just close your eyes

Close your eyes. Just close your eyes and everything will go away.

I remember summer nights in the mountains. The cold air creeping down from the peaks. We would run and scream and laugh in the dusk until our bare feet grew numb. We were wild things then, so removed from everything in our little house on the hill. We ran silently through the woods and lived off wild strawberries. The outdoors was our world until the night fell and we were forced to retreat inside the safety of four walls. Monsters walked the woods at night, but there were monsters inside too.

I remember stumbling drowsily through the foggy mornings to press a tired cheek against the scratchy warmth of a goat, the silence broken only by the sounds of contented chewing and the rhythmic streams of milk against the metal pail. Buckets of oats. Armfuls of hay. Walking back to the ramshackle house, the frothy milk steaming in the dim light of the sunrise. Chickens clucking in offense at our cold hands disturbing their nests, searching for brown eggs, green eggs, little tiny speckled eggs.

I remember the screaming. I remember the way her arms furiously sliced through the air. I remember the words that fell like shrapnel.

I remember standing alone on the playground, watching the other girls run away from me, squealing. I remember standing in front of my dresser and surveying my clothing choices in hopeless despair. I remember the snide remarks that followed me down the halls of our small church.

"Nice shoes. Your feet have gotten really big, haven't they?"

"Are you going to wear that dress every Sunday?"

I remember pretending.

...

Just close your eyes.

I am letting things slip through my fingers. I am slowly side-stepping into the shadows and hoping no one will notice. 

I didn't make an appointment with my dietitian last week. I haven't made one for this week yet either. I haven't re-scheduled my appointment with the treatment center doctor. I let the calls go to voicemail. I delete the messages and pretend they never existed.

"I'm sorry I'm late." I tell the psychiatric nurse. It is early on a bitterly cold Monday, and I have spent the last forty-five minutes battling icy roads and nervous drivers. Anxiety has my teeth on edge. I hate being late to appointments.

"It's fine." He says, but his feathers are ruffled. "I was late this morning too."

He looks at the clock, irritation in the crease between his eyes. I sink deeper into my chair, pulling my giant parka closer and hoping I might disappear into it.

He asks all the same questions, and I give all the same answers. 

He glances at the clock again. It is 9:05 am. "I have an another appointment scheduled at 9." He tells me, annoyance lurking in his professional voice. "And another at 9:30. I'm booked solid all day."

I am submerged in both guilt and resentment, so I stay silent. 

"How's your appetite?" He asks briskly.

"I think it's fine." I answer shortly.

He doesn't hesitate. "What does your dietitian think?"

I think about lying, but I'm worn thin. "She thinks I'm not eating enough." 

It comes out like a challenge. I am tired of these people telling me what is right and what is wrong and how much is enough and how much is too little.

He launches into a lecture about the importance of breakfast, and I stop listening.

Later, I sit outside the pharmacy, waiting for my prescription to be filled. I watch the people shuffle by, swallowed under giant coats and knit hats. A woman catches my eye, and I start. I'm certain it's my frail roommate from the psychiatric ward. I almost call out to her, but she turns, and I am suddenly uncertain. So I sip my scalding coffee instead.

...

The sun has set. Another day has come and go, and I still have not managed to pick up the phone. 

Just close your eyes. Close your eyes and everything will go away.