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Food. Food, food, food, food, food.
Tender apples in sweet, caramel-colored sauce. Juicy and soft. Melty ice cream pouring down my tongue (God, the calories). Thick brownies, moist, rich (You're such a failure, shut up). The feeling, the taste (You're a failure of an anorexic. You're going to ruin all of your progress).
No, I won't, because they're just thoughts. Just thoughts.
It's hard to go to the store nowadays; I don't think I can trust myself to walk down the aisles without my brain becoming weak-willed. Miko came over to my house one day—she was escaping her host parents, of course—and was utterly disappointed at my lack of "good food". I don't know. The last time I let myself hoard snacks, I gained two pounds in a day.
All I can think about is food, but as long as I don't buy the food, I should be fine. Physically fine, at least. My mental health isn't doing too good.
I can't sleep tonight. I can't sleep most nights, the cries for food scratching at my skull. My brain, whatever is left of it, has been begging me to just pick up my phone...go to Amazon...choose the earliest delivery for a bag of Reeses/Twix/Oreos/every kind of chip I can find.
Well, that won't do because I'm not a failure and I refuse to gain the five pounds those snacks carry with them. I do pick up my phone, though.
"You up?" I text Ratchet.
Of course, he's up. It's 12 a.m. and too early to stop working in his mind. But still, I've got to check out of politeness and out of acknowledgement that tonight might be one of those nights that Optimus has convinced the overworked medic to sleep.
A response pops up on my screen. "Yes."
I move quickly. I had stood up from my bed a few minutes ago to make sure I wouldn't faint from moving around so fast. My shoes slip on, my cat meows as I pass her on the stairwell, and the outside air makes my bones shiver. Or maybe it's just me. It's probably just me.
"Could I get a very lovely ground bridge, please?" I reply, my fingers becoming stiffer.
A few seconds later, a swirl of green and blue open up in front of me.
The air inside the base is better in temperature, but stuffier for my lungs. I take a deep breath, rubbing the backs of my hands as Ratchet turns around from his usual spot to look at me with his prying, doctor eyes.
"Still having trouble sleeping?" he asks, squinting at me. "Perhaps you should tell June about this tomorrow instead of making me play taxi every night."
A small smile forms on my face. "It's insomnia, I've had it for a long time and nothing from the doctors has ever worked. Also, you're not playing taxi since you aren't actually driving."
Ratchet grunts, fully turning towards me. "Have you gotten your...anatomy...fully examined?"
"Yea," I lie, "and nothing has ever come of it."
He visibly thinks for a moment as I walk up the stairs. To be honest, my sleep schedule is kinda wack. One day, I'm so wide awake that it feels like morning. The next, I'm sleeping like an animal in hibernation out of exhaustion.
I lean against the rail that Ratchet is tapping his fingers on. The look on his face says it all: he feels helpless and guilty because he doesn't know what to do. I mean, yeah, he's a medic, but he's a medic for Cybertronians, not humans.
It lightly tugs at my heart strings, or maybe I just feel obligated to give some kind of advice. I can feel the life and energy being sucked and squeezed out of my brain and flesh. Low blood sugar.
"Maybe you should call June tomorrow and ask her when she's available to teach you about human anatomy 'n' stuff. Or maybe you could ask her or Fowler for some medical textbooks."
Ratchet sighs. "Yes, attempting to read your species' tiny handwriting will certainly help."
"PDFs exist, you know. That way you can zoom in as much as you need to for your old man eyes." I turn and walk over to the couch. "I'll hopefully succeed in sleeping here. You know I don't snore."
I can feel his blue eyes on me as I lay down, closing my eyes as my body sinks into the beaten up couch. Relief unwinds the tension in my muscles as Ratchet steps away, and I try to sink into the darkness of my mind.
There is this one thing that keeps circulating and repeating in my mind. "...it's the reason why so many anorexics die in their sleep..." I don't even remember where I read that from or what the context of it is.
I don't know. People say it's either recovery or death when it comes to anorexia. People always talk about the risk of death, expecting it to scare you. But, to be honest, I'm not scared of death or recovery as much as I'm scared of having to live with this disease until I'm old, always battling my thoughts. Nobody ever talks about that outcome.
-
"...sleeping here again?" a familiar voice asks quietly. Optimus.
"Yes." Sleep pulls me down for some time. "...asking June...medicine...cure..."
There's so much silence that in my haze, I think that maybe I'm alone.
Then there is a blur of words. I weakly try to hold on, to tune into my ears, but I can't. My brain goes quiet.
-
"You sure you don't want anything?" Jack asks, pausing at the top of the stairwell, tucking his wallet in his back pocket.
"I'm sure," I respond. "I'm trying to see if going no sugar and eating clean will help me out."
To my left, Ratchet works hard on whatever needs to be worked hard on. And further ahead is my escape. I don't like it when people talk about food with me. I don't want their opinions, their grins, their staring eyes as they search my body for the lack of flesh they're imagining in their mind. They want confirmation so they can give me the sympathy look.
Miko butts into the conversation. "Puh-lease! Last time I was at your house, you had nothing but lettuce and yogurt!"
The pressure squeezes my brain, and I clench my teeth, pushing back the nasty thoughts that dig their heels into the floor of my mind. Don't back me up into a corner. "And back then, my insomnia wasn't as bad. Maybe I was onto something there."
"If you say so," Jack says, his eyes finally leaving mine. "Ready, Arcee?"
I try not to put much thought into Ratchet's side-eye as I walk down the stairs. I just want to feel the warmth radiating off of Optimus' metal shoulder since Raf has stolen the blanket. And I want the quietness that comes with Optimus' company.
Soon enough, I arrive outside his door. I'm not sure what you would call Optimus' room. Bedroom? Office? It's got a metal "bed" of some kind in one corner and a Cybertronian "computer" against one of the walls. And yeah, that's it.
"Hey, Optimus," I greet him as I enter, shutting the door behind me. It's so quiet that I'm immediately relieved. "Mind lending me a shoulder?"
It really is quiet and dimly lit. The only light in the room comes from the Cybertronian computer and Optimus' glowing blue eyes. I like the way it doesn't require my senses to work overtime. The air almost feels cleaner in here. Though, I guess every room with Optimus feels better.
"Allow me," he responds, laying a hand down on the ground for me to climb on. "It seems you have been...tired lately."
I nod, my mind faintly recalling the conversation Optimus and Ratchet had last night when I was half asleep. It was strange to hear it. It was like I was drowning in an ocean in my mind, already out of air, and finally succumbing to the water filling my lungs. The moment where it doesn't hurt anymore; the moment where you can't help but give in.
I couldn't help but give into the weight of unconsciousness in that moment. I didn't dream, or at least I don't think I did. Something felt different about that night. Why couldn't I wake up?
Usually, I would crawl up Optimus' arm like a monkey, but as I settled onto his hand, he carefully placed me on his shoulder himself.
I settle into his shoulder, stretching out like a cat on the silver of red metal. The warmth radiating off of Optimus curls around me and seeps into my skin, comforting it. But my bones still shiver, and my skin is still wrapped tight around my joints. There is only so much you can do to help.
"How are you?" His question breaks the silence in a way that makes me curl up a bit tighter. I run the pad of my finger along the rim of his metal, quietly acknowledging and remembering that I can't be honest about this.
To be honest, I don't even know how'd he react. I imagine June, the only one here who is a human medical professional, being told. Memories of her firm voice echo in my ear, her slanted eyebrows telling me all I need to know, and her piercing eyes bulleting into mine. She'd drag me to a mental hospital or an eating disorder facility, or just a hospital. Needles would be punctured into my skin to take and give what the doctors want. Ten bucks says I'd be given the tube.
And I can't have that loss of progress and autonomy.
I rub my palm against his metal as if I can comfort him into thinking everything is okay. The events of last night paired with Ratchet's side-eye this morning are making me suspicious. "I'm alright, what about you?"
"I am well."
His fingers reach for the "keyboard"—or whatever it's called—and hover for a second. I see his mouth open a little, and I wait.
But then his mouth closes, and he goes back to typing. I'm not sure if I want to know what he was going to say.
-
Time drags on, each hour feeling longer than the last. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom once, guzzling down water from the sink to drown all of the thoughts in my brain. They're learning how to swim.
I keep forcing myself to sleep. Maybe it's hard for me to sleep at night because of the amount of naps I take during the day, I don't know. My head feels like a boulder from the way it weighs me down each time I lift it up after a nap. Each nap just makes me more tired.
The counter in my head rises to four as I open my eyes. The colors in the room look more vibrant than before, and the world stretches and blurs when I turn my head to look around. I force myself to sit up, my muscles groaning, and I rest my elbow on my knee so my hand can support my head.
"Good afternoon." Optimus' voice is so far. A pause. "You have taken many naps today."
I nod, my head swimming. "To make up for last night, I guess."
"Is there anything I can do to assist you?" Optimus turns his head a little so he can look at me from the corner of his eye.
"Just keep being as comfortable as you are now."
Mentally preparing myself, I stand up, grabbing onto the side of his head to steady myself. Then I wait.
A few seconds later, a full feeling rushes into my head. My heartbeat rushes into my ears like an ocean, violently crashing against the dam of my inner ear. I try to pull in a deep breath, but it just makes my head spin as my vision begins to go vignette.
I, as gently as I can, lower myself to one knee and lower my head. I can only hope that Optimus has refocused on his work, because my hearing and vision are nowhere to be found. Taking in deep breaths, the shadows at the edges of my vision fade, and the thundering pulsing slowly comes to a stop.
"Are you sure you are well?"
My heart sinks. "Yes," I reply, not able to look him in the eyes. Please, let it go.
Silence fills the room. I'm standing now, no longer holding onto the side of his head, allowing Optimus to get a better look at me. I just stare at the complicated anatomy that is his chest, metal pieces fitting into each other to create him. The only thing I can really do is bare his stare.
The room might burst from the pressure.
"I'm going to go to the bathroom," I say, keeping my voice even. "Could you help me down?"
For a brief moment, Optimus didn't move. I almost looked up at him, but then his hand raised for me.
-
I shut the bathroom door calmly. He doesn't know. He doesn't know.
He knows of your insomnia, yes. He doesn't know of your illness. I look deep into my own eyes in the mirror, trying to drill those thoughts past my skull and into my brain. I wish my skull would atrophy; the bones that run inside my limbs shiver like a wine glass threatening to break, but my skull is still so thick. I can't convince my brain of anything like this.
If I were still a self-harmer, I could crack open my skull and pull out my brain to inspect it, see what's wrong with it. "Where did it all go wrong?" is a question I've asked myself many times before. I can't say I've found the answer.
When my eating disorder began, I stopped cutting. Stopped cutting, stopped strangling, stopped burning myself. I don't know. It's like my anorexia just dims everything else to the point where I didn't even feel the need to hurt my own flesh.
I wouldn't say what I'm doing now is self-harm. For others, maybe, but my intentions with this disorder are different than the intentions I have when I hurt myself.
Focusing, I look at my eyes and raise a finger, feeling the sunken in skin. It looks like I took eyeshadow to them. My skin feels tight as I trace my fingers down into the small dip under my cheekbones. Small. Small enough that I don't think anyone notices.
I run my thumb along my jaw, blue veins greeting me underneath. Oh. I know what I want to do.
This is the only time where I don't think about food. I let my zip-up hoodie slide off my arms and fall heavily to the floor. This place is probably so dirty. Then I pull my shirt over my head and toss it to the ground.
Uh huh.
Is it possible to love and hate something at the same time?
I think my skin is losing its color. It stretches out over my ribcage, clinging to each bone as it descends to my stomach. I bet if I took a knife, I could one swipe to my abdominal wall. My hip bones protrude so violently that I can grab onto them like they're handle bars.
Turning around, the back of my ribcage squeezes my torso. My spine climbs up the center of my back like cysts. Disgusting, but it's what I want, too. My shoulder blades peer at me as I stretch my arms forward. If I had wings, they'd grow between them.
To be honest, I could stand here forever, staring at myself. At some point, I wouldn't even think about anything. I'd just stare, lifeless as ever, at my body. And my body would stare back. Knowing.
But I have things to do, like getting back to the uncomfortable situation I was in before I hid here. I pull on my shirt and hoodie, smoothing out my arms in hopes that the goosebumps will go away.
When I return to Optimus, he is almost at the door. His heavy footsteps send vibrations up my leg, making me wonder if my bones will shatter like glass one day because of it.
"Hey, can I ask where you're going?" I request, rubbing my knuckles together as I peer up at him.
"Ratchet has informed me of dark energon swiftly moving; it must be investigated," he responds. A pause. "Will you be fine on your own?"
The memories of the distant past flicker through my mind. "Yea, of course. Stay as safe as you can, okay?"
Optimus nods, and I step out of the way to make it easier for him to get by. When he's no longer able to see me, I watch as he leaves. Not much goes through my head. He's big and strong; I feel safe with him. But every time he goes out on a mission, it feels like the chances of him not coming back rise a little bit.
I'd rather let myself die then have that happen. That's kind of a useless thought, though.
I go back into his room and try to decide what to do. Looking at the ladder that leads up to his computer, I don't think I'm physically capable of sleeping any longer. Pulling out my phone, I tap on the app I've been using to track my fasts. 29 hours, hm? Not bad, but not great, either. When can I eat next?
Looking up, I consider the far wall. The rectangular shape of the room brings back memories of my first year in high school. It was the one year I took gym or P.E. or whatever it's called nowadays. My one and only year, too, because I don't like exercising in front of people. But still, walking alongside the walls of a rectangular-shaped room is mind numbing in a sort of nice way.
Please, just let me eat. I double check that my walking monitor is running and then get to it.
I'm not completely sure why I do this. It's not like I have calories to purge, so maybe I'm trying to give myself room for more calories (cookies and graham crackers and brownies and smores/marshmallows and waffles)—not like I'd let myself consume them, anyway. So, maybe I'm just trying to reassure myself that I'm going to stay this thin and not become fat.
My muscles are already groaning and complaining. Come on, why can't you do it like you used to? I sigh, looking down at my feet as they pick up the pace. You just keep thinking about food, hm? What about that girl the other day? She was BMI 13 and said she never thought about food. You're just not good enough, are you?
The next sigh comes out like a hiss. I can't toss my phone because I need it for tracking my steps, but I can't have my phone on me because of all the food noise. Just shut up. I tell myself. It's fine, because it's fine. Because I haven't eaten in 29 hours (I'm begging you). Because my ribs show (just let me eat). Because my hips stick out so far that my sweatpants droop (it's not worth it, it's not beautiful). It's me.
And I'm not throwing all of my progress away because you're such a weak-minded idiot!
I'm walking so fast that I'm almost jogging. I'd kill for some fresh air, except I don't really want to look at Ratchet right now. Nor do I want the "Where are you going?"s and "Wanna play a game?" I know, I know they're just trying to be nice as my friends, but I don't have the energy/will/motivation/desire for it. My brain is tired, my legs have finally regained their blood flow, and I have things to do.
So, I walk and I walk and I walk. At some point, I start playing music from my phone. Old, nostalgic songs. I scroll through some of my social media, but quit when I realize it's making me slow down.
I'm not sure how long I walk for. Somewhere in between the listening to music and zoning out and wondering when Optimus will be back, my phone turns off and I stare blankly ahead of me. My feet move on their own, my body performing a routine that it's done a thousand times.
Time goes in flashes. One moment I'm passing by Optimus' bed, the next I'm walking by the door. The urges and whines for food turn into muffled screams, but I think their vocal cords are getting tired—or maybe my hearing is somehow getting worse—because there are moments where I don't remember hearing them at all.
I think my vision is closing in, but I'm still walking. Still walking. Still walking. Still walking. Smooth concrete(?) brushes my arm. I try to step back and turn, but something hard is stopping me. More concrete?
Wait, where am I? What's happeni—
-
Faintly, my name is being called, and something is prodding at my upper arm. Something big.
"Wake up," Optimus says.
Wake up? Wake up. Oh, wake up.
My eyes open. Low and behold, Optimus Prime is kneeling in front of me, leaning on one hand to support himself as his other prods me. Usually, I'd be glad to see his gorgeous, blue eyes and handsome face. Not right now, though.
Immediately, I rifle through my memories. Walking, concrete walls, and then I think I fell. But where did I fall is the question. Trying not to be obvious about my looking around as I sit up, I find myself next to Optimus' computer. Or, well, under it.
I spam the panic button, and my brain conjures up an excuse.
"...Hey, Optimus," I say carefully, trying to act casual. "I've been waiting for you."
Damn, I might be as bad of a liar as he is.
"The position I found you in suggests otherwise." There is this brief sadness that passes through his face, and he says my name again. "Please, tell me what truly happened."
Shit, I don't like this. I don't like lying to Optimus. I don't really mind lying to the others too much, but lying to Optimus hurts. "It's nothing, I just." Am I seriously stuttering my words now? "I just fell asleep is all. It's fine."
"Get on my hand," he tells me, but there is a slight edge in his voice. Can't argue with that.
Silently, I crawl onto his outstretched hand, and Optimus curls his other around me as if I might somehow fall while he stands up. Seriously, how do I get myself out of this? I can't really decide much until I know how much he knows. That's what makes it so painful, I think. Not knowing.
He places me down beside his computer, sliding my phone off of his finger to the side of me, and I meet his eyes. There's a slight furrow in his eyebrows, like he can't decide how he wants to approach this. I don't blame him. He probably doesn't have much experience with...whatever he thinks he is dealing with. I prepare myself mentally, throwing my guard up, ready for battle.
Goal one: no doctors. No way am I letting Optimus convince me to go to a doctor—or June—about this. They'll freak if they see my body. They'll freak harder if they see my weight. Goal two: if he knows about my eating disorder, no eating disorder facilities. No specialists, not even a psychiatrist or therapist. This goal and goal one go hand-in-hand since they have the same outcome. Electrolyte IV, tube feeding, and what'd probably be six months of Hell. Goal three: I'd rather die than give this up.
I bear my arms and wait for his first attack.
He says my name. "Ratchet and I have been immensely concerned about you," Optimus says. "You have been struggling to sleep to an increasing degree. You have not been eating—" my heart drops—"nor participating with the others. And just moments ago, I found you unconscious on the floor."
He knows.
Blood rushes either to or away from my head, I can't tell which. The world around me wavers, and I try to take in a deep breath to steady my wobbling vision.
"You will either tell me what is happening, or I will be forced to include June in this."
I try again to steady myself. "You...can't."
Optimus' eyes search mine, and my face flushes with red. The furrow in his eyebrows is gone. I can't read him anymore.
He speaks again, "On my behalf, Ratchet researched your symptoms—physical and behavioral—to see if we could find an answer." There is a pause, and my name comes carefully out of his mouth. "Do you have anorexia nervosa?"
A fire has been ignited inside me, licking at the bottom of my throat. My face is hot, and my chest is tight. I can't tell if this is anger or helplessness or desperation. Maybe it's sadness. I can't tell anymore. I can't even fight what he's saying because it's so true that I can't even think of how I could defend myself. How do I defend my hollow cheekbones and eyes? How do I defend my sleeping issues and my fainting spells? I bet if I took off my clothes, I'd see Optimus Prime panic a little in front of me for the first time.
So, there's only one option left as the others are crumpled and violently thrown away.
"I'm leaving," I hiss.
Optimus blinks. I reach down and pick up my phone, and a wave of dizziness turns my brain into mush as I shoot back up. I stumble, holding my head, and Optimus reaches out to steady me, but I shove (or try to) his hand away.
I damn near slide down the ladder with how fast I go, shoving down every feeling of lightheadedness and shortness of breath as I go. My name is called urgently. "Don't do this." He almost sounds like he's begging, but in a firm tone.
The ground-trembling weight of his footsteps follow me as I enter the main room of the base. No kids in sight, it must be night. Ratchet whirls around as Optimus, again, begs/orders that I stay.
"Optimus, what is going on?" Ratchet urgently asks, and the footsteps finally stop.
-
The night air is cold, the breeze pushing my hair back, but the moon is nowhere to be found; it's hidden behind thick, dark clouds that block even the brightest rays of moonlight.
It's unusual for Jasper, Nevada. And while past me would've loved this, I don't want to feel colder than I already am. Plus, this is probably climate change's doing. Why is rain threatening me during the night in a desert?
Thunder responds to me, making my eardrums tremble. I look up at the sky to see if I can catch sight of the next lightning strike. "You best strike me dead," I tell it. "I'm as easy to break as the dead bushes here."
A single raindrop lands in my eye. My eye snaps shut for a moment and then I blink a couple of times. "Jeez."
I must be at least three miles away from home. That wouldn't be so bad if my legs weren't still tired from walking earlier. How long did I walk for, anyway?
Pausing, I lift a palm up to feel the raindrops slowly land one by one onto my skin. My hands are so flakey and dry. Flakes of dead skin are flattened as the pace of the raindrops begins to pick up. I guess I better pick up the pace, too. I don't want to be this cold for very long.
Goosebumps flare across my arms and legs as I go back to walking. Should I have just stayed at base? No, then Optimus and Ratchet would've cornered me and forced me into some ridiculous plan. Maybe they would've called June, telling her it's urgent. Maybe they already have.
I hate it. I hate the sympathetic looks people give me when they see me. I can't even get gas without the person in front of me staring at every part of me. It's disgusting; it makes me feel small. Like, suddenly, I'm a little kid again and the adults are going "Oh, no, sweetie. Do you want me to kiss it better?" Just shut up, I can handle myself.
Shivering, I cross my arms and press them to my chest. I think I'm turning into ice. Another roll of thunder rumbles in the sky.
Wait, no, that's not thunder. Is that...?
I turn around, blinking away the raindrops collecting on my eyelashes. Oh my God. I try to blink away the disbelief, too, as Optimus' headlights approach. I stare as he pulls up beside me, engine vibrating the air. The door gently opens a little.
"I'm not going with you if you're planning on taking me back to base," I tell him loudly over the pouring rain.
"That was not my intention."
"I'm also not getting in if you're planning on taking me to a hospital. Or anywhere like that."
"That was also not my intention." There is a sadness in his voice. "Please, for me."
My shoulders slump. I'm so soaked that I can squeeze water out of my sleeves. I'm not sure what he's planning, but fuck, my muscles are becoming stiffer and stiffer by the minute. "You'll get wet, you know. I'm drenched."
"That is fine as long as you are alright." The door opens a little more.
I sigh and open the door, feeling bad as my wet clothes touch the seat. Warmth is everywhere here, and it only gets stronger as I close the door. I put on my seatbelt, and Optimus begins to drive down the road.
"To your left, there is a blanket for you," Optimus says.
And that there is. The one from the couch. I reach over and take it, half-wrapping myself in the soft fabric. All I need now is a dry set of clothes. I sigh. "Thank you, Optimus. Where are we going?"
There is a pause, and I immediately don't want to be here anymore. I look at the door's lock; I can pry it up if I need to. "If we are lucky, the gas station."
My teeth grit. This is exactly what I feared; I'm backed into a corner. I shouldn't have come in here. My hand flies to the door handle. "No, Optimus, for the love of God. Let me out right now."
He says my name. "Please—"
I shake my head wildly. "You can't do this to me. Nothing you're thinking of doing will help. No hospital, no doctor, no medication, no food will help me. You don't understand me. For the love of God, let me out, Optimus. I will pry open your door if I have to."
My fingers graze his door's lock, and I pull it up, but it immediately goes back down. Optimus comes to a halt in the street. I pull it up, he pulls it down, I pull it up, he pulls it down. My face flushes with heat again, and the fire in my stomach builds. Tears sting my eyes as they mix with the rainwater on my eyelids.
"Please—" my voice comes out broken as I weakly tug at the door's lock again—"I'm begging you, don't do this to me."
"Please, listen to me," Optimus says with gentle sadness. "If you truly believe that no hospital will help you, then fine." A pause. "But...please, I ask that you eat just one thing."
The way he's talking to me hurts. I put my elbow next to the window so my hand can support my head. All of my muscles are clenched tight. It hurts to hear him talk like this when I'm so used to him using the "leadership voice" on everyone else. I don't want to eat, but I don't want to make him feel as bad as he is right now.
He continues, "We cannot stand by and watch you slowly kill yourself. So, please, just one thing."
I've stopped shivering, the warm air in here wrapping me up like an extra blanket, but the inside of my body still feels cold. That little voice comes back. Just one thing won't hurt.
Inside the chasm that is my mind, my eating disorder is screaming at me. It's telling me all about the weight I'll gain, shoving images of a larger me into my mind's eye. Even if it's 400 calories, it won't hurt. It won't do anything. My eating disorder rebels with stories of slowed metabolisms and repeats, "IT WILL!" But is it just screaming because it already knows I've made my choice?
I'm going to hate myself after this, but I think I'll hear relief in Optimus' voice.
"Okay."