TW: eating disorder, depression, self-harm, suicide mentions

It seems that I'm only capable of two moods lately: anger or crushing sadness. Neither of which are particularly pleasant for me or for Noah, who ends up having to deal with me being disagreeable either way. 

I leave the breakfast room while Noah is at the coffee machine, walking quickly while his back is turned to the rest of the room, feeling incredibly stupid as I do so. Here I am, a thirty-two-year-old man, sneaking away from his boyfriend like a child. 

Anyway, it's not like I haven't eaten, so it could be worse. 

Noah has the room key, so instead of heading up the stairs, I find the toilets in the restaurant, locking myself in the far cubicle and sitting on the closed toilet seat. I don't know why I left the table to begin with. Something about the room, the noise, was getting extremely overwhelming. Watching people eat without worry feels like a mockery against me. Like, look, Andy! Look at this thing you ruined for yourself that we can all do! 

So I left, and now here I am, hiding in the bathroom like a kid skipping class.

Fucking pathetic. 

I know Noah will come looking for me soon, because unlike me, he's not stupid. That's something no one talks about in relation to anorexia. It makes you feel so fucking stupid. Or maybe that's a me problem. I don't know. I don't know fucking anything. 

I listen as the door opens and bangs closed and place my bets on whether it's Noah or not, trying to decide what to do if it is, whether to pretend I'm not here. 

"Andy, you here?" 

 I close my eyes, pressing my fingers between them as though I could somehow push all my problems deep, until they're buried enough to ignore.

After a few seconds, I reply, "Yeah." 

"You okay?" 

Now, I don't say anything. 

He knocks on the locked door. "Andy?" He says through it. 

I pull up the hem of my shirt to reveal the cuts, ghost my fingers over them, wish I'd stayed quiet. 

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," I snap, not meaning to sound so harsh. 

"What're you doing in there?" 

"Swimming." 

"Great," I hear him mumble, before asking louder, "Okay. What's wrong?" 

"Nothing, Noah." 

"Don't do that. Why do you keep doing that?" 

"Doing what?" 

"Shutting me out." 

"I'm not." 

"Then what's the matter?" 

I shrug even though he can't see me. 

"Andy." 

"Just fuck off." 

"You're not throwing up, are you?" 

At that, my eyes widen. It hadn't even crossed my mind to do that. It's not something I've ever done before, even when my eating disorder was at its worst. The fact that Noah is concerned enough to believe I might do that makes me feel horribly guilty. How dare I worry him like this? 

"No," I answer honestly, but I don't know if he believes me or not, and I wouldn't blame him if he doesn't. "Of course not." 

"Then why are you hiding in there?" 

"I'm not...I'm not hiding." As if he'll believe that. 

"What are you doing, then?" 

"I don't know." 

"You don't know?" 

I pull my shirt back down. "No." 

"Can you unlock the door?" 

"Why?"

"Andy, please." 

"No, fuck off." 

"Andy-" 

"Fuck off," I repeat, as if that'll reassure him that I'm not trying to hide something. 

For a couple of seconds, he says nothing. Then he knocks again on the door and asks, "Are you okay, Andy, really?" 

If I were to answer that question honestly and fully, I'd be talking for hours. So I don't say anything at all. 

Noah doesn't speak again after my silence, and I wonder whether he's gone but am sure he hasn't, since the door hasn't made a sound. A bang in the cubicle next door makes me flinch, and before I can stop him, Noah is climbing over the top, presumably by using the toilet as a step. He jumps down into my stall. 

"What the hell?" I hiss. 

"You weren't letting me in." 

"So you invaded my privacy?" 

"You're not even using the toilet. 

"It's locked for privacy," I say, though I know it's a weak excuse. 

Noah, leaning against the locked door, eyes me. "This has got to stop." 

"What?" 

"Every time we get somewhere, you shut down. Andy, you can't just not communicate. No one ever gets better by shutting everyone out." 

"Yeah, well..." I fold my arms. "I told you. I don't want to." 

"You can't live your life like this, you think that's gonna satisfy you?" 

"It's my life." 

"And you're going to spend the rest of it starving and unhappy, are you? Is that your grand plan?" 

"I don't have a grand plan." 

"Why won't you just talk about it? Like, properly talk." 

"Why won't you just shut the fuck up?" I retort. "Like, properly shut the fuck up." 

"For god's sake, Andy, I'm trying to help you." 

"Well then fucking stop it. I never asked for your help. I never asked for you to force me to eat when I don't want to just so that I can hate myself for it. Is that what you want? Me to hate myself? Because Noah, I don't know if you're fucking stupid or what, but eating makes me hate myself. Why the hell would you want that for me if you love me?"  

"You told me yourself that you have to recover." 

"Then I was wrong, wasn't I?" 

"No. You weren't." 

"Seriously, fuck off." 

"I'm worried about you." 

"Good for you." 

"Andy-" 

"I said fuck off." 

"Look," he begins, and I glare at him. "I know it sucks. I know you don't want to feel shit for eating something, and trust me, I don't want you to feel shit, either. But I also don't want you to starve yourself into the fucking hospital. You're not going to survive forever off so little food and you're kidding yourself if you think the rules don't apply to you. Andy, you're a human. Your body needs food or it'll start shutting down on you. You'll end up with heart failure or something and then what will you do? Say, oh well, at least I'm thin? You're going to do yourself serious damage. I'm just trying to stop that from happening. That's all." 

"Yes," I reply sharply. "At least I'm thin." 

Noah runs his hands over his face, clearly exhausted with the cycle of arguing. His voice softens. "Is that how important it is to you?" He asks. "You really would rather destroy your body for the sake of being thinner than be healthier and not as thin?" 

I blink. Put like that, it makes me sound insane. 

"There must be more to it," he insists. 

There is. 

"Andy, I'm begging you. Talk to me. I just climbed over a fucking bathroom stall, that's how desperate I am for you to talk to me." 

But I can't. I can't tell him I only feel valid when I'm unwell. I can't tell him that feeling sick is better than not and I don't know why. I can't tell him that I like it when people ask me if I ever eat or that I find comfort in being lightheaded from hunger. I can't tell him any of it. 

He exhales heavily. "You're just not going to try?" 

I don't know whether he means try to talk or try to recover, but I don't ask. 

"Fuck, Andy. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to help you if you won't even try?" 

"I don't want help," I mutter. It's a weak response but I don't know what else I'm supposed to do or say.

"No, I know. I know you don't. But you need it, fucking hell. Can't you see how much you need it?" 

"I don't care, Noah. Alright? I don't care anymore." 

Stepping forward, Noah crouches, hands on my knees. "You have to try," he says quietly. "There is no other way out of this." 

"There is," I murmur.

"No, Andy. No." 

"Who fucking cares anyway?" 

"Are you kidding? We all care." 

"How do I try?" I ask. "If trying makes everything worse?" 

"It won't be worse forever." 

"You don't fucking know that. No one fucking knows that. Everyone says it all the fucking time, but nobody, Noah, nobody fucking knows anything! I can't live if I'm not - if I'm not..." My voice trails off and I drop my head so it hangs between my shoulders. 

Noah tucks his fingers under my chin and makes me look at him. "If you're not what?" He prompts. 

"Nothing," I whisper. "Never mind." 

"Fuck, Andy," he whispers in return, bringing his other hand to my hair. "Why won't you talk?" 

I blink up at him. I wish I knew the answer, but I don't. I wish I could talk. I wish I could tell him how much I need to be ill, how much less wrong my existence feels when I'm physically unwell, starved, barely able to think straight.

But how do you say that? How do you tell someone who loves you, who wants you to be healthy, that you'd rather slowly die than to go through the horrible guilt of not being sick enough? 

Sick enough for what, you ask. 

The only answer I have is that anorexia wants me dead, and I can't live without it.