TW: eating disorder, depression, anxiety

Lonny wakes me gently, hand on my shoulder as he says my name. It takes a moment to recall everything that brought me here, and I sit up slowly, blinking until my eyes stay open. 

"Noah called," Lonny tells me. "I don't know if you want him to know what you told me, so I just told him you're here, you're safe, but nothing else." 

"Oh. Thanks," I mumble, still sleepy. "How long has it been?" 

"Two hours, give or take. I thought I better wake you before your body starts to ache from the position. And because it's lunch time." As he says this, his voice quietens as though worried of what my response might be. 

"Oh," I whisper, rubbing my eyes. "Right." 

"I don't know what you want to do," he says. "If you came here for help or not? I don't want to overstep a boundary." 

Swear to god, Lonny is the purest most gentle person I've ever fucking met. "I'm so sorry, Lon, I totally interrupted your day-" 

"No, don't. You're good. You don't have to apologise. Anyway, you know you're welcome here anytime."

"What did Noah say?" 

"That he's worried and wanted to make sure someone knew where you were." 

"Okay." 

"Why don't we have lunch?" Suggests Lonny. 

"No, I..." Lacking any sort of excuse, I trail off, shaking my head and then covering my face with my hands. 

"Alright, then at the very least come and sit with me." 

I know what he's doing: hoping that by having me sit with him while he eats, I'll be so overwhelmed by hunger that I'll eventually eat, too. I shake my head. 

Lonny rests his hand on my shoulder. For a while he says nothing. I don't blame him. What the hell is he supposed to say? "What do you think is going to happen?" He asks eventually. "If you start eating properly again?" 

"I just...I don't know. I don't know." 

"Do you feel like you're not worthy if you're not unwell? At least, that's what I understood from what you said earlier." 

I nod. 

"And by eating, you're going to be less unwell? Is that why you relapsed? So you could make yourself ill again?" 

Again, I nod, relieved that someone finally gets it. 

"Okay." He sounds way too calm, not that I'm complaining. "Here's where I'm at: I understand why you're refusing to eat and I'm never ever going to force you. I don't believe that will ever help. But I also of course don't ever want you to be suffering like this, and letting you not eat will only make things worse. So to be brutally honest, I don't know what to do." 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

"I think the only thing I can suggest is that you come and sit with me in the kitchen. I'm not gonna pressure you or anything, but we need to start somewhere." 

He's right. I know he's right. But I don't say that out loud, because if I do, that means all the effort I've put into my disorder, all the fucking love I've given it by doing what it wanted over and over, will be for fucking nothing. 

Lonny stands up off the couch, likely expecting me to say no, I can't. 

Instead, I all but whisper, "Okay," and let him take my hands to pull me onto my feet. Silently, I follow him to the table, sitting down and clasping my hands together. "Lonny," I say finally, as he's retrieving a plate from the cupboard. 

He turns to look at me. 

"What am I gonna do?" 

Lonny frowns. "In what sense?" He asks, beginning to butter two slices of bread. 

"Like..." I sigh. "I'm fucking stuck, Lon. I can't - I can't stop doing this shit to myself and I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do about it. And how the fuck do I tell everyone that the reason I'm slacking and not doing my job is because I can't just fucking get over myself and eat like a normal fucking person?" 

"You don't have to tell anyone anything," Lonny says. 

"I can't just not explain it." 

"Andy, what you deal with in your own private life has nothing to do with anyone unless you want it to." 

"I know, but..." I shake my head. "I just feel so fucking stupid for letting it get this bad. And even more stupid that I know it's bad but I can't fucking stop. Why the hell can't I stop?" 

He opens the fridge as he speaks. "Do you want to stop?" 

"Of course. Of course I want to stop." 

"But you also want to be sick, right?" 

"Well...yeah, but-" I don't have a 'but', so I stop talking. 

"You need to decide which one is more important to you," Lonny suggests, opening a packet of sliced meat for his sandwich. "No one is going to force feed you because we know that doesn't ever work. The only way you're going to commit to recovering is if you think it will be worth it for you. Stop thinking about everyone around you. You have to do it for yourself." 

"So what? I write a list of pros and cons. Like, pros - not dying. Cons - I gain weight, I stop being sick, I gain weight, I gain weight, I gain weight." 

"There are way more pros than just not dying," Lonny insists. "How about you get to play shows with enough energy to enjoy them? You can enjoy meals out without stressing. You can put your mind into things you enjoy rather than spending all your time thinking about what you did or didn't eat and what you will or won't eat later. Andy, this is effecting every aspect of your life. You have to ask yourself seriously whether you're actually prepared to chip away at everything you enjoy for the disorder that wants you too weak to tell it no." 

I look at my hands while I consider his words. There's not really much to consider. He's right. I either choose recovery or I choose to live miserably until I inevitably die of starvation. Is that what I want? To give up everything I've worked for? To fuck it all up and hand myself over to something that's sole purpose is to make me sicker and sicker until I have no power over it at all? 

I swallow to try and stop myself from crying again. 

Lonny sits opposite me and Rhita comes into the kitchen, greeting me with a smile. I go to apologise for still being here but she cuts me off and assures me I can stay as long as I need. she offers to make tea. I accept. Then I say, "Will you make me eat?" 

They both look at me without answering for a moment. I realise Rhita probably has little clue of what's happening and why the hell I'm asking such a weird question.

I clarify, "I want to stop, I just physically can't make myself." 

"Oh." Lonny is clearly surprised. "Of course. Let me make you a sandwich." 

I nod, uneasy, barely believing I just did that, just handed over my control to someone else. Someone not living inside my head demanding I do everything in my power to ruin myself. I watch quietly as Lonny makes me the same sandwich as his own and even find the courage to take the plate when he passes it over to me.

Setting it on the table before me, I say, "Fuck. I can do this." 

"You can do this," Lonny agrees, sitting back down opposite me. 

"Fuck," I repeat. My body seems to be unable to move to pick up the food. Like if I touch it, something will explode inside. Do you have any idea how fucking impossible it is to cope when you're hungry as all hell but physically unable to eat something because of your own goddamn fucking brain?

Well, it's impossible enough that I leave the table and make it about as far as the doorway before my body decides I can't take it and forces me down to the ground in what I can only assume is a hunger fuelled panic attack.