What Else Is There

To get to my college guidance office you must enter a labyrinth. It is buried beneath floors of Liberal Arts departments, deep in the basement, hidden behind a maze of hallways that wouldn't look incogruous in a detention center. When I arrive for my appointment I am handed a clipboard stuffed with consent forms and intake forms and privacy forms, In the waiting room is a small girl I spoke to (rather impulsively, I usually am too involved in my little binges to pay heed to anyone, let alone strangers) in line for a cheese quesadilla. She is still wearing her pajama pants, and her hot and sensative boyfriend who waits for her when she's whisked away with paperwork and her counselor. I say something silly about the amount of forums on my lap, and she grins and tells me "You only have to fill it out the first time."

Check the boxes YES or NO, the papers read:

Have you ever contemplated suicide? Yes.

Have you ever attempted suicide? Yes.

Have you ever been admitted to a psychiatric hospital? Yes.

Do you ever diet or monitor your food intake? Yes.

With restriction? Yes.

Fasting? Of course.

Laxatives? 15 or more at a time.

Diuretics? Sadly, yes.

Vomiting? Much more efficient.

Exercise? I've tried.

Other? ...What else is there?

Do you ever feel like a failure? Always.

Worthless? Every day.

Hopeless? Constantly.

Lonely? Have I ever.

There is a page of symptoms for anxiety; I've experienced them all, but only when I'm starving. Nausea, Rapid Heartbeat, Dizziness, Hotness, Pins and Needles Sensations on the Tips of Your Fingers...

My appointment with the counselor feels much too short, mostly because I have too much to say. Everything that could be wrong with me has gone wrong of me, short of anything sexual (I fail at everything, you see). I have filled in every box and answered every question on the questionare. It is all very overwhelming in my head, but on paper it makes sense. Of course she's such a fuck-up, it says so right here and here and here...

She hand me a card at the end of her visit. It is her buisiness card, with her name and telephone number. But on the reverse she has scribbled down 1-800-RENFEW. She tells me to call and to make an appointment for an evaluation. "It might feel like the end of the world right now, but it's your eating disorder talking." If my eating disorder ended, it would be the end of the world. But when I get home I call Renfew.

"We just need to take your weight and height," she says at the end of their intake procedure. I tell them.

"And how much have you lost or gained within the last two weeks?" Two weeks ago I was in Ohio, tortured by relatives and birthday cake. I know my Ohio weight immediately--it is gross, but not my HW. I do the math, and the number is strange in that I've never put those little losses together. "Twenty pounds." Together they are kind of frightening.

I might cancel. I want it just as much as I want to cancel.