Fear. I never thought I feared many things, until about three years ago. Spring of 2015 was supposed to be memorable but not for this reason. That was when one word changed everything.

I thought lightening was scary, but I didn’t even know what fear was until I heard one word.   

            “Anorexic.” 

 I remember the day I found out.  My parents looking into my eyes. I can see the fear taking over them. As if it is a never-ending rainfall. They try to help me understand what is happening to her, but their words fall through their throats and stay there. I then see my sister come out of the once white doctors room that now seemed black. There is a man behind her in all white who reminds me of my grandpa. The rainfall of fear now travels to me. As my parents began to talk with the doctor my head starts racing. There is so much going on around me. My parents wanting to know answers, my sister standing paralyzed not even a blink, doctors waking right and left, people talking,

“How are you? What room do I go to? When’s my next appointment?” 

Then suddenly, nothing. Silence. Everything around me is in slow motion. I look at my sister and suddenly hear her crying. Except it is not her face, it is her mind. 

She doesn’t see it. Does she?

 My mind starts questioning. 

Why doesn’t she see it? She is beautiful. She is herself. Why her God? Why her?! 

My fear is growing now.  The fear of what she is doing to herself. Fear of what she is saying inside of her head. Fear of “am I next?” Fear of the future. This stage of terror is not the kind that jumps your skin and then leaves. It is the terror that makes your hands tense, your eyes darken, and your heart race. But it never leaves.          

I see this fear in her too. It is written all over her skin. It is like blood, stained on her permanently. Her body is nothing but a line of pain, so thin it seems as if you touch it. Snap.       I start to see a mask covering her face. It is a shield from the rest of the world. Except this mask talks back to her. The devil telling her,

“Perfection. You have to be perfect for people to like you.”

My heart drops. There is not a strong enough word to describe how heart wrenching this is. My eyes move toward her torso. She has on a tight tank top, though not tight on her, that pressed on her ribs. Pants that “have” to cover all her legs. And shoes that can not even stay on her feet. My eyes, now filled with rain still looking into her eyes, only saw fire. A fire that is spreading throughout her body and obliterating everything that was in its way.  

In the silence I can hear the screams of fear and hunger. I can hear her inside calling for help. I suddenly start coming back out of my head and I hear the doctor tell my parents, “She is going to be okay. I am sending her to the best therapist in town. I promise your daughter will beat this.”

 As much as this settles me, the fear stays. 

This fear stayed within not only her, but our entire family. Fear is like seasons. It comes and goes. But after a time of knowing fear, it grows into something much worse. Fear grows into a reality.