another girl with an eating disorder had them.

In the ward, the beds you sleep on are so thin you might as well have slept on the floor. But hers was the only room on our unit with a normal hospital bed. She had a woman whose job was to follow her around while she walked from her room through the hallways and a few times into the lounge. it seemed like she had no idea where she was.

I'd tell her good morning and goodnight almost daily, but it never felt like she saw me. She always seemed like she looked right through me. But one day while we were in the lounge she went to sit next to me. She usually just sits in a chair away from anyone else for maybe ten seconds before standing back up and wandering off, I watched her almost miss the chair when she went to sit down, the woman whose job was to follow her had to push her a little to make sure she sat in the chair instead of falling off the side of it. We sat there silently for about two minutes next to each other. It was the longest I ever saw her sit in a chair. The woman smiled at me and told me that she liked me. She then got back up and continued her usual walk around the hallways.

I saw a puddle of pee in her room one time and heard a nurse talk about helping her get into a pull-up. I mentioned it to a friend of mine who had been there longer than I had telling her how I felt bad that she lives like that. My friend then told me that she purposely pees herself to get the pull-ups, she had no idea why. But I imagine it's because it must be easier to have someone help you change yourself a few times a day, then come with you to help and watch you every time you're in a bathroom. But I'll never really know why she prefers the pull-ups. 

But the main thing that keeps me thinking of her is what I saw once during visiting hours. The way that it was set up was sometime around 6 pm. I can't remember the exact time, it has been a few years. visitors would come for an hour, and then after that, it was room time. During room time one day I was sitting in my doorway watching whatever the nurses were doing when I saw who I assumed was her dad was still there. I thought it was weird that he got to stay after everyone had left. I sat at my door wondering why they were in the hallway instead of the lounge when I realized it was because she was doing what she always did, just wandering up and down the hallway. I watched as she looked at her dad and he waved at her while she just looked at him for a moment, only a second. Then she went back to her wandering. I walked into my room and just sat on my bed. I thought about how her dad must feel to be watching his daughter just fade away like that.

When I would hear people talk about why you should fight your eating disorder it was always something about how you should be happy with how you are, self-love. They talk about how starving yourself could cause you to gain more weight. How vomiting can destroy your teeth and how your hair thins and falls out. But I don't think that does the disorder justice for the debilitating disease it is. The idea of being skinny enough is what takes over your mind ignoring how you feel and the hunger. Your body starts to panic and does anything to keep itself alive. But eventually, your body can only spare so many resources, and parts of you start to shut down. Then suddenly theirs nothing of you left.

She did this thing with her hands where she would put her thumb in her palm and then squeeze her hands into a fist. It was the only thing she did that reminded me that she was once a person, and not always this wondering body that may never get better. And may not make it all.

[an-alamort-poet]

Intro

I write with themes such as sex, drugs, gore, self harm, and other things of that kind. Be aware of that before you consume anything I post.

I’m new to this app and struggle with social media in general so bare with me.

I’m interested in many things and love to see what other people think.

This seems like a good place to post short stories, poems, or whatever else pops into my head. I’m open to constructive criticism or questions.

I write about life from my perspective and experiences, sometimes the things I say sound differently then I mean them. I apologize.

[an-alamort-poet]

“you’re a writer, right?”

me, staring at the one sentence i’ve managed to add in the last hour and the 12 open tabs on the specifics of shoes in 1845 Ireland: In theory.

[an-alamort-poet]