TW: Eating disorder/depression/suicide

Mid afternoon, the doorbell rang, and I said to Ambrose, who was wiping my kitchen surfaces, "Bet it's my parents." 

"Do you want me to answer it?" He asked. 

I shook my head, couldn't make him do that for me on top of everything else, stood from the couch I'd spent most of the day on. 

It was my mother, and when she saw me wearing a hoodie and no makeup, she gasped and exclaimed, "Andrew, what on earth have you done to yourself?" 

Blankly, I said, "I told you," and turned back to the living room, left her to close the door and follow me.

Ambrose was wringing a cloth in the sink and looked over at me, then at my mother. He said nothing. 

I sat on the couch again and mumbled, "Meet Ambrose." 

She looked at him like he wasn't a human. "Nice to mee you." Then, turning her attention to me, "You walked out on us, Andrew. That was rude." 

"I know." 

A sigh. Like she was the one on the edge of a massive suicide attempt. "I don't understand what you want me to do. When I helped you, you refused to accept it. And now you're mad at me for something else. I don't understand." 

"You didn't help me, woman!" I yelled. "You just fucking made me worse!" I dropped my head into my hands. "When will you get it? You made me worse." 

"Made you worse?" 

I didn't respond. There was no point. We were going round in circles arguing about this. It was useless. 

"Andrew, you have to talk to me." 

Four times since waking up, I'd cried so heavily I couldn't breathe. I wasn't sure I could handle it again, but I was powerless. 

"Andrew-"

"Shut up." 

"Don't speak to me like that." 

Thinking, I'm gonna lose it. 

"Andrew, I'm serious, you have to talk to me properly." 

"You won't fucking listen!" 

"That's not true." 

"Yes it is! I keep telling you what's fucking wrong and you keep telling me I should just 'eat healthier' and then I'd be fucking fixed! Well guess what? That's not how it works!" 

"I only said that because you ordered something full of fat-" 

"So if I was fat, would you tell me to eat less?" I asked. 

"What?" 

"If you don't think I should eat fatty food, would you tell me to lose weight if I was fat? Would it hurt your image to have a fat son?" 

"Andy, what the hell are you talking about?" 

"You don't want me eating fatty foods and yet you think you're helping? How the fuck am I supposed to try and fucking recover if all you do is tell me what I'm eating is wrong? How the fuck does that make any sense in your head?" My voice was painful and I knew I'd regret yelling in a few hours.

Behind her, I could see Ambrose contemplating whether or not to interject. Whether I wanted him to or not, I didn't know. I shouldn't have argued with her like that in front of him, it wasn't fair. 

"I want you to be healthy," mother insisted. "And clearly you're not." 

"Oh, how on earth did you figure that out? Wow, well fucking done! So perceptive! Do you want a fucking 'mother of the year' award?" 

"I'm worried about you-" 

"Then start fucking showing it? Because last I checked, telling your son not to eat something because it's got cream in it when he's fucking blacking out from hunger daily is not something a concerned fucking mother would do! So don't you start lecturing me on how I should talk to you when I'm a week into a fucking massive breakdown and frankly would rather be dead right now! Just shut up if that's what you came here to do." 

"You wouldn't rather be dead, don't be so dramatic." 

"Dramatic," I repeated flatly. "You think I'm being dramatic?" 

"Can you blame me? You've always been dramatic. You wouldn't talk to anyone for days after you lost a Batman figure." 

I actually laughed then, alarming her. "You're comparing a full blown breakdown to me being upset I lost a toy? Are you insane? Oh my god!" Laughing sharply, I shook my head. I thought, maybe it's me who's insane.

I felt like I had been stabbed in the gut and all she was doing was telling me to stop bleeding so much. 

"I'm just saying that you have a tendency to overreact-" 

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to talk out of place," Ambrose cut in. "It's just, I really don't think it's useful to accuse him of overreacting." 

"You've known him a month," mother said, and her tone was so condescending that I was amazed Ambrose didn't snap back at her. "You have no idea what he's capable of. He's an adult. He's thirty two for Christ's sake. He doesn't need you babysitting him. Listen, Andy, dear, it's fine to have issues with your body - everyone does sometimes - but you're making it into such a big deal and it really doesn't have to be. I've seen you eat and you always look content around food, I don't think it needs this kind of reaction." 

Have you ever wanted to pull out your own mother's vocal cords just so that she would stop talking? 

She didn't even realise. That was the most heart breaking part. She didn't even realise how much what she was saying hurt me.

Distress enveloped me. It was like I was holding a bloody knife in my hands and she was saying, 'it's just a scratch.' 

Yes, I'd gone fucking insane. Yelling, "Shut up! Just shut up!" Pressing my head between my knees. Trying to make myself disappear. She started to talk again and I shouted over her, "Shut up, oh my god! Shut up!" Then I was sobbing loudly, wishing she would just understand. 

It's so fucking debilitating, constantly feeling worse after believing you can't possibly sink any further.

She did shut up, though. Finally. Too late and for the wrong reason, bus she did shut up. 

My head pounded like I was standing against a thumping speaker. I didn't know how to make it stop. I pressed my hands either side of my skull and my knees against them and screamed. 

Thinking about the bathroom cabinet full of pills. 

Ambrose pulled me against him and I hadn't even realised he had moved from the kitchen.

The world was overbearingly loud. I wished I could turn a switch and make it all go silent.

 Ambrose rocked me steadily, one hand on the back of my head, the other flat on my back. He whispered, "Breathe," but I didn't know how and I didn't want to. 

I wanted it all to stop; I couldn't do it anymore and I was so tired of trying. 

Thinking about the bathroom cabinet full of pills and the lock on the inside of the bathroom door.

Ambrose kept rocking, kept telling me to breathe. I wanted to vomit until my body was empty of everything inside, wanted to watch my lungs and my heart land on the ground in a bloody pile.