TW: Eating disorder/depression

I woke to the clattering of plastic against plastic, squinted my eyes open. "Ambrose?" I asked sleepily. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he said. "You got any concealer?" 

"Uh...in the black makeup bag. I think. Why?" 

"To cover my tattoo." 

I sat up. "Why?" 

"I can't be fucked with my sister mentioning it." 

"You're seeing her?" 

"For coffee." 

I frowned. "Why? She made you cry." 

"She's my sister," he said, as if that made it okay. 

"She made you cry," I repeated. 

"Maybe she wants to apologise." Ambrose dug through my shiny black makeup bag for the concealer. 

"For which bit?" I asked. 

"I don't know, Andy." He sounded frustrated but I didn't know if it was with me or with the fact he was going to see his sister. 

Yawning, I watched his reflection in the mirror as he smothered the ink on his temple with my concealer. I knew what it was like to cover tattoos for the sake of other people, knew it was disheartening. Tattoos become such a part of your identity that being told to conceal them for the sake of others hurts.

I said, "You can't just cover it every time you see her, that's insane." 

He patted the makeup with his fingers. "I might get it removed." 

That surprised me. I couldn't imagine ever removing one of my tattoos just because someone in my family didn't approve of it. "What? Why would you do that? You like it." 

"It causes so much stress," he replied. "For what? A bit of ink? I just don't know if it's worth it, to be honest." 

"But...Ambrose, you shouldn't remove it just because someone else doesn't like it. It's your face." 

"She's my sister, Andy." 

"You're actually considering removing a tattoo that you like on your face because your sister doesn't like it? Do you realise how insane that is?" Was this an argument? Were we having an argument?  

"What would you know about siblings?" Yes, we were having an argument. 

"Wha - that's not - look, all I mean is, you like it. Shouldn't that be enough?" 

"I don't know," he said, spraying his temple with setting spray. "Anyway, I'm meeting her for coffee in...fifteen minutes." 

"Fifteen minutes?" Thought, what about breakfast?  "What time is it now?" 

"Nine." He turned to me. "I'm sorry. I know I said we'd do breakfast together." 

"Yeah, you did." 

"She's my sister, Andy. My relationship to her is important to me." She had made him cry. I didn't understand how he was so able to see her after what she'd said to him. To me.

I swallowed. It was selfish of me to feel betrayed by this but I couldn't help it. "No, I...I get it." I did not get it. I wished I got it. 

Was it selfish of me to still not have turned my phone back on? To still have not talked to my mother? 

I thought, is this his way of telling me I shouldn't eat breakfast? 

"I'll see you for lunch?" 

"Yeah." 

After he left, I lay back down and tried to go to sleep but instead started to cry. Couldn't stop thinking, is this him leaving me? Is this him growing tired of my constant need for reassurance? Was mother right this whole time? Have I been unfair on him? 

I couldn't sleep but I couldn't get up. I don't know why. I wanted to leave the bed, leave the bedroom, but I knew I wouldn't be able to eat alone after that. He was tired of me; he had needed an excuse to leave, and now he had. 

It was easy to find reasons not to eat. Always has been. The disorder loves to use any negative thing in my life as a way to keep me loyal to its demands. Like, this has happened because you're not starving. 

Ambrose had approached me when I was starving. Could I blame him for growing frustrated now that I was eating? 

I was spiralling and I knew I was spiralling. Started speculating over whether the things his sister had said to me were planned, if he had known she would say that, had told her to. I hated my brain for doing it but I didn't know how to stop it. It was easier to indulge the thoughts than to argue against them. How can I disagree with my own mind? 

I should have made a crisis plan for moments like this. Only, my crisis plan had been Ambrose for the past few months. What the hell was I supposed to do now? 

Well, whatever I was supposed to do didn't matter.

What I actually did was lie in bed pressing the duvet to my eyes to soak up tears, letting the sensation of hunger comfort me. 

That was the problem. 

I knew it was stupid and dangerous but it also comforted me in a way that nothing could.