TW: Eating disorder/depression/anxiety

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It comes of no surprise that after Noah has convinced me to go home and I move slowly out of the bed and to my feet, I barely manage to keep myself upright at all, the complete lack of food from the past few days - weeks, really - catching up to me all at once. Not that I hadn't been feeling it - I absolutely have - but I get kind of used to it, I suppose. Comforted by it in a horrible way. I forget sometimes how bad it is. Forget that food isn't optional. 

Noah clearly expects it, too, because he has his hands on my arms before I collapse, saying, "I got you, it's okay," sitting me on the edge of the bed so that when I inevitably lose consciousness, I don't hurt myself. 

He's stroking my hair when I regain consciousness, waits for me to sit up. Even in my state, I can see his concern clearly. Hell, it's beyond concern at this point. Fear, I suppose. Horror. And I don't blame him. How the hell else is he supposed to feel about the fact that he's had to catch me more than once while I black out because I'm too fucking deep in it to just eat?

Everything is slightly shaky around me but I'm not sure that'll stop. 

"Let me help you down the stairs." 

I nod, letting him stand and pull me up by my arms, leaning into him, not trusting my own legs to keep me stable. Not trusting anything in my body anymore. How can I, when my own brain has done this to me?

Noah walks me to the top of the stairs, then stands behind me, hands firm on my waist, and says, "I'll catch you if you fall, just take it slow." 

I do, gripping the banister, not sure whether this weakness is purely caused by not eating or if my mental state has something to do with it. Anxiety so malleable I'm surprised I can't taste it, bite it, walk into it.

Each stair I take means I'm closer to leaving Lonny's house, and that means having to fulfil my promise of talking about all of this with Noah. I know I can't go against my words now. I've done it enough already. God knows Noah deserves me to me honest and open now. Besides, if I'm not, he'd be better off leaving.

When we make it to the bottom of the stairs, Lonny appears from the living room. "Let me know if you need anything," he tells me, hugging me for a few brief moments, clearly apprehensive to let go. "Take care, okay?"

"Thanks, Lon," I mumble. "Really. I appreciate you so much." 

Noah thanks him, too, putting a hand on his shoulder for a second before turning and walking me to the front door. 

We sit in the car without speaking for at least two minutes, Noah driving, before he glances at me and says, "I know you're gonna argue with me over this but I'm taking you to hospital." 

I stare at him. "What?" 

"You're so unwell, Andy. I can't risk you not getting medical help and then something really bad happening." 

"I don't want to go to the hospital," I protest, but I know he's right. I know he is. I don't feel well at all, I'm barely managing to stay fully conscious, and there's such a monumental barrier between me and the ability to allow myself to eat that we both know the chances of that are practically non-existent. 

"I know," he replies calmly. "No one wants to go to hospital. But I don't know what else to do. I can't force you to eat and it's already been, what, four days since you ate anything? Not to mention the weeks before that when you were basically starving. Andy, you don't have a choice." 

"No, I...I will eat. I will. Just, Noah, please. Please don't make me go to hospital. They'll put me on the tube, I'll be bed-bound, I don't - I can't..." 

"You've been bed-bound at Lonny's for days." 

"I know, but - just - I'll change. Okay? I'll stop that. I'll get therapy, I'll - I'll eat everything - I..." but even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. I can't eat everything. I can't eat anything. Hell. "I can't be tube fed." 

"Andy, there is no other choice. You know that. And I'm so sorry it got to this point and you know I don't want this for you, but I'd much much rather be the guy to do this to you now than to be the guy making a eulogy at my boyfriend's funeral in two months." 

"Don't be so dramatic, I'm not dying." 

"Yes. You are. You are. You're starving. You're probably dehydrated. Lonny told me you were barely even drinking the past day or two. Andy, you know, even if you won't admit it, that if this keeps up, you will die." 

"Please, Noah." 

For a long time, at least, it feels like a long time, Noah says nothing. Clearly conflicted, clearly trying to decide whether forcing me into hospital will have better or worse consequences than letting me go home. "Okay," he begins finally, voice soft, thoughtful. "Here's my compromise. We'll go home today and you have tonight and tomorrow morning to do what you can to get back on track with the regular eating. I'll take care of making food and everything, and that gives you the space to start talking about this with me in a comfortable environment. I understand you'd probably not wanna talk about it in the hospital with all the noise and people." He pauses, glancing at me. "But if by two tomorrow, you've still not managed to eat a decent amount - I'm talking at least three meals between now and then - I'm taking you to hospital. At that point it's non-negotiable." 

"Okay," I reply immediately. 

Noah glances again at me. "Okay. Good." 

I swallow. I feel sick with hunger; my head aches; my body feels like it's not entirely there, like it's slightly see-through, fuzzy. 

It doesn't take long to get home. Inside, I sit on the couch, half-asleep, while Noah makes dinner. When he brings it through, I open my eyes and ask what it is, to which he answers, "Noodles." 

Sitting up straight, I take a bowl from him, holding it steady as he sits beside me with his own. I say nothing because I worry if I do, I'll end up talking myself out of eating it, and even I can tell this level of hunger is bordering on dangerous. And despite my willingness to let it get this bad (or inability to stop it), I don't want to go anywhere near a hospital, and if that means I have to eat, then so be it. 

I swirl the fork in the noodles and bring it to my mouth, and - fuck, it tastes incredible. I can't comprehend how incredible it tastes. It's such a weird thing, eating for the first time after refusing for the sake of a disorder. Because the disorder gets so intense and makes going against it feel genuinely impossible, but then I do go against it, and the realisation of how much I need to fucking eat all this fucking food, holy shit, is insane. Such a strange combination of relief and regret all at once.  

Noah turns the TV on. I continue to eat the noodles. I'm committed now. I started, I'm eating, I'm not half-arsing it. I can't half-arse it or I'll end up in the fucking hospital.

I tell Noah, "Jesus Christ, I'm starving," as though I only just comprehended that fact. As though I didn't really believe it until now, which perhaps I didn't. Perhaps I thought, fuck, I'm starving, and then, good. Keep going. 

Noah looks at me, twisting his fork in his own bowl of noodles. "Unconditional permission," he says. He used to say that to me a lot, the first time I was recovering, specially in the early stages. The full phrase, unconditional permission to eat, was something he said to reassure me that I could eat whatever, whenever. That it was safe to do so, that he wasn't ever going to judge me for how much I ate. Not that he ever would have done that, but sometimes I need to hear it to believe it.

I suddenly feel very close to crying at the return of the phrase. I really am back to the start. All that progress wiped for the sake of feeling awful just to lose weight I'm not supposed to lose.

I bring another forkful of noodles to my mouth, pausing to say, "Fuck, Noah, I fucked up so bad, didn't I?" 

"No, darling. It's not your fault that you relapsed." 

After swallowing what's on my fork, I reply, "No, I did. I fucked up so bad."

"No, no, no, sweetheart. There's a bully in your head; that's not your fault. 

I swirl my fork in the bowl. "I'm sorry," I mumble. "I treated you so horribly. Noah, I'm really sorry." 

"Hey, no, it's okay. It's okay. Not your fault. I'd never hold it against you that you're struggling." 

"I know, but I'm still sorry." 

"I appreciate the apology," Noah said. "I'm sorry if I made things worse in any way." 

"No. You didn't. It was all me." 

"How're your noodles?" 

I raise the fork to my mouth, say, "Fucking good," and swallow another mouthful.