TW: Eating disorder/depression/weight/death

The thing about parents is that they don't want to believe that they have any negative effect on their offspring. Not to generalise or anything, but I'm yet to meet anybody who has parents who haven't in some way denied being unhelpful to their mental state. Not that I've asked many people about their parents. 

I knew before I pulled out the chair and sat down in Zeff's that my mother would do this, and when I saw that my father was sitting beside her, I wanted to turn and flee.

I had no chance of getting my point across to both of them at once, specially not in the state I was in. It had taken me the best part of the morning to find the energy to walk home to get dressed and cover my face in makeup so that the tiredness might be less obvious. 

Ambrose had tried to drive me through town when I told him what I was doing, but after what my mother had said the previous day about it being unfair on him, I insisted he didn't need to, that I'd be fine walking. I know he wasn't convinced when he let me go, and as I stepped down the steps to his front door, he'd called after me, "Let me know how it goes." 

My parents looked at me rather intensely as I sat down, and I knew before either of them spoke what was going to come out of their mouths: "Jesus, Andy, there's nothing to you." 

I didn't try to smile. I didn't say anything, just opened the menu and thought, this is going to be literal hell. 

They glanced at one another. Dad said, "It's good to see you." 

I said, "I'm glad you think so," because I didn't have the patience to be polite when I knew they were going to lecture me like they'd done so many times in the past. It's like they thought that if they repeated the same crap enough times, it's start to make more sense than it actually did. 

"I thought you said you were eating," mother recalled. "With that Ambrose." 

"That Ambrose," I mumbled. "Yes. I am." 

"But you're so...Andy, you're so thin." 

"That's kind of the point." 

"You have to take this seriously," she said. 

I scoffed. I thought, you have no fucking idea how serious this is. 

They looked at each other again. 

I said, "What are we doing here?" 

"We're worried about you," dad replied. "You don't seem very well." 

I thought, that's it, feed the disorder. Come on, it loves to hear this shit. 

"How much do you weigh?" Mother asked. 

I laughed. "You're seriously asking me my weight?" 

"Andrew-" 

"What are we doing here?" I asked again. I wanted to go home and sleep, ideally without ever waking up. 

"Getting lunch," they both said, like they had rehearsed it, which they probably had. 

"Okay," I said. "Fine. Let's get lunch." I closed my menu, had already looked it up online last night. 

We ordered and sat in silence.

Mother said eventually, "So, Ambrose is a painter?" 

"Yes." 

"And are you two..?" 

"No, I don't know. Does it matter?" 

"Of course not. I'm just curious." 

I hummed. "Do you still think it's unfair on him?"

She frowned like I had said something offensive. 

"Yesterday you told me it's unfair on him, do you still believe that?" 

Dad looked at her, then at me. "She didn't say that." 

"Yes she did." 

"Don't put words into her mouth. She didn't say that." 

"Are you serious?" 

"Andy, why would she say that?" 

"I don't know, you tell me." I folded me arms and leant back, eyed them, thought, my own parents are gaslighting me, isn't that fantastic? 

She said, "I didn't say that." 

"Okay, fine. Whatever." 

"You've been so rude lately," she accused. "If you just stopped with all this stupid food crap, you'd be in a much nicer mood." 

"Okay," I muttered flatly, didn't have the energy to argue anymore. 

I thought, this stupid food crap is controlling my life, but sure, call it stupid. 

"Andy, I don't think you're taking this seriously," dad said. 

I blinked at him and repeated, "Okay." I wanted them to fuck off and leave me alone; I wanted to go to bed and stay there until I starved to death; I wanted to scream at them but I didn't have the strength or the courage. 

"You're going to do yourself some serious harm if you don't stop this," he continued. 

"Okay." It didn't matter anymore what they said or whether they were right or not. I'd told my mother point blank that I was having a nervous breakdown and here they were, treating me like a naughty child. It was laughable. 

"Are you even listening?" She asked sharply. "This is important." 

"Okay." 

"Do you want to ruin your body for the sake of having visible bones?" 

You can see my bones, I thought, momentarily flooded with pride. They could see my bones! "Yes," I said. 

"Andy, don't be so stupid!" 

"Okay," I said again. 

The food arrived. I'd ordered a cannelloni, figured that if I got something creamy, they'd shut up about me not eating. But what both of them said, in more words, was, "If you ate healthy meals rather than all that unhealthy stuff, you wouldn't have to starve yourself." 

I dropped my fork onto the plate and looked at them blankly.

It was uncredible how oblivious they apparently were to the way their words hurt.

I pushed my chair back and muttered, "I'd rather starve than eat with you," and walked out, didn't turn to glance back at them, didn't care if I had upset them. They had no right to be upset with me after what they'd said. 

I walked home quickly, hungry, wiping away tears angrily, wrestling with the key in the lock and throwing the door open. Once it had banged behind me and I was alone, I started to sob, gripping the banister with one hand while sinking to the ground beside the stairs. 

Until you've experienced it yourself, it's basically impossible to understand the physical pain of a breakdown, specially one that seems never to stop. I thought the crying in Ambrose's spare bedroom had been the worst of it, but I was wrong. This was worse. 

It was like I was getting dragged by a chain I couldn't detach myself from further and further into a narrow cave, a dark tunnel with no ending. Too narrow to turn around in, so that the only way I could move was away from the disappearing light behind me. I wondered how long it would be before the tunnel became too narrow for me to continue, too narrow to breathe. 

My own parents didn't understand. How was I supposed to deal with that? 

I cried until I passed out, taking in sharp gasps that left me dizzy. I was glad of the relief of unconsciousness. 

When I woke, I was still on the floor by the stairs. It was only two o'clock. I sat up slowly. Everything spun around me. I pressed my hands into my eyes. I had a text from Ambrose. 

Ambrose: How's it going? I'll see you later ?? 

I stared at it for a long time before beginning to reply. 

Andy: It's going okay. Can't do tonight, parents are insisting I spend it w them. Sorry! 

Ambrose: I'm glad! Hope you can sort thing out with them x 

I thought, fat chance of that.  

It wasn't that I wanted to lie to Ambrose, just that perhaps mother was right. It was unfair on him. I was an adult, I could deal with my own shit. 

I wasn't incapable. I could turn myself around in this tunnel and crawl out the way I came. 

At least, that's what I wanted to believe. But when the following morning rolled around and I hadn't yet eaten, hadn't even changed out of my clothes to sleep, I began to doubt myself. 

Besides, I thought, they can see my bones. I can't stop now.