My mom took me to a therapist once,

For my “unusual habits.”

It’s complicated,

I told her.

That wasn’t the answer she was looking for.

I took my anorexia with me to the therapist that cool autumn afternoon;

I figured my mom wouldn’t mind.

He sat there silently,

Jaw clenched,

Knowing this therapist would try to take him away from me.

I tried to think of it as quality time together to improve our relationship;

We’ve been on again off again for the past five years.

So that has to mean it’s getting serious,

Right?

She asks how I sleep at night.

I go to bed early most nights.

Yeah, I’m tired,

But it’s to spend quality time with him—

The therapist doesn’t like the words pouring out of my mouth,

Like last night’s dinner.

She says it’s dangerous.

But he lies in my bed next to me,

Holding me.

He is my constant,

My routine.

He often tells me how beautiful I am to him.

But he just as often tells me I’m fat,

I’m appalling.

Pulling at my skin,

He wants it to go away.

I want it to go away—

To shuck out my insides,

And design my own Eve.

He gently touches the bones jutting out of my hips,

My shoulders,

My ribs,

Like snow-peaked mountains all over my body.

They’re good, he whispers,

But they need to be Mount Everests.

All the while,

My lover, Depression,

Lingers in the hallway.

No one knows about him.

My secret.

He promises that it’s always ok

To love more than one thing at a time.

My heart is big,

Too big.

She asks about my friends.

My friends hate when we go out together.

They say it makes them the third wheel.

I guess that’s what happens

When you’ve been with someone for so long.

No, we don’t go out to dinner

Like most couples.

He likes me skinny.

It makes it easier for him to be the big spoon.

Surrounding me,

His body swallows mine,

And I disappear inside him.

Our therapist thinks

I’m only with him

Because my parents and I don’t get along,

Because I consume my emotions instead of my food.

But he holds my hand tight,

Whispering to the therapist

That this is a sensitive subject for me.

She sighs,

And says we’ll talk more about his next week.

 He mutters something under my breath she can’t quite hear

And slams the door on our way out.

She wants to introduce me to Prozac.

A friend, she says.

Supposedly Prozac treats girls well:

Invites them to breakfast,

Makes them chocolate chip pancakes

With whipped cream swirls on top—

That’s at least 150 calories a pancake, though.

I’m ok like this.

It’s not great,

But I don’t want to lose him.

He’s everything I have.

But I’ll make it;

He’ll help me.

Or we’ll die trying.