All the skinny girls, seated on the over-sized couch, legs and feet tucked under, wrapping their arms in a self-embrace. I'm separate, observing them through the doorway from inside the in-take room, waiting to be evaluated, picking up bits and pieces of their conversation... sweet, high-pitched voices, talking as effortlessly about their celebrity boy-crushes as their desire to throw up what they had for lunch. Dribbles of adolescent normalcy infiltrating the dis-order of their disease.
All the skinny girls, draped in button-down flannels, open cuffs pulled over their hands. Multi-colored fingernails and blue streaks in their hair, announcing their set-apartness. Shoulders, sunken and slouched, shielding their vulnerable hearts. Misfits and over-achievers outside these walls but, in here, what a relief to be just another starving white girl. I close my eyes and listen harder, tears of compassion starting to pool. My heart screams, I want to give you back your innocence. I want to hold each of you, the depth of your bodies and minds, the way your mother never could. Come with me, my peaceful warriors, let's build an army together. Let me walk along with you. Take my arm, I've been down this road before. We'll find our way together.
Through the doorway, the treatment coordinator arrives. My eyes open and her gaze and half-smile immediately reassure me. Trust me, I get why you're here. And she does. We walk into the hall towards her office, past the skinny girls, of which I am now one. My girls, my kindred, my little sisters, whom I love already. Her office door closes, she motions me to a chair. I sit down across from her, tuck my legs and feet under, take a deep breath, and begin.
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